The Black Company : A mystery story

By W. B. M. Ferguson

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Black Company

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Black Company
A mystery story

Author: W. B. M. Ferguson

Release date: December 10, 2025 [eBook #77438]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Chelsea House, 1924

Credits: Tim Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK COMPANY ***

The Black Company

_A Mystery Story_

BY W. B. M. FERGUSON

CHELSEA HOUSE
79 Seventh Avenue
New York City

The Black Company

(Printed in the United States of America)

CONTENTS

I. I TAKE A RIDE

II. I FIND A JOB

III. I HEAR SOME NEWS

IV. A MORNING OF SURPRISES

V. KING'S PAWN TO KNIGHT'S

VI. I ACQUIRE VARIOUS INFORMATION

VII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

VIII. CONSPIRING CIRCUMSTANCES

IX. I FIND MYSELF A MURDERER

X. I DO SOME INVESTIGATING

XI. I RETURN HOME

XII. THE RETURNED PRODIGAL

XIII. AT THE ADMIRAL

XIV. I CONSULT LISPING JIMMIE

XV. A WEEK'S EVENTS

XVI. SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES

XVII. AN INTERRUPTED DIALOGUE

XVIII. FURTHER DISCOVERIES

XIX. I LEARN A LOT MORE

XX. THE BLACK KING

XXI. I INTERVIEW HIS MAJESTY

XXII. FOOL'S LUCK

XXIII. BLUNT EXPLAINS

XXIV. I WIN THE QUEEN

THE BLACK COMPANY

CHAPTER I

I TAKE A RIDE

To be quite honest about it, I have no very clear idea what happened
in that private room at the Princeton Inn the night of the last
nip-and-tuck baseball game with Yale, except that every one of the
crowd with the exception of myself was anything but sober. There were
Roupell and Frean, Hewitt and Ashton--to mention only a few--who were
quarrelsome and ready to take exception to everything I said. I didn't
mind particularly about Roupell and Frean, but Bob Hewitt, being a
particularly old friend, his condition pained me exceedingly.

I don't recollect precisely what our particular difference was about,
my memory being notoriously faulty over trifles, but I know that
somehow Hewitt and I had become the focal point of interest for the
crowd. They were gathered round our table, and something seemed to have
happened. Perhaps I had said a brilliant thing worth remembering--I
often do--for Tommy Ashton, who is a lawyer, had his fountain pen out
and was busy writing. No doubt he intended to be my Boswell. He was
smiling; so was everybody but Hewitt, who looked as serious as the war.

"See here, Pete," said Hewitt, leaning over the table and eying me
hard, "you take witness before all present that you're perfectly
sober----"

"Of course I'm sober! Did you ever see me when I wasn't? I was born
sober! Why do you persist in insinuating that I'm drunk instead of
yourself?"

"Oh, that's a particular failing of Hewitt's," laughed a fat voice;
and, to my astonishment, I recognized Howard Roupell.

"Oh, hello!" I greeted. "When did you blow in?"

"With you," he chuckled. "You know I've been sitting next you all
evening."

"The Harry you have! You aren't a Princeton man and you're old enough
and, I dare say, unmoral enough to be the father of us all."

"I dare say," agreed Roupell, patting his fat paunch. "But I was at the
game, you know, and since you invited me here----"

"_I_ invite you? Nonsense! How could I, when this is the first time
I've seen you since--well, I forget how long. It doesn't matter,
anyway. I'm sorry to see that you're drunk, Roupell. It isn't right,
it isn't decent, especially in an old man like you. You should set a
good example, have more honor for your graying hairs and our youthful
purity."

"It's _you_ who's drunk--drunk as a fool," said another voice; and,
again to my astonishment, I recognized Arnold Frean. Of course he had
a perfect right to be there, but it was just like him to come sneaking
in by a back door and slink among the crowd. A furtive fellow, Frean,
with large, outstanding ears--otherwise he was quite handsome--that
seemed designed expressly for listening at keyholes. There was no love
lost between us, and, to his ridiculous and monstrous charge concerning
my sobriety, he now had the audacity to add that, like Roupell, he
had been present from the first, even sitting behind me at the ball
game. Moreover, he stated that I had brought Roupell to the feast by
intimidation and violence, threatening him with mayhem, and I forget
what else, if he didn't join the party.

"For that matter you invited the whole town," finished Frean. "All the
ragtag and bobtail--friends, I suppose, of your former days--and we had
a hard time keeping 'em out."

"You're drunk, Frean," I said. "Drunk like Roupell. I'm sorry to see
it, and I object to your face. Between ourselves, and speaking in
strict privacy, I don't like it and never did. Take it away."

"You're like all the Lawtons," he said. "You can't take a drink----"

"I can! I'll have one now. Thanks for reminding me. I'll have more
than one, and then I'll remove your face. That face of yours and
Roupell's alleged funny stories are too much; as a combination----"

"Oh, cut it out!" exclaimed Hewitt, seizing my arm. "And you quit
chipping him, Frean. Can't you stop your rowing? Don't get quarrelsome,
Pete----"

"I'm not," I protested. "I'm the most peaceable man in the world. I'll
fight anybody who says I'm not--_anybody_. I'm the only sober man in
the room, too. You know that, Bob. You're all half shot and trying to
pick a row, but you can't do it with me. No, sir. I'm perfectly willing
to fight anybody who says he can--_anybody_. Only sober man in the
room; never more sober in my life."

"Very well," said Hewitt. "That's what I've been trying to get at. You
say you're perfectly sober? All right; now read over the agreement."

It was the first I had heard of any agreement, but Hewitt being so
far gone, poor fellow--much further gone than I had even suspected--I
decided to humor him. You have to humor the drunk; it is the only way
to deal with them. He was in that perverse state where, if I had even
hinted a denial of any agreement, he would have claimed triumphantly
that I was drunk and he sober.

I confess, however, to astonishment when Ashton handed me a paper. But
evidently, being a quick-witted fellow, he was helping me on the spur
of the moment to humor poor Hewitt. And when I glanced at the paper I
saw he had been at some pains to fake up an agreement, though I could
not quite grasp what it was all about, it being couched in the cloudy
phraseology of the law which, coupled with Ashton's weird handwriting,
rendered it quite unintelligible. Indeed, it made me dizzy to look at
it, though, to humor poor Hewitt, I made a solemn pretense of reading
it through.

"Is that right?" asked Hewitt. "You understand it?"

"Of course," I said angrily. Did he think I couldn't understand plain
English put in plain writing?

"Very good. Then let it be signed and witnessed."

Ashton handed me his pen, one of those foolish affairs that start off
with dumping half their contents down your sleeve, and then splutter
all over the map. For that reason I found some little difficulty in
signing my name.

"That's yours," said Hewitt. "Now sign my copy. Compare it with your
own."

I did so dutifully. And now Ashton's writing had so improved by
practice that I was able to understand, amid a wilderness of
"Whereases" and "Aforesaids," the following words:

And furthermore I, Peter Lawton, being in full possession of all my
faculties, do promise faithfully to earn my living by manual labor
for a period of at least one month, dating from this seventeenth
day of June, 1916.

"Very well," I said, tossing the signed document back to Hewitt.
"Because I came into a pot of money and you didn't, you've always been
throwing it up to me! Because I don't have to work and you do, you're
sore----"

"It's not that at all, Pete. You started this argument about being able
to earn your own living, even by manual labor----"

"I did nothing of the kind!"

"You did. And every fellow here knows you did. You can only repudiate
your signature and that agreement by admitting what you would never
admit before--that you weren't capable of----"

"I'm capable of anything--I mean everything!" I exclaimed. "I'll show
you and the whole crowd! I can't earn my own living, eh? I'll show you.
I stand over my signature and repudiate nothing!"

I forget what else I said, but it must have been very witty--I seemed
to be in a rather happy vein that evening--for they all laughed and
clapped me on the back--all except Frean, who stood aloof with amused
sarcastic eyes. Then we all sang the old glees, and after an extremely
pleasant time, of which I remember nothing, I found myself outside,
talking with my chauffeur.

"Jensen," I said, "you're discharged. Who's got your job? _I_ have.
I've got to go to work right away, and the only thing I can do with my
hands is to feed myself and run a car. I can't feed if I don't work.
Ergo, you're discharged. I know your employer, too; he's a good fellow,
one of the best. I approve of him, and if I have to work, I'd rather
work for him."

Jensen was a Swede, and at times rather stupid. Unfortunately this was
one of the times and, moreover, he had been drinking like everybody
else but myself. A drunken Swede--a terrible combination; no wonder I
found it impossible to get him to understand my simple and dramatic
statement. "_You_ ban my boss," he kept repeating like a litany, his
bleak face never changing. "How you work for yourself? You make a yoke,
yes?"

"I make a yoke, no. I've got your job and that's all there's to it."

"But, boss----"

"There are no buts, my friend. Didn't you say the other day you were
thinking of making a change? Well, you've made it. And don't let me
hear you say again, 'Ay tank you ban drunk again, boss,' or I'll put
you past thinking anything. How could I be drunk again when I've never
been drunk in my life? I'm sorry to see that you've been at the bottle.
However, I've now engaged a sober chauffeur."

He blinked at me. "You ban going to fire me----"

"I ban! Here, now, immediately, if not sooner! I've got your job and
I'll hang on to it. I'm going to take the old bus all the way home
myself and run it in future. I've got your job. I'm working for Pete
Lawton."

It took some time for the truth to sink into Jensen's square dome, but
when he saw I was quite sober, and in deadly earnest, he accepted the
situation like a philosopher, the more so, perhaps, as I handed him a
hundred-dollar bill in mistake for a twenty. Anyway, he disappeared,
though I don't remember seeing him go.

I experienced some unexpected trouble in getting the car started and
out of the parking space, but this was finally accomplished with the
aid of a very obliging person with two faces, an oddity I had not
remarked in him previously.

Five of the crowd, including Hewitt, were to return home with me to New
York, but when I appeared with something of a flourish--if there is
anything I can do it's drive a car--and they saw I was minus Jensen,
their behavior was very peculiar. It became downright insulting when
they learned what had happened to Jensen, and that I meant to take the
wheel myself. One and all positively declined to accompany me, and, to
further aggravate matters, they insinuated I was in no condition to
drive even a baby carriage.

"For the love of Heaven, you mad devil, come out of there!" cried
Hewitt at length, springing on the running board and trying to shut off
the spark. "You'll kill somebody or break your fool neck----"

"I'll break yours if you don't get off!" I shouted above the roar of
the engine. "I've stood your insults long enough. You jeer at me for
not working, and then, when I get a job with a good employer, a fellow
I like and approve of----"

"One of you fellows run for a cop!" cried Hewitt. "And, say, can't the
rest of you help me? Come on and do something! Don't you see he'll do
what he says and that he isn't able to bite his finger?"

"I don't want to bite it!" I cried. "But you evidently do." For he had
followed his words by coming over the door like a cyclone.

It only needed that personal contact, the employment of brute force,
to snap my long-suffering patience and send my peaceful nature up in
flame. I slung Hewitt into the road with one hand, while with the other
I threw in the clutch. At the same moment Jensen appeared, and he and
the other four fellows rushed me, followed by, it seemed, half the town.

What happened next could only be described by half a dozen
moving-picture machines working together at top speed. The high-powered
six gave a bound like a tiger, and I took the sharp turn into the
highroad at a forty-mile clip amid a parting scene that resembled a
lunatic's dream of the battle of the Marne.

It was not until I had passed several towns that it began to dawn on
me that some one had changed the map placing New York in a remote
corner, where I was unable to find it. Meanwhile it was a lovely, warm,
moonlight night--indeed, there were several moons--and, ceasing to
brood over my wrongs, I began to find a certain pleasure in the ride.

It would appear that neither Paul Revere nor John Gilpin had anything
on me when it came to rousing public interest and enthusiasm. Everybody
I met made way for me instantly as if I were a king, showering
benedictions and good wishes after me in the most approved manner.
In several towns fire bells were rung, and the police force hastily
mobilized. Even trolley cars stopped so that their passengers might
have a glimpse of me as I passed; women fainted with joy, and several
horses ran away through sheer excitement. No one ever had such a
tremendous popular ovation, such a triumphal procession. My heart
was filled with gratitude toward all these good people, and if I
had not been in such a hurry to find out what had happened to New
York, I should certainly have stayed and accepted of their proffered
hospitality.

In due time it occurred to me that rather than search at random I had
better make inquiries as to the new location of Manhattan, for I had
an important engagement the following day, and it would prove rather
awkward if at the last moment I discovered the city to have been
shifted, say, to Alaska. For you never know what those fellows at the
topographical bureau in Washington are up to.

With me, to make up my mind is to act, and accordingly I now stopped
the car and alighted. Perhaps it would have been just as well if the
idea had come to me at another time and place, for now I discovered
there was no one whom I could ask for information. In other words, I
found myself absolutely alone on a deserted country road.

"I've always heard it said," I thought injuredly, "that to make up
one's mind and to act promptly is a great virtue. But see what it has
done for me! Now I must tramp about here until I find somebody who
knows where New York is."

So I set off down the road. You will ask, perhaps, why I did not go in
the car. But I have confessed to a memory that is faulty over trifles,
and, for the moment, the trifling matter of the car had escaped me.

The next scene--for, somehow, this night everything happened in
scenes--found me at a crossroads, hat in hand, talking to a man
and a girl. They sat in a town car de luxe, upholstered in maroon,
electrically lighted within, and with a flower vase containing a bunch
of violets that went wonderfully with the girl's hair.

Her companion was a little, dried-up old gentleman, rather foppishly
dressed, and the color of bronze. I assure you he was. It was not
sunburn, nor was he a foreigner; his face and hands were a distinct
and emphatic greenish-bronze color, the like of which I had never seen
before.

I have no wish to criticize his looks, for I am not a handsome man
myself. In fact my cherished nickname at Old Nassau was "Mug." Taken
singly, and if transposed, I have been assured by friends that my
features are quite classical; I mean if my nose was turned upside down,
and my nether lip projected inward instead of outward, and a good
bit of my chin was shoved south--you get the idea. They are all good
features, judged separately, but undoubtedly a serious mistake was made
by somebody when they were being assembled.

The result is a tumultuous something, with knobs and projections in
unexpected places, properly termed a "mug." Even though I wore a
mustache in order to veil the subject as decently as possible, the
result was still a mug. Indeed Arnold Frean would have had infinitely
more reason to object to my face than I to his; he really had one worth
looking at--velvety brown eyes and all that Valentino stuff. I suppose
I objected to it because it kept reminding me so poignantly of my own.

No, I am not a handsome man, and yet, do you know, I made the greatest
possible impression on the little bronze gentleman and his beautiful
companion. I assure you I did. How? Why, by my manner and bearing.
There is something princely about me--there is no other word for it
and, as I had noticed it before this evening, I needn't try to be mock
modest about it--that is infinitely superior to mere good looks.

Real princes aren't handsome, nor princesses either; if you doubt it,
take a look at the family album of the crowned heads of Europe. I
own a sort of royal and magnificent bearing that commands the utmost
attention, homage, and respect. One is born that way; there is no
acquiring it. The little bronze gentleman and the girl, from the moment
I appeared, couldn't remove their eyes from me--and they had many eyes,
indeed more than their fair share; they had at least half a dozen
between them. I welcomed the phenomenon in the girl's case, for one
cannot have too much of a pretty thing, but the man's resembled holes
burned in a blanket.

"You are mistaken, sir," I said, endeavoring to explain the situation
and correct the bronze man's ridiculous error that I had tried to get
myself run over. "I am not a would-be suicide. The fact is I have lost
something, something of infinite value, and I wished merely to solicit
the help of the first passer-by."

"Oh, we must help him!" said the girl.

"Be quiet!" snapped the little mummy. "What have you lost?" he demanded
of me, tapping a Malacca cane against his thin shanks.

"I have lost New York," I confided solemnly.

"Eh? What's that?" He had begun to sniff, as though preparatory to
bursting into tears at the enormity of my misfortune, and against this
contingency, he now produced a flowered silk handkerchief and held it
to his nose. I was touched, deeply so; such sympathetic souls are all
too rare in this world.

"Don't weep, sir," I said. "I can't bear to see you cry. True, I have
lost New York, or rather it has been stolen from me; some vandal has
removed it. But no doubt you can help me find it. I must be in New York
without fail to-morrow, for I've an appointment which I can't neglect.
In strict confidence, I may explain that I'm to be buried; so if I'm
not there, how can there be a funeral? You see the point? Now, what
would you advise?"

"That you enter the alcoholic ward of the nearest hospital!" he
answered, with sudden and unwarranted ferocity. "Faugh! You smell like
a distillery. Go away, you sot!"

"Anything to oblige, sir. Where _is_ the nearest hospital? If you will
kindly take me----"

"Get out of here!" he roared. "Take your foot away, sir! Jules!"

Jules was the chauffeur, and he appeared, armed with a spanner.

The proceedings became a trifle involved. Not that in the presence of
the girl I had any idea of making a scene; but I considered it only due
to my self-respect to correct the bronze man's erroneous conception of
my character and condition. And this I endeavored to do with the utmost
politeness and amiability.

The girl appeared to understand my position, for her eyes--I now
ascertained she had no more than the customary number--were quite
sympathetic. I gathered that she wished to assist me, and, no doubt
referring to some one else, she stated that it was cruel and inhuman to
leave them when it was plain to be seen that they were helpless as a
baby.

I was about to applaud her for this excellent sentiment when the little
old gentleman banged the door in my face, Jules sent me sprawling, and
the car whirled off, leaving me no wiser as to the fate of New York.
Still, I was the better for the adventure, for it left me with the
happy memory of a beautiful, gracious, and charming young girl.

I now remembered my own car, and hastened to leave the crossroads down
which the other had sped. I found my car where I had left it, and I
found also a man cranking the engine.

"Thank you, so much," I said. "It's very kind of you to take the
trouble. I've met quite a number of nice, obliging people to-night."

Evidently he had been so engrossed in his kindly, self-appointed task,
that he had not heard me approach; for at my words he jumped back,
crank in hand, as if I had demanded his money or his life. I could see
him quite plainly by the light of the several summer moons. He was
a big fellow, about my own height and weight, and quite respectably
dressed.

It being a night of the most astounding phenomena--to mention only
one fact, witness the several moons, to which I meant subsequently to
direct the attention of Lick Observatory--I was not greatly astonished
to discover that this new acquaintance had six fingers. I assure you
he had; I saw them plainly as he held the crank. Nor was this all;
far from it. He was the proud possessor also of a miraculous mustache
capable of intelligent self-movement. I assure you of the truth of this
too. When first he turned toward me, the mustache was in a most curious
and humiliating position, one end pointing to his Adam's apple, the
other to his right ear. You will agree that no ordinary mustache can
act like that even in its most abandoned moments. When next I looked
at him, behold, it was in the conventional position, straight across
his upper lip! An astounding, intelligent mustache that must be capable
of moving automatically! It pleased and interested me exceedingly; it
suggested the solution of many problems. Such an article would remove
the terrors of eating soup--something of which I'm very fond, but which
I've given up attempting in public. Such a mustache could be adjusted,
nay, commanded, to any position and no longer behave like a strainer.
I must try and get mine to behave that way, ask him how he had trained
his.

"Say, is this your car, boss?" he asked in unaffected surprise. "I was
goin' to take her to the nearest lockup--wherever that is. I thought
she'd been swiped, see? You don't generally find such things layin'
round a country road this time of night. How'd you come to leave her?"

Seeing he was such an altogether obliging fellow, distinguished,
moreover, by owning six fingers and a movable mustache, I considered
it only proper to explain how the car came to be there. He listened
politely, scratching an ear with the tip of the crank, but I wasn't
sure whether he had any better understanding than Jensen, for he had
an absent-minded way of looking up and down the deserted road.

"You now understand my predicament," I finished, taking out my wallet
and giving him a bill for his thoughtfulness in cranking the car.
"Perhaps you can tell me where New York is?"

"Sure, boss. You're almost in it. It's right over there."

"Where?"

"There," he said. "See the lights?"

I turned to follow his pointing finger, and, sure enough, I saw the
lights. Indeed, I never saw so many in my life as something fell upon
my head with a resounding crash. Then the lights went out as suddenly
as they had come, and I lost all interest in finding New York.

CHAPTER II

I FIND A JOB

I awoke some twelve hours later, toward noon of the following day.

I now knew that I, and I alone, had been drunk the previous night, and
had got only what I deserved. I realized that Bob Hewitt had tried
to save me from myself, as he had done on other occasions, and I was
filled with abysmal self-disgust. More, I experienced a lively dread
when I thought of that mad ride from Princeton to Sea Bright--for it
was near the latter place that it had ended. How had I escaped breaking
my worthless neck, even granting the special Providence which is
supposed to watch over the fool, sober or otherwise?

I remembered nothing of that ride but my meeting with the little bronze
man and the girl; and whether this had really happened, I did not know.
Rather, considering the impossible coloring of the gentleman, I knew
the whole affair was merely one of the many strange pictures of my
delirium. I remembered also the agreement I had made with Hewitt, and
of my discharging Jensen, but all else that happened was a complete
blank.

The good Samaritan who took me in was an old farmer by the name of
Taylor. It would seem that following my assault, the obliging stranger
had not only made off with my car, but everything I carried, even down
to the clothes I wore. Then he had deposited me behind a hedge, where
I must have lain until early morning, for Taylor now told me that on
his way to market he had found me crawling on my hands and knees from a
field.

"Of course, I wanted to let your folks know what had happened to you
and where you was, Mr. Joyce, but I couldn't find out nohow where you
come from," he finished, beaming on me with his kindly, faded blue eyes.

"I haven't any folks, nor many friends that would care what happened to
me," I said truthfully. "How did you know my name was Joyce?"

"Why, from the chauffeur's recommendation in your pocket."

So my assailant was a chauffeur, out of a job, and desperate, no doubt.
And he had been in such a hurry to exchange his clothes for mine that
he had forgotten to remove the telltale paper.

Now I had no desire to confess my true name and the circumstances
leading to my assault and robbery, thereby providing a news item for
the press. The less I said to any one about that crazy ride of mine,
the better. Dressed in my new outfit, I was, to Taylor, merely a
chauffeur by the name of Joyce, and such I determined to remain for
the time being. Accordingly I gave him an imaginative account of myself
and the night's happenings, yet it bore some resemblance to the truth.

He was a kindly soul, and, after giving me some homely advice about
drinking too much, insisted on lending me a dollar, for which I was
properly thankful. It represented my car fare home, for, placed as I
was, I doubt if I could have raised a penny on my name, certainly not
without the publicity I wished to avoid. This was the first kindness
ever done me by a stranger without payment or hope of reward since
my coming into the Lawton fortune; the first tribute, as it were, to
myself as a human being. And, thinking this over as I left his humble
dwelling, it occurred to me that I was missing much in life.

Not wishing to return to New York until under cover of darkness, I
set off aimlessly down the road, golden in the bright June sun. And
presently rounding a sharp bend, I came upon a girl and a car, both in
distress.

The machine, an expensive two-seater, had had a blow-out, and its owner
was eying the result. Evidently her motoring knowledge did not extend
to running repairs, and the car had no spare wheel or tire. Evidently,
too, her helplessness had reached the point of exasperation, for I saw
her give the damaged wheel a hearty kick, while she exclaimed: "There!
Take that, you horrid old thing!"

"It's very provoking," I agreed, coming up, "but, somehow, kicking
never seems to do it much good."

She started and looked round, having been unaware of my approach. Then
she looked me over carefully and severely. "I don't need a philosopher,
thank you, but a mechanic. I've been stuck here for at least a
week, and you're the first living thing that has come along. I hope
Providence has sent some one that knows something about blow-outs. Do
you?"

"Blow-outs of all kinds are my speciality, madam."

"I'm only interested in this particular kind. Please stop talking and
get busy. I should have been at the station long ago."

She had a very high-handed way with her, but then, too, she was
very pretty. I know that every female in distress is supposed to be
beautiful, but I can't help that; this one actually was. In fact, she
was the girl I had seen the previous night in the town car de luxe,
proving conclusively that that incident had really happened. Of course,
if I had never seen her before, and if she had been aged, ugly, and
infirm, it could not have obviated the necessity of my helping her; but
I must admit I would have found considerably less enthusiasm in the
performance. Also, I would have worked faster.

"You are very slow," she remarked, as I jacked up the car.

"Slow," I agreed, "but sure. Don't you use powder in your shoes?"

"S-sir!"

"I was referring to the car," I explained humbly, displaying the
interior of the shoe.

"Oh!" she said, biting her lip. "I didn't know you called that thing
a shoe. Are you sure? And why should you use powder, may I ask?" This
very severely and with dignity, as if she still suspected me of undue
levity.

So I explained the necessity of powder, while she eyed me doubtfully.
"Well, I don't know much about the subject," she conceded. "No more
than to drive after a fashion. And the chauffeur we had was very
careless. This is the first time I've ever had any vital interest in
blow-outs, and I think I can do no better than watch you carefully."

"I usually charge for giving lessons, but on this occasion I waive the
fee."

"You are very kind, but I refuse to accept it. I shall pay you." And
she sat down on the running board, while I proceeded to affix the
patch, not the first I had done, by any means, as Jensen could have
testified. If necessary, I could have taken down and reassembled the
engine.

"You do it very well indeed," she conceded at length, her head at a
critical angle. "Quite like a professional. But it does take an awfully
long time, doesn't it?"

"It all depends on the--er--audience."

She pondered this and then decided that there was something offensive
about it. Perhaps there was. But then she was really such a pretty girl
and, as I have observed, one cannot have too much of pretty things.

"Please hurry," she said coldly. "I should have been at the station by
this time. I'm sure I've missed the train. You will oblige me greatly
by not dawdling any more. I don't care if it's sure so long as it's
quick. All I want is for it to hold me till I get to the station."

"It is very fortunate," I murmured.

"You are impertinent, sir."

"A congenital failing," I confessed.

"Please go away, leave me, if you can't hurry and--and have some
manners."

My task reluctantly finished at last, there now happened one of
those apparently trivial incidents which so often decide not only
the destinies of individuals but of nations, and which, viewed in
the light of after events, seem like the working of Providence
rather than chance. Much as I might care to prolong this agreeable
meeting--agreeable in my estimation--I should have walked down
the sunlit road and out of this charming girl's life, had I not
instinctively searched my pockets for a handkerchief, something
wherewith to wipe my hands. It always pays to be clean, for as I
brought out a bandanna from a side pocket, a sheet of paper came with
it and, fluttering in the gentle breeze, fell at the girl's feet--a
very appropriate action. She picked it up and was about to hand it to
me when some writing which it evidently bore--and which she could not
avoid seeing--caught her eye. Her expression changed and she looked at
me sharply with a new and, I might say, even proprietary interest.

"Why, you're Joyce!" she exclaimed. "How stupid of me not to have
guessed it. I might have known it by the way you fixed that puncture. I
suppose it's against the rules of the union to work any faster."

I didn't think her at all stupid and only wished I was equally good at
guessing.

"I am Mr. Varney's niece," she added.

"Ah," I said. It was the only safe thing I could say.

She handed me back the paper which she had most obligingly refolded
so that I couldn't see a word of what was written on it. "I am Miss
Gelette," she said.

"Ah."

"I was on my way to the station to meet you, and you see why I didn't
get there."

"Ah."

"I suppose your trunk's at the station?"

"Ah--that is, oh, I mean--ah!"

"Goodness me!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot. "Have you got
sunstroke? And have you no manners? Are you rude as well as stupid?
Don't you understand that I'm your new employer's niece?"

Yes, my acute intelligence had unerringly reached that conclusion.
That paper was the one Mr. Taylor had found in my pocket, and which I
had forgotten about. I wished now that I had read it. Tardily enough I
removed my cap, clicked my heels together, and imitated Jensen's bow.
It is a very remarkable and striking bow; you bend lightly from the
hips and then spring back like a child ducking for apples.

"That's better," she conceded. "And now we'd better see about your
trunk. Did you tell them to send it on?"

"No, ma'am. You see--well, the fact is I haven't got one."

"What!"

"It went astray, ma'am, but I'm sure it will turn up all right. I've
lost more than that--I mean, ma'am, I've lost it more than once and it
has always turned up. It's a very hard trunk to lose. They make them
that way."

"I don't see how they can. However--let me see, what is your first
name? I've forgotten."

"Peter, ma'am."

"Well, Peter, I hope you'll give more satisfaction than your
predecessor who left this morning. Now get that tire or shoe
pumped----Oh, it is pumped? Very well; now take me to the Octagon."

"Beg pardon, but where and what is that, ma'am?"

"It's a hotel in Sea Bright. I forgot you weren't familiar with the
neighborhood. Hurry up, now."

A few minutes later we were riding down the back road the way I had
come, the road that led to the station and Sea Bright. We passed
Taylor's little farm, and if he had seen me he certainly would have
wondered how I had got in touch with my employers so soon.

I think Miss Gelette had not forgiven me for having observed her
loss of dignity and temper, her assault on the damaged wheel, and my
unfortunate remarks. And I think it pleased her immensely to discover
that I was the new chauffeur, she mistress and I servant. For she
queened it over me with such naïve enjoyment that I should have hated
to disillusion her. It was, "Peter, take that turn. Slow down, Peter.
To your right, Peter," with a lofty condescension and dignity that
tickled me greatly.

We drew up to the big hotel, and she entered, leaving me an order to
wait. The season, heightened by the promised coming of the President to
the neighborhood, was only beginning, but the verandas were filled with
the gay four o'clock throng.

"Well," I thought, "Hewitt and those fellows said I couldn't get a
job, and here I am! As for this fellow Joyce, a fair exchange is no
robbery. He's got my car and I've got his. And these folks are better
for the deal. I've done them a service, for he would only have robbed
them."

The adventure, if such it can be called, was precisely the kind which
Hewitt would have classified as peculiar only to myself; irresponsible,
freakish, ridiculous--in brief, "One of Pete Lawton's crazy escapades."
And very likely he would have added the rider that I wasn't sober.

How far I meant to pursue the incident I had no idea; but even at
this stage I had a faint premonition of impending mystery. At least,
I couldn't help wondering why the chauffeur Joyce, if he was on his
way to fill a good position, and not out of work and desperate, as
I had supposed, should conceive the idea of knocking me on the head
and stealing my car and all I carried. Where was the necessity, what
the sense in doing such a reckless thing? And if he were not expected
till to-day's afternoon train, how did it happen I had met him in the
neighborhood last night?

While I was thinking over this, Miss Gelette appeared, and we proceeded
to do some desultory shopping, a business I generally abhor. And as
I was waiting for her at one store, a man came up to the car whom I
recognized as Jules, the ex-chauffeur, who had sent me sprawling the
previous night, and whose place I now filled. He failed to recognize
me, but he knew the car. Evidently he had been celebrating his
discharge in various saloons, instead of going home, and had absorbed
just enough to be ugly.

"So you're the new guy that's got the job up to Varney's?" he remarked,
eying me disparagingly. "Well, that's all they're fit to have--a cheap
bonehead from a correspondence school. They don't know how to treat a
high-class man. Huh! A fine house to work for----"

"Look here," I said, finding that the more indifference I assumed the
louder he talked, "run away and tell all that to Sweeny. I've troubles
of my own."

"Your troubles is only starting," he came back. "See if they ain't."
And just then Miss Gelette came out of the store.

Jules turned upon her and proceeded to air his opinions more fully. He
called her uncle a doddering old devil, and was starting on her with
equally choice epithets when I got him by the slack of the pants and
gave him a good running start toward New York. I imagine the crowd
that was gathering quickly thought us acting for the movies, for they
cheered, and then looked disappointed when I hopped back into the car
and drove off.

"Home, Peter. Rumson Road. First turn to the right," said Miss Gelette,
with unimpaired dignity, but rather red in the face, and she sat bolt
upright until we had covered several blocks. Then a dimple, whose
hidden presence I had suspected, suddenly appeared, and she said in
the sweet, gracious voice of last night: "Thank you, Peter. I see that
you're going to do capitally, and I reverse my opinion of you; you're
sure--and quick. Very quick when you want to be."

We covered another block, and then she added: "That man Jules blames
me for his discharge, but he discharged himself by his own conduct. My
uncle, being an invalid, is rather short-tempered at times, but he's
the best of employers. I'm telling you this because I don't want you to
be prejudiced against the position by anything that man may have said.
Chauffeurs, satisfactory ones, aren't easy to find these days, as you
know."

I thought of the many that had passed through my hands, and I silently
agreed with her.

"You will take all your orders virtually from me," she continued, "and
if you do your work as it should be done, you won't find me a hard
mistress to serve. Jules lost his position through drink, and I'm
pleased to know you're a strict total abstainer."

I was filled with some inward confusion, and repressed a strong desire
to laugh.

"The abuse of alcohol causes at least half the misery in the world,"
she went on, "and I must say it speaks well for a young man of your
years that you've the sense to recognize that fact." As I was at
least five years her senior, it was very refreshing to listen to this
motherly advice.

There followed a period of silence, during which I sensed her stealing
more than one glance at me. Many people have looked at me in that
stealthy manner, my appearance meriting more than a cursory glance, but
I felt that something was troubling her. I was right.

"I think, Peter, that I've seen you somewhere before," she remarked
suddenly.

"Indeed, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed, Peter. I don't know when or where, but I'm quite sure
about it. Your face has puzzled me----"

"It has puzzled more than you, ma'am, in its day. It has even puzzled
_me_."

"I don't understand you, Peter; you appear to have a gift for cryptic
expressions. But I mean your face is not one to forget----"

"It is not, ma'am," I agreed, "I've tried it and failed. It is like
that; you simply can't forget it. I'm puzzled at times to know if it
really is a face. I know exactly what you mean, ma'am."

"You don't, not in the least," she said with asperity. "If I thought
there was anything remarkably ugly about you, I shouldn't have
mentioned it. However, I'm not in the habit of discussing--but I _have_
seen you somewhere. I know I have."

"Perhaps it was at the British bulldog show, ma'am. I was there once,
with my boss, and a near-sighted old judge tried to give me first
prize. Honestly."

"I'm not in the mood for such attempted humor. A thing like this
annoys me, not being able to remember. Stop the car!" she finished
peremptorily.

I threw out the clutch and clapped on the brakes. Turning in her seat,
she faced me with eyes hardening from suspicion to certainty. "You're
the man we nearly ran over last night!" she exclaimed. "Don't attempt
to deny it, for you are! I _knew_ I had seen you before."

I realized that, unfortunately, prevarication was useless. All my great
gifts in that direction would be wasted here. This little person was
not merely ornamental; she had brains, and knew how to use them. A
tongue, too, by the way.

"Last night, ma'am?" I said vaguely. "Nearly run over, you say?"

"Yes, I say it, and you know it."

"I--I must confess I haven't a very clear recollection of what happened
last night," I murmured contritely.

"Then I shall tell you; you were drunk!"

"Drunk! You astonish me, ma'am. You do indeed. Is--is it possible?"

"Yes, it is possible, probable, and a fact. You were disgracefully,
hopelessly, drunk! You needn't sit there and pretend you know nothing
about it. And Mr. Fremstad assured my uncle that you were a teetotaler!
What have you to say to that?"

Having nothing to say, I did not say it. I hung my head instead.

Her eyes were contemptuous, her mouth as stern as its lines permitted.
She was very angry and put out. Often I had felt the same way on
discovering a jewel of a servant to be the customary paste. I felt
sorry for her; I yearned to comfort her, to assure her--quite
untruthfully--that I had never been drunk before.

"You chauffeurs are all alike!" she exclaimed. "If it isn't one thing
it's another. And the more satisfactory you seem, the worse you are.
And so you deceived Mr. Fremstad and hoped to deceive us? Of course,
it's quite impossible to engage you. I understand now why your trunk
went astray. Well, you had better go and look for it. I can take the
car home myself."

I was starting obediently to climb past the wheel when she demanded:
"Where are you going now? Sit down, please. Why don't you say
something?"

"W-what should I say, madam?"

"Oh, don't be stupid. Haven't you any explanation how you came to be
in such a disgraceful condition? Or am I to infer it's your usual
condition? I am not a narrow-minded person, and I quite understand that
one unfortunate action doesn't necessarily condemn any one. I can even
believe it was your first offense. But I am clearly entitled to an
explanation of some sort."

"Well, ma'am, you see it was this way," I began, with proper confusion.
"The Benevolent Brotherhood of Motor Mechanics gave their annual outing
yesterday. It was very hot, as you recollect, and there was a lot of
drinks going round. I was very thirsty----"

"Up to a certain point, I suppose? I can imagine the rest. But how did
you happen to be in this neighborhood last night? How did you come to
leave Philadelphia?"

"I made a fool of myself, ma'am, and got all muddled up. I got mixed on
my dates. I thought I had to come here last night, instead of to-day. I
got off at Sea Bright and became lost. You know how it is when you've
taken too much----"

"No, I don't know anything of the kind. But you told us you wanted to
find New York."

"Did I, really, ma'am? It just shows what a fool I was. I'm sure I
meant the Rumson Road. The truth is, I wasn't accountable for what I
said."

"I quite realize that. You even imagined the appointment you had to
keep was attendance at your own funeral. Where did you spend the night?"

"At a small farm near the station owned by a man called Taylor." And
I told of my assault and robbery, approximately the same version I had
given Taylor.

She looked at me steadily for a long moment as I finished: "It was a
very disgraceful and humiliating experience, ma'am, which I've taken
greatly to heart."

"I'm sure you have, Peter," she said kindly. "I can see that you're
not the drinking sort, and that this has been your first slip. Now,
see here, if my uncle knew you for the person he met last night, you
wouldn't have a chance of retaining the situation. But I know he won't
recognize you, for his eyes are nothing like mine." Assuredly they were
not. "You saved me from an unpleasant scene back there, and I'm willing
to stretch a point in your favor. I shall say nothing to my uncle, but
only on one condition--that, while in our employment, you never touch
intoxicants of any kind again. I don't ask you to sign the pledge or
anything like that. I ask simply for your promise."

And so, in this strange fashion, I came to utter a challenge toward
one John Barleycorn, an enemy whose increasing dominion over me I
recognized only too well. How most of my friends would have laughed!
But it was a promise I gave in all sincerity.

CHAPTER III

I HEAR SOME NEWS

The Varney residence proved to be one of those modern country houses
of the rich that needs no describing. It was less ambitious than
some of its neighbors, and sat well in from the road in a good sweep
of well-kept ground. The garage was commodious and well appointed,
having a repair pit and accommodation for three cars, these including
the one I drove, and my old acquaintance, de luxe, with the maroon
upholstering. The other was a touring six.

It being the dining hour in the servants' hall when I arrived, I
proceeded to make the acquaintance of the domestic staff, this
comprising an aged and irreproachable butler called Horace--but to me
and other inferiors "Mr. Brandon"--the housekeeper, cook, and upper and
lower housemaids. The gardener came from a neighboring florist.

The meal was presided over by Mr. Horace Brandon with more pomp and
dignity than attended many dinners I had known in my own circle, and,
being familiar in some degree with backstairs etiquette, I produced
a favorable impression. I sought after no local information, and was
offered none. Contrary to popular superstition, there was at this
table no scandal, no gossip, no picking of their master and mistress to
pieces.

The meal over, I washed down the car and retired to my quarters in the
garage, armed with the New York evening paper kindly given me by the
butler, who approved of the interest I had shown in his remarks on the
baseball question. Alone in my room, I sat down to think seriously for
the first time of this adventure on which I had entered so lightly
and irresponsibly. Surely it was high time I made explanations and
apologies to Miss Gelette. On the other hand, there was my wager with
Bob Hewitt. Also the incomprehensible action of Joyce, which interested
me.

At this point I remembered the letter, undoubtedly the recommendation
from Mr. Fremstad, which, returned by Miss Gelette, I had had no
opportunity of reading. Joyce, the original owner, must have thrown
away or lost the envelope; for had there been one, Taylor would not
have opened it. I felt sure of that; he might be only a poor farmer,
yet he was one of nature's gentlemen. I now brought the paper from my
pocket and read the following:

DEAR MR. VARNEY: This is introducing the bearer, Henry Joyce, whom
I mentioned as about to leave my employment owing to my giving up
motoring. You will find him thoroughly honest, obliging, efficient,
and sober. I have never had a better chauffeur. Yours sincerely,

AUGUSTUS FREMSTAD.

And I had told Miss Gelette my name was Peter! However, that was
a small error to what I might have committed. Assuredly Joyce had
egregiously deceived his late employer as to the true nature of his
character. Toward me he had certainly acted efficiently enough, but
hardly with honesty.

And now my eyes fell upon the evening paper, whose pages I had been
turning over aimlessly; and I sat up with a jerk, arrested by the
following headlines:

Motoring fatality. Peter Lawton, wealthy young clubman, killed by
Jersey train. Tragic climax of mad joy ride.

It is not often we have the chance of reading our own obituaries,
and my first emotion was that of amusement at the joke played on my
friends, coupled with a fleeting compassion for the poor devil, Joyce,
who had not profited long by his action. He had been killed that same
night at a grade crossing near Camden; my five-thousand-dollar car
had been reduced to scrap, while he was so horribly mutilated that
identification was only possible by the car license, the clothes he
wore, and the papers found in his pocket.

Bob Hewitt identified the latter and other personal belongings of
mine, and he told of my leaving Princeton without Jensen; in short,
there was no shadow of doubt that I was dead, and had met a fate which
pointed its own moral.

I knew Hewitt had done his best to cast a decent veil over that ride of
mine, but others had not, and the whole shameful story had come out,
as it was bound to do. This particular paper set out the details with
much gusto, and that it was nothing but the truth did not make it more
palatable. Here was its opinion of me in black and white, and I can do
no better than quote from it.

This tragedy lays another victim at the feet of King Alcohol and
Too Much Money. It will be remembered that "Pete" Lawton was the
sensational football find at Princeton some half dozen years ago,
and held an undisputed place on the all-American team. He graduated
with high honors, and promised to attain great distinction in the
engineering profession when the death of his uncle brought him into
the Lawton fortune. That ended his ambitions, and this last member
of an ill-starred family proceeded to go the way of all the others.
Of late his mad escapades have been common talk among the knowing,
and this catastrophe is the inevitable end.

Yes, we were an ill-starred family, as the paper said, with King
Alcohol and Too Much Money our inherited enemies. The combination had
killed out every male member, until only my Uncle Peter and I had
remained.

My father dissipated his fortune and died young, while my mother gave
her life in giving me mine; thus I was brought up in comparative
poverty by distant relatives, and that was what had saved me for the
time being. I never expected to inherit a penny of my uncle's fortune.
That fortune he also would have scattered to the winds, only he was
unable. It was too large for him, and I really believe he left the
remainder to me as a parting curse, for my father and he had quarreled,
as only our family could quarrel, and he hated me cordially.

On the few occasions when I saw him, while I was working my way through
school and college, he made sneering remarks about the benefits of
poverty. He appeared to resent the fact that I was in a fair way of
making a success of life, instead of following his example and all the
rest. He seemed to consider it an insult to the family.

"There never was a male Lawton yet that didn't drink," I remember him
saying when he learned I never touched it. "What's the matter with
you? It's in your blood, you fool, and you may as well make up your
mind it's bound to come out. No use trying to reverse nature. The true
Lawton coat of arms is a demijohn rampant on a bar sinister, and the
motto: 'Here's looking at you.' Wait till you've got some money to
spend, and you'll see the end of your precious virtue. With all your
honest-plowman life and this attempt to dodge your destiny, you'll end
your days in a psychopathic ward, as your lamented ancestors ended
theirs, as your dear father ended his, and as I shall end mine."

The last part of his prophecy was unfulfilled, however, for he broke
his neck by falling out of the ambulance before ever they got him
to the hospital. As for the rest, it seemed in a fair way of being
realized, something I had once thought utterly impossible.

When I came into Uncle Peter's money--it was six months ago--I voted
myself the first real holiday I had ever known. Of course, I meant
it to have reasonable limits. I was going to do an awful lot of good
with that money, make it a blessing instead of a curse, and I talked
over all my plans with old Mr. Hannay, the Lawton lawyer, who had sole
charge of my affairs.

I was going to build and superintend an engineering school for poor
young men, irrespective of race, creed, or color, and in a general
way I meant to help suffering humanity up hill and down dale, and all
around the block.

And then, amid new surroundings and in with an entirely new crowd,
I took my first drink. I took it to be a "good fellow," and because
I honestly believed I had strength enough to defy all the family
traditions going. I would show the world that alcohol could never make
_me_ its slave, that it was simply a question of will power, and that
a whole lot of nonsense had been talked and written about heredity.
"Heredity" and "environment" were simply the excuses of the weak, the
cowardly, the vicious.

It was Arnold Frean who brought up the matter and pushed it home.
"You're afraid of the stuff," he said. "It shows you're afraid of it,
that you know it's your master, when you won't take even one drink.
I'll bet you can't take one drink, like any normal man, and then quit.
I dare you to try."

"I've worked my way through college," I said, "and into the business
world over obstacles you've never known. There's nothing in this world
I'm afraid of."

"Tripe!" he retorted. "Talk's cheap. You're a Lawton and that's enough
said. You know you daren't."

And so, like a fool, I had my first taste of the stuff. It's a wise
man who knows his own limitations and weaknesses. There isn't one in a
thousand who likes whisky for its taste; it's the effect most people
are after, and it goes without saying that the man who craves the taste
of it, as a girl craves candy or ice cream, is naturally the most
hopeless case--and I found myself in that class.

I was like a tiger that had sampled human flesh; nothing else would do
me. That one drink was enough. I had inherited a sleeping demon, and,
in a moment of stupid vanity, had awakened it. Too late I recognized
that I belonged to that class whose only salvation is to leave alcohol
strictly alone. Arnold Frean was right; it was my master, and I
couldn't take one drink and then stop like any normal person.

As I now thought over the past six months' events, culminating in what
had happened last night, I saw that I had come to the parting of the
ways, that I had taken half measures too long with my enemy, and if
I was to be saved at all, a fight to the finish must begin here and
now. Otherwise, far better would it be for me if I had been killed in
Joyce's place. And what had saved me? How had I escaped killing some
innocent person during that mad ride, even though I had miraculously
escaped injury myself? It was through no virtue of mine. Joyce, sober,
had been killed, while I, drunk, had escaped. Through some juggling of
the gods, I had been given another chance. A tremendous lesson had been
brought home to me. Would I have the strength to profit by it?

I realized fully the terrific battle that confronted me; previous
skirmishes had shown me that. I would have to throw everything into the
scale, for it was John Barleycorn's life or mine.

With the exception of Bob Hewitt and Tommy Ashton, former classmates,
together with old Mr. Hannay, none had thought it worth while to
dissuade me from the road I was traveling; and I had not taken kindly
to the advice of these three. Mr. Hannay gave it up early, contenting
himself with shaking his head. He knew the history of my family, and
believed nothing could save me. Hewitt and Ashton, however, hung on.
More than once they had urged me to cut the circle I had formed, to go
away somewhere and spend only what I earned. But I laughed at them, and
then, when they persisted, grew irritable.

I would never confess my secret fears regarding John Barleycorn, never
admit he ever got the best of me. For all my "mad escapades," spoken
of by the paper, I had never been so helpless as I was last night. I
had done many idiotic, reckless things when absolutely sober. It was
merely misdirected energy, energy stored up through idleness, and which
I had formerly worked off on the gridiron, the classroom, and in the
engineering works of Cable & Co., where I was employed when my uncle
died.

It was clear that my agreement with Hewitt wasn't so freakish as
it might appear; it was simply another effort on his part for my
reformation, and circumstances had lent it added force. I realized the
truth of his frequent contention that I had got in with a bad crowd.
"Half of them are grafters," he said, "and the rest nothing but money
loafers. You're one of these men, Lawton, whose good-fellowship makes
them take up with all sorts, and treat them as bosom friends. You'll
never make any headway against this enemy of yours until you get rid of
his allies--that bunch and too much money. Chuck the whole lot and get
to work."

Getting rid of the "bunch" was easier said than done--but what if they
believed me dead? Why not remain "dead" and fight out my battle here,
unknown, without the handicap of money and influence. Joyce had been
killed, and therefore there was no fear of him turning up and exposing
me.

The accident had happened near Camden, and none would suspect the
substitution that had taken place near Sea Bright, miles away. As for
this Mr. Fremstad, it was unlikely that I would ever meet him; but that
small risk, together with the chance of being recognized by those who
knew me, I must accept.

No one could have been better situated for playing dead; nobody was
dependent on me. I had no business, no weighty affairs to attend to;
nothing would go to wreck and ruin through my absence. No doubt at this
moment Mr. Hannay was shaking his head over my demise and preparing to
dispose of the estate according to the terms of my will. But before the
slow-moving machinery of the law could come into full effect I would
either have resurrected myself, an undisputed victor over my enemy, or
gone down to utter defeat and merited oblivion, for there would be no
half measures this time.

In this manner I came to decide upon keeping the name Joyce and the
position I had obtained as chauffeur to Mr. Theodore Varney. I have
set out my reasons fully for so doing, and to me, at the time, they
seemed logical and necessary. Yet if, underneath all, the situation had
not appealed to my peculiar sense of humor, if a certain risk had not
been attached to it, if Miss Gelette had been aged, ugly, and infirm,
perhaps those logical reasons would have appeared less convincing.

I met Mr. Varney that same evening on receipt of a telephone
message from the house. He received me in the study, his niece also
being present, and at the first glance I realized that for all my
helplessness the previous night, I had made some accurate observations;
for this was the little, dried-up gentleman whose color was greenish
bronze, the like of which I had never seen before.

He was seated in a great armchair before a chessboard, on which was
arrayed a problem, a very slippery "twoer" by Loyd, which I recognized
as an old friend. Evidently he had spent some considerable time trying
to find the key move, with the help of his niece, for as I appeared at
the door he said irascibly: "Nonsense, Brenda! Can't you see if the
bishop moves your king is checked? You don't seem able to grasp the
first principles of the game, and the longer you play, the worse you
get."

"I know I'm very stupid," she answered meekly. "But I only thought that
even if the king was checked----"

"You only thought! As if your sex was capable of thinking!"

And then they saw me standing in the doorway.

"Come in, my man," snapped old Varney, and he looked me over at leisure
with a pair of eyes which, for all the girl's assurances, struck me as
being remarkably bright and shrewd.

For a moment I thought all was lost, that surely he had recognized me,
but he only grunted as if satisfied with his inspection, and demanded:
"Where is the letter from Mr. Fremstad?"

I was afraid there might have been more than one letter, but, putting a
bold face on it, I handed him the only one I had.

"H'm," he said, reading it through, and instantly detecting the error I
had fallen into. "I understood from my niece that your name was Peter?"

"Peter Henry Joyce is my full name, sir. Mr. Fremstad preferred to call
me Henry."

"Well, Peter Henry, the first thing you have to do is remove that
mustache of yours," he said, with a certain malicious pleasure. "I
permit no one in my employment to carry around such microbe breeders
and germ disseminators. If you've no thought for your own health, I
assure you I have for mine. What are you staring at? Can it be possible
you know the classic game of chess?" This with elaborate irony.

"Well, a little, sir. I used to play a bit at the Y. M. C. A. of
nights."

"He knows the game of chess, my dear," said Mr. Varney, turning to his
niece. "Truly, servants are progressing these days. I shouldn't be
surprised if Horace could teach Esperanto and Mrs. Stower"--this was
the housekeeper--"give tango lessons. This is an accomplishment, Peter
Henry, that Mr. Fremstad forgot to mention. Perhaps you are also an
adept at problems and can do me the inestimable service of solving this
two-mover?"

"Why, yes, sir," I said, as if unaware of his sarcasm. "It's the move
Miss Gelette mentioned--bishop to rook's fourth."

"Oh, no, it isn't," he replied sweetly and maliciously. "I'm afraid
the Y. M. C. A. isn't much of a school, Peter Henry. It isn't, because
of the very elementary truth that if the bishop moves your king is
checked----"

"Quite so, sir. But, if I may point out, you interpose with the
knight----"

"And Black takes it, you dolt!"

"But it can't sir, for, of course, you see that it exposes check from
the queen--double check and mate."

"Eh?" he cried, staring at the board, his face slowly purpling. Then,
with one sweep and the single exclamation, "Damn!" he sent the men
flying, knocked over the table, and ordered me from the room.

As I went down the stairs I could hear him angrily declaring to his
niece that bishop to rook's fourth was the move he had pointed out from
the first, but that she said it was wrong.

That night I shaved my mustache, thankful that Mr. Varney's obsession
about microbes thus enabled me to disguise myself, for its removal
caused a remarkable change in my appearance, more than I had thought
possible. It was none of these Charlie Chaplin affairs, but a good
brush, and when I saw myself in the glass, minus it, I doubted if my
worst enemy would have known me.

From my interview I realized that Jules might not have been far wrong
when he predicted that my troubles were only beginning--though I never
guessed the nature and extent of them. Theodore Varney was evidently a
hard master to serve, and for all his years and infirmity I had felt a
great desire to kick him. He seemed like one of these malicious little
bronze devils fashioned by the heathen, and he spoke to his niece as
if she were a feeble-minded nonentity. I knew her to be high-spirited
and with a temper of her own, but she had taken it all without a show
of protest, though she had colored faintly when she saw I was an
observer.

CHAPTER IV

A MORNING OF SURPRISES

The following morning at ten I was ordered round with the touring car,
and Miss Gelette saw me for a moment alone before her uncle appeared.
She had to look twice before recognizing me, for now I wore putties and
the maroon livery supplied to Jules. It wasn't a half bad fit, though I
couldn't bend over without experiencing certain misgivings.

She eyed my shaven lip and said: "I don't know if it's an improvement
or not. Did you mind very much?"

"Not a bit, madam. I was thinking of getting rid of it in the hot
weather, anyway."

"You're a philosopher, Peter, and very good-natured. I'm so glad you
are." And then Mr. Varney appeared, leaning on the gold-knobbed Malacca
cane he always carried.

In the bright morning sun his complexion looked more startling
and sinister than ever, and, for all his immaculate and youthful
foppishness of dress, so haggard and feeble did he seem that
instinctively I stepped forward to assist him.

This was a mistake, for he drew himself up and said angrily: "To your
seat, my man! When I need a nurse, I'll engage one." And he strutted
down the steps, twirling his cane, like a macaroni of the old school.

I came mighty near losing my job right there, it being on the tip of my
tongue to tell him what was on my mind, for my humor wasn't very good
that morning, despite Miss Gelette's observation to the contrary. After
my half year's holiday, getting up at six o'clock in the morning and
overhauling three cars wasn't the joke it seemed the previous night.
Nor was I used to being talked to in that fashion. Moreover, the Demon
was awake and stirring within me, clamoring lustily for his customary
morning drink. The fight to the finish had only commenced, but already
I was sparring for wind.

I felt very irritable and despondent as I took the wheel, and, pursuant
to a curt command from Mr. Varney, headed for the Ocean Boulevard at a
maddeningly sedate pace.

"Not more than seven miles an hour, mind!" he emphasized, tapping me
smartly on the shoulder with his cane. "You're at liberty to break your
own neck, but not mine."

A mad desire possessed me to seize the cane and throw it in his face,
then let out the engine for all she was worth. I was beginning to see
the other side of the servant question, and I wondered guiltily if
Jensen and his predecessors had ever felt like smashing me. Could I
ever have been so overbearing as old Varney? Perhaps more so, when
under the influence of the Demon.

At mention of my real name, I pricked up my ears. Mr. Varney was
talking, and I could hear plainly above the soft pur of the engine. He
was discussing the previous night's tragedy, reading snatches of the
account from the morning paper, which I hadn't seen.

"Well, that's the last whelp of a vile brood gone, and a good
riddance," he concluded, with marked satisfaction. "It's the end I
always predicted."

"Why, did you know the family?" asked his niece in surprise.

"Yes, long before your time," as if her youth were a defect. "Peter
Lawton, this one's Father, was at Harvard with me. Married Sally
Canning, of Baltimore, against her parents' wishes--she was a noted
beauty--broke her heart and died a drunkard at thirty. A bad, worthless
lot."

"I don't know," said the girl slowly. "There was nothing ever wrong
with them but this, was there?"

"Well, isn't that enough?" he snapped, banging his cane on the floor.
"Is it nothing to be a dipsomaniac, and, knowing that, marry an
innocent young girl? Is it nothing to beget progeny and perpetuate a
degenerate endless chain----"

"I know, uncle. I was only thinking that the first Lawton who started
this curse, perhaps hundreds of years ago, was the real culprit. Think
of the tragedy of it, of inheriting such a thing through no fault of
your own----"

"Pooh! A nice bread-poultice philosophy! Is there no such thing
as free will? A fine world this would be if we were to yield to
every mad desire! During my long experience I've found that when a
blackguard perpetrates some characteristically dirty business, he
always lays it to heredity. It's never himself that's to blame, but his
ancestors--though they get precious little credit for any virtues he
may have. And I say that for Peter Lawton to marry was a blackguardly
business. It was a crime, and the State should punish such crimes or
make them impossible."

"That's all very well. But if two people love each other----"

"Pooh! If he'd loved her half as well as he loved himself he never
would have married her."

It took some effort to sit there quietly and hear my father called a
blackguard. Having but the vaguest memory of him, I had no means of
knowing that he had been acquainted with Theodore Varney. But as the
Canning family had never anything to do with me--I was brought up by
an impoverished maiden aunt of my father--it would seem Varney had
his facts right when he said my mother married against her parents'
wishes. Indeed, they had never forgiven her, my father, or me. But
whether that made my father a blackguard was another matter.

On the whole, however, Varney's remarks did me an immensity of good.
They stilled the clamoring voice of the Demon; I forgot about it in my
anger at old Varney. I gritted my teeth and swore that I'd show him the
"last whelp of a vile brood" was still very much alive, and would _not_
end the way he had predicted. I would never touch another drop if only
to spite him. Thus a second unexpected ally came to my help in my fight
with the Demon; the first was spontaneous liking for Brenda Gelette;
the second, spontaneous dislike for her uncle.

The girl having been effectually squelched in her attempted mild
defense of my worthless family, they proceeded to talk of other
matters; that is, old Varney talked, giving his opinion like a
magistrate from the bench, and not caring whether he had an auditor or
not.

It was evident that he had read and traveled widely. I gathered that
their home was in Philadelphia, but they spoke of high official circles
in Washington, and of New Yorkers I had heard of and others I knew
rather intimately. It was a caution the way the Varney tongue opened
out on most of them; he had piled up a whole library of scandal during
his long life, and had forgotten none of it. He seemed to take a
malicious pleasure in saying nasty things about everybody, and the
worst of it was I felt they were right. In many instances I knew them
to be.

He paid no more attention to me than as if I were part of the car, and
when his niece tried to steer him off, or hinted diplomatically that he
lower his voice, he raised it the louder and banged on the floor with
his cane.

Jules had called him an old devil, and I was ready to concur in the
opinion. I wondered why Brenda Gelette put up with him, for assuredly
she did not seem the kind that licks dirt for sake of their daily
bread or an expected inheritance. But what love could a viper like him
engender in any one? And if not love, then was it fear? These were
questions I had been asking myself since that interview in the study.

On our way back through Sea Bright, after a funeral procession to the
casino in Allenhurst, we stopped at the Octagon drug store--a branch of
a well-known Philadelphia house--and old Varney and his niece entered.
This was where the girl had gone yesterday.

With characteristic amiability he now remarked he could attend very
well to his own business without her help, but she said she wished to
do some shopping herself, and so, grumbling, he let her accompany him.
He strutted as I had seen him do before, puffing out his flat chest
and swinging his cane as if challenging the universe, and for all my
dislike of the man, I felt a pang of sudden pity. I sensed that all
this was play acting, a pose to deceive the world. That buoyant step
and swaggering manner were as artificial as his teeth.

I am not a person of inspirations, but I got one just then. For all
Varney's words about will power, did he possess a Demon like myself?
Was he a secret "dope fiend," and did his niece suspect it? I knew
precious little about medicine, but it seemed to me that might account
for his peculiar color and emaciation; and it would account for his not
wishing the girl to accompany him into the store which supplied him
through the Philadelphia one.

I was thinking over this hypothesis when that queer sixth sense which
we all possess warned me that some one was staring at me, and, glancing
up, I saw a man standing on the corner. He wore a leather cap, with
motor goggles shoved up over the peak, and he had the high, bulging
forehead of a mathematician and the rudimentary chin of a degenerate.
As our eyes met, he slowly closed one, whose color put me in mind of
skimmed milk.

I looked hastily away, shocked as any old maid, so secure had I felt
about my disguise. To the best of my recollection, I had never seen
this fellow before, but then, during the past few months, people
occasionally spoke to me whom I had no recollection of meeting
previously, for the Demon was not an aid to memory. Clearly this fellow
knew me for all my changed appearance, and in spite of the fact that I
was supposed to be dead and buried. It would prove rather awkward if he
greeted me as Peter Lawton before old Varney, who might appear at any
moment.

I kept my head turned away, but, out of the tail of my eye, I saw him
leave the corner and come strolling toward me. I heard him coming close
to the car, something touched my hand, and when I looked up there he
was, going across the street while a small piece of folded paper lay on
the seat at my side. He was a clever sort, for I doubt if any watching
eye, from among the many that surrounded us, could have detected his
deft transference of that paper.

I decided to be equally discreet, and, pretending to examine the
magneto, unfolded the little cocked hat and read:

The King's pawn is to meet the Bishop's at Knight's.

Feeling somewhat as did Alice when she went through the Looking Glass
and met the Red Queen, I looked round hastily for the man with the
bulging forehead, but he had vanished.

"Now is he a chess crank gone insane?" I asked myself, thinking aloud.
"They ought to put him in the booby hatch."

"Eh, what's that?" roared old Varney in my ear.

"I--I didn't mean you, sir," I stammered, jumping out and opening the
door. "I was thinking of a chess problem."

"Don't talk to me about chess problems," he snapped. "Only idiots play
chess, and the only problem you have is how to earn the money I pay
you."

I put the note in my pocket and thought of the incident on the way
home. "Knight's what?" I asked myself irritably. "Even if the fellow is
crazy, why couldn't he name the square and be done with it?"

It seemed to be a morning of surprises, for when I pulled in from the
road toward the house, I passed an empty "bobcat" standing at the curb,
and when I drew up under the porte-cochère a man of about my own age
was coming down the steps. I gave one look, and then ducked, for it was
Arnold Frean, the person of all others whom I cared least to see.

"How d' do, Miss Brenda? Hello, there, Mr. Varney!" he exclaimed,
coming forward with sleek, bared head and welcoming hand. "What luck!
Old Horace was just telling me he didn't know when you'd be back."

The greetings of both the girl and her uncle were cordial; indeed, it
was the first time I'd heard old Varney do anything but snap. However,
like us all, it was evident he could be very nice when he so wanted.
He called Frean "my boy," and inquired after his family.

"Oh, the folks aren't coming down," said Frean. "They're off to Lenox,
and the governor'll be doing good if he can snatch a week-end now and
then. I'm down here on my lonely. Been working overtime, and got a bit
under the weather. Doctor ordered sea air and the governor voted me a
month's holiday. I heard you were trying your first dose of the Jersey
coast----" And so he rattled on, with a very engaging ingenuousness
which I knew cloaked an experience beyond his years.

I sat stolidly at the wheel, waiting to drive round to the garage
when old Varney condescended to alight, and, after his first careless
glance, Frean never gave me another. He had not recognized me, but if
he was going to prove a frequent visitor during his stay, which seemed
quite possible, I determined to run no chances. I would develop "motor
eye" and take to wearing goggles.

All in all, things were looking up, and here was something more to take
my thoughts off the Demon, for I knew that Arnold Frean had lied to old
Varney, and that he was a young man well worth watching.

CHAPTER V

KING'S PAWN TO KNIGHT'S

Arnold Frean came over the next morning in his car, and was out with
Brenda Gelette until noon. I viewed the incident with misgiving and
dislike, though, of course, it was no earthly business of mine. Perhaps
for that very reason I made it my business. Anyway, Frean wasn't the
kind that does a girl any good.

My acquaintance with him was of the briefest, but it had left a
distinct and unpleasant impression. He was one of the gay crowd I had
picked up with after coming into my Uncle Peter's money, his family was
a wealthy New York one, and he the only worthless member in it. That
he grafted generally I didn't mind, but when he repaid several loans I
made him by attempting to cheat at dummy bridge, I grew hot.

"Look here," I said, "if you want money, you've only to ask me, but
I object to being robbed, and especially in such a clumsy fashion. A
blind man could have seen you stack that deck. I'm not a fool, Frean,
except when I want to be."

We were alone in my rooms at the time, the lie was passed, and, after a
mild passage at arms, he owned up to the cheating and begged me to say
nothing about it.

"The fact is, Lawton," he said, "I'm hard up. Yes, I know my governor's
rolling in money, and that I'm supposed to hold down a good job in his
Wall Street office. But we had a row, and--well, I'm hunting a new
berth. You don't know what a rotten old skinflint he is. I wouldn't
work for him at any price."

I heard later through underground channels that Arnold Frean had been
mixed up in a shady brokerage deal, and had only escaped jail through
his father's influence. This and an affair with a girl, also hushed
up, had capped a long series of "indiscretions," and his sorely tried
parent had at last fired him from home and business, lock, stock, and
barrel.

It was after the dummy-bridge incident that Frean gibed me into taking
my first drink, and I know now, as I suspected then, that it was his
oblique method of revenge, for he never deceived me by his apparent
contrition and affected friendship; he had tried to rough-house me,
and found it a poor business, and I knew he had a knife waiting for me
whenever he saw a chance of getting it home.

Understand that I'm not trying to shoulder him with the blame of
starting me drinking, and I bore him no ill will on that score. With
all the worst intentions in the world, he couldn't have succeeded but
for my help. He simply gauged my inherited failing better than I, and
played on my vanity and self-confidence.

I saw little enough of him after that, but I knew positively he had not
changed his life for the better, made up the row with his father, or
engaged in any legitimate business. Therefore, what he had told Varney
was a lie. The elder Frean wasn't one to publish his son's evil doings
broadcast, and, as Varney did not live in New York, it was evident he
knew nothing of what had happened--or else he knew and condoned it.

I was curious to learn more about Varney himself, but this wasn't
easy, it being the first time he had visited that part of the coast,
and therefore trades-people and neighbors' servants--the best news
bureaus--knew nothing about him. Nor could I learn anything from
the domestic staff, whose members, from Horace downward, were all
middle-aged, and not given to discussing their master or mistress.
I can't say there was any conspiracy of silence, as if there was
something to conceal.

As I was supposed to hail from Philadelphia, to have left the
employment of an acquaintance of Varney, I couldn't put any direct
questions, and nothing was volunteered. I got the impression of a loyal
and clannish band of servants, devoted to their master, and grown old
in his service, who regarded me as a new member, taken on probation,
who could not be admitted to the inner circle and the secrets of the
house until I had proved myself by faithful service. In brief, such a
domestic staff as you don't see nowadays, of the old Southern darky or
English retainer type. Yet old Varney seemed hardly the sort to inspire
this kind of loyalty and devotion; rather, I wondered he could get any
one to serve him, for I heard him speak to Horace, Mrs. Stower, and the
equally venerable housemaids, Lena and Mary, just as he spoke to me.

"Nasty old cock, that boss of yours," said Williams, the gardener, who
came twice a week. "Looks like a hop fiend. Say, what was wrong with
Jules, the other guy that was here? Too much booze?"

"So I understand."

"I thought as much. I told him what would happen if he didn't keep away
from Knight's."

"Which?" said I.

"Knight's. Oh, you're new to this part? Well, it's a road house near
the Shrewsbury. From what I seen of him, Jules would have been all
right if he'd left the booze alone. I feel real sorry for him, for he's
one of these rum hounds, I guess, that's got to quit the stuff cold or
take the count. You know there's guys like that, eh?"

"I've heard so," I said noncommittally. "It's too bad to have such a
failing."

"It ain't a failing; it's a disease," said Mr. Williams. "Jules told me
he'd been on the wagon two years, until he fell off with a bang and
began hittin' it up in Philly just before he come here. Got in with a
bad crowd, see? And stayed with 'em. I ain't got no use for a guy that
gets another guy to booze, knowin' he can't take it like a white man."

I agreed with this excellent sentiment, and that evening asked Miss
Gelette if I might have an hour or so off. She attended to all such
matters instead of Mr. Varney, who took little to do with the running
of the house.

"Certainly," she said. "Of course, Friday is your regular evening. I
suppose you wish to see about your trunk?"

"No, not exactly, ma'am."

"But don't you think you should? It's about time you did."

"The fact is, ma'am, I don't think it will ever turn up; it's lost this
time for good. I don't remember anything about it, ever getting it
expressed or put on the train." Which was the literal truth.

"I don't see how you could have lost it, Peter."

"Why, ma'am, I even lost myself!"

"Well, that's true." And she smiled. "In that case you will need to be
buying some things. Here is a week's wages," handing me two ten-dollar
bills and a five. "Now remember, Peter, your promise to me. Above all,
keep away from a place called Knight's. It has a bad name and was the
ruination of Jules."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's just where I'm going."

"To Knight's? And after my telling you the sort of place it is?"

"I can't help that, ma'am; I've got to go."

"You don't; nothing of the sort! However," suddenly checking herself,
"it is no affair of mine. Of course you can do what you please, go
where you like, after hours. And you're not precisely a child."

"I'm not going there to drink, ma'am."

"Oh," she said, looking mollified. "What are you going for then?"

"To see about a chess problem."

"A chess problem!"

"Yes, ma'am, I've an appointment there with a fellow I knew in
Philadelphia--I saw him this morning in Sea Bright--and he's very keen
on the game, too. He has a problem for me."

She looked at me for some time in silence. "It was honorable of you to
tell me you were going to Knight's, and it does you great credit that
you're so fond of such an intellectual pastime as chess. But I wish
this friend of yours had picked some other place to discuss problems.
It's only putting temptation in your way. However, that is your affair,
not mine. You must bear in mind that you won't have a second chance if
there is a repetition of what happened the other night. You understand?"

"Yes, ma'am. But I mean to keep my promise. If I may say so, it seems
to me that running away from a thing never did much good. I mean,
ma'am, you can't call yourself a victor simply because you've never
given the other fellow a chance to beat you."

"And in this instance the other fellow is----"

"Mr. Barleycorn, ma'am."

"Oh," she said. "Then--then that affair of the other night _wasn't_
your first experience? Come, Peter, I want the truth."

"I mean you to have it, ma'am. That's been my failing, though Mr.
Fremstad knew nothing about it. Mr. Barleycorn has floored me more than
once, but now I've taken him on for a finish fight."

"I hope you win it," she said. "In fact you must. Of course temperance
in all things is only a means to an end, Peter, but a failing like
that, if not taken in time and fought to a finish, becomes such a
frightful vice. As you say, it is a bigger and better thing to face the
enemy and beat him; yet it's a wise man who knows when to run."

"I'd rather face it, ma'am. I can't be running away from every gin mill
I meet. I intend to win this fight. I've given you a promise, ma'am,
and I mean to keep it."

She looked at me for a moment, and then, as if satisfied, dismissed me
with the injunction to be home before eleven.

And so the King's pawn set out to meet the Bishop's at Knight's as
per written instructions. I knew far better than Miss Gelette the
temptation I was deliberately courting, but I had steeled myself to
meet it. Something, too, far stronger for the moment than the Demon
urged me on--curiosity and love of adventure.

Knight's seemed to be well, if not favorably, known, for I got minute
directions from the first passer-by, and a short ride in the trolley
brought me almost to its doors. It was a garish place of the cheaper
class, displaying an electric sign, showing what purported to be a
knight on a charger, and it had the inevitable open-air restaurant
with a boisterous piano and several gentlemen of color who posed very
badly as musicians. The main building had a pool room and bowling alley
opening off the bar, while upstairs there were rooms to let, with or
without board.

I went into the open-air restaurant--though so styled, it was little
more than a beer garden--had a look at the various couples, dodged the
attentions of several vulpine waiters, had a peep into the pool room
and bowling alley, and then entered the bar.

Here I was face to face with the Demon in his lair, and the mere smell
rose up and took me by the throat. I need not try to analyze my
feelings, all I suffered. If you've ever had the craving, you'll know
what I mean; if you haven't, then nothing I might say would give you an
adequate idea. Just think of any normal desire you've had when it has
reached the aching point, then double it twice over.

I'll admit I had to conjure up and take a firm grip of everything I
held sacred--such as my promise to Miss Gelette--to keep me from making
a bolt right there for the bar and drinking my back teeth awash; but
I fought it down and looked round for the man I had come to meet. I
didn't see him, however, among the fair-sized crowd, and I was thinking
the suspicions I had formed were all wrong when a curiously dead voice
at my elbow whispered: "The Bishop's pawn."

I turned to confront the man with the bulging forehead, rudimentary
chin, and pale-blue eyes, eyes that were as lifeless as his voice.
He was dressed now in sober black, and, with his colorless face, he
somehow put me in mind of such cheerful things as the mattock and the
shroud. Indeed, he looked what a gravedigger is supposed to look like,
but seldom, if ever, does.

"The King's Bishop's pawn," he repeated, in the same discreet, dead
voice.

"The King's pawn," I answered, aware I was supposed to say something.

Evidently this was the correct formula, for he motioned me politely to
a table in an obscure corner of the back room, and called a waiter. I
was about to remark that I was "off the stuff" when he saved me the
trouble by asking gravely whether I preferred ginger ale, root beer, or
lemon soda. "For myself," he added, "I take buttermilk whenever I can
get it. It's really excellent here."

So I said to make it two and the waiter brought a three-pint pitcher
and a dish of pretzels. I marveled that such an order could be served
in the place, but as we were served without bloodshed, it would seem
that this wasn't my companion's first buttermilk orgy at Knight's.
Of course, after a thick night, buttermilk is the best thing one can
drink; so no wonder they had it in stock. Doubtless it was in frequent
requisition by the patrons.

"Your name, I understand, is Joyce?" said my companion politely when we
were alone.

"Yes, that's right. And yours?"

"Corby," he replied, raising his lifeless eyes to mine.

There is a peculiar suitability in some names; but then this might be
an assumed one. Or perhaps he was unaware that the Scotch call a crow
or raven a corbie. "Muckle black corbie"--that's what he looked; a
carrion crow, a foul bird of ill-omen.

"You come from headquarters?" he pursued.

"Yes, that's right. And you?"

"New York."

It followed then that headquarters, whatever that might represent,
wasn't in New York. Where was it?

He raised his glass and murmured softly: "The Black Company."

"Long may she wave!" said I heartily.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Merely a figure of speech, Mr. Corby--like the black flag, you know.
_Vive le_ Black Company! Here's to it." And we pledged the sentiment in
buttermilk.

"You haven't been with us long, Mr. Joyce?"

"No, not very--that is, comparatively speaking. You see, what may seem
long at one time may seem short at another; it is merely a matter of
conditions and circumstances," I replied, aware that the skating was
pretty thin, and feeling exhilarated at the possibility of crashing
through up to my neck at any moment and without warning.

"And yet," he said meditatively, "you're attached to the King himself."

"Quite so," I agreed, endeavoring to look more important. "As you say,
the King himself."

"You must have made good right off the reel and in no uncertain way."

"Quite so; of course. Certainly."

"In what particular way, may I ask?"

"That, Mr. Corby, is a deep secret. I simply can't tell you," I
replied with refreshing candor. "It is a secret between--er--well, you
understand?"

To my relief he did, though I didn't. He nodded. "You mean the King?"
And he regarded me with increasing respect.

"Quite so; the King--God save him. Let us drink to the King, Mr. Corby."

We had another go at the buttermilk, a cold-blooded, miserably
unresponsive beverage, especially when one is after information.
You cannot get excited and enthusiastic over buttermilk; it doesn't
unloosen tongues and fill one with good-fellowship, make you forget the
rent is overdue, or anything like that. I believe the death of Cæsar
was plotted on buttermilk. Now a good bottle of the stuff that killed
father--I could drink Mr. Corby under the table, and Corby, for all
his present passion for buttermilk, was no natural-born milk fiend.
I guessed that; I knew his type--the pale kind of souse that can lap
up hooch like a sponge. If he wasn't taking it, he had a good reason;
perhaps he was just getting over a burst. But if I persuaded him? He
had nothing on me when it came to punishing redeye; not for nothing
had I and my family paid homage to King Alcohol. To warm this human
refrigerator sitting opposite me, to unloosen his tongue, to make him
glow and enthuse over this mysterious adelphia and part with further
information--surely I was justified! I had always drunk for pleasure,
but this would be business, a sacred duty.

And then I remembered my promise to Miss Gelette and knew that the
Demon, with his usual specious arguments, had been trying to get to
windward of me again. He had thought to take me in an unguarded moment
and by this new device. Moreover, the thought came that if Corby's
total abstinence was enforced, then mine might be expected to be so
too. It might be a cardinal rule of this secret society that such
measures were obligatory at certain times--say, while its members were
on active duty, carrying out some undertaking. By ordering whisky, and
persuading Corby to indulge, I might awaken suspicion if not actually
betray myself.

So I returned to my buttermilk, with an inward grimace, and, as it
turned out, I had no need of artificial stimulant--virtue being thus
rewarded for once--for Corby obligingly parted with more information of
his own volition, and very astonishing information it was.

"I'm down here in charge of a new member," he said. "Of course you've
heard of him?"

"Oh, yes; certainly."

"You saw him at the house?"

Had I? I tried to think of all the people who had called at the
Varney's. But was it their house he meant?

"I mean Frean, of course," said Corby.

"Oh, of course," said I. "Yes, I know him, but he doesn't know me. I
mean he doesn't know I'm a member."

"No, of course," said Corby again. "Were you not instructed as to
that?" raising the dead eyes to mine.

"No," I said boldly, seeing it was a case of plunging. "I was told
nothing about him."

"You will in good time. I don't think I've exceeded instructions in
telling you now. You know the precautions against possible treachery
that we must take with new members before they've been thoroughly
tested. The idea is for you also to be a watch on him without his
knowing."

"I see; a very good idea. No doubt my orders to that effect will come
later. You knew me, of course, because of my being with old Varney?"

"Certainly. We finished a good job, begun through headquarters, with
your predecessor." And he smiled in his melancholy fashion.

I was afraid to put any further questions, the man being no fool if
that forehead of his went for anything, and after an aimless general
conversation, principally about motor cars, he finished off the last
of the buttermilk and proposed a rubber of pinochle. This was played
without stakes, very cleverly on his part, but in the lifeless way
peculiar to him. Then he murmured that he would have to be getting
along, and, our riotous evening at an end, we adjourned to the sidewalk.

He accompanied me into Long Branch, and then gave me a hand like a dead
fish. "Good night, Mr. Joyce. Friday evening is your regular one off?
Then you will always find me on that evening at Knight's."

"Where is Frean stopping?"

"At the Queen, here." I knew this to be the name of a local hotel, so
he wasn't referring to another piece on the strange chessboard. "I'm
his chauffeur. You'll know not to recognize me, of course, until we
meet in the regular way. Even then it won't do to be seen too much
together, and until you get your orders, be sure not to let Frean see
that you know him. It might get me in hot water at headquarters."

He left me, and when I got home, Horace informed me that Miss Gelette
wanted me to fix an incandescent in the drawing-room.

I soon saw that this business about the light was only an excuse, that
Miss Gelette wished to see for herself if I had kept my promise; for
as I put in the bulb, she came and stood very close to me as though to
catch the aroma of John Barleycorn or any disinfectant I might have
used, so close indeed that it was all I could do to keep from kissing
her. I am really not given to promiscuous embraces, nor philandering in
any form, but when a very pretty and charming girl----However, you've
been in the same position yourself and know the temptation.

"You're home early, Peter," she said, apparently satisfied and pleased
when she saw I was eminently sober. "I see you are to be trusted. Well,
did you see your friend and get the chess problem?"

"Yes, ma'am. But I haven't solved it yet."

"Is it so difficult then?"

"Yes, a real brain-twister, ma'am."

"You must show it to me some time," she smiled. "I'm very fond of the
game myself. By the way, are you a strong player?"

"Pretty good, ma'am. Of course, it all depends on my opponents."

"I think you're too modest, Peter. I've an idea you're a very good
player, that you must have a natural gift for the game; for, of course,
you can't have had the opportunity of playing much. And so I'm going
to ask you something. It is possible that my uncle will want you to
play with him some night. He's a crank on the game and will play with
anybody he can find--if he thinks he can beat them. You understand?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've met players like that--and not only at chess. It's a
fine game so long as they always win."

"Well, Peter, if you can beat him, will you try not to? I'm quite sure
you're clever enough at the game to lose it in such a way that he'll
never suspect. You'll put up a good fight; but you'll let him win,
won't you?"

"Certainly, ma'am, if you say so; and of course, he may be able to beat
me without any faking."

"I'm sure he can't; he's not half so good a player as he thinks he
is--though I wouldn't let him know that for the world. If you let him
beat you, it will mean nothing to you, but a great deal to him--and to
me. You won't forget, Peter? Thank you so much. Oh, and another thing,
Peter; please don't try to help him, as you did the other morning. It
was very good of you, but he doesn't like it."

Alone in my room, I thought over my meeting with the Bishop's pawn
and the problem he had set me. I was reckoned a very strong player,
having played top board for my university, but here was a chess game
of another kind into which I had stumbled, thanks primarily to getting
drunk. The interview at Knight's confirmed the suspicions I had been
forming since the receipt of that strange message, and now, with pencil
and paper, I set to work on the problem. Here is what I evolved:

A secret society known as the Black Company, whose members
represent the black set of chessmen, therefore at least sixteen in
number--viz., King, Queen, two Bishops, two Knights, two Rooks, and
the eight Pawns. They are black, say, because it represents evil,
and they play against the white--meaning good--which may stand for
Society in general.

The headquarters are in Philadelphia, but its members are scattered
over different cities, and some of the pawns aren't known to
one another by sight, because it is clear that Corby can't ever
have seen Joyce. It's not a case of "doubles," for though Joyce
approximated my height and weight, color of hair and mustache,
Hewitt would have known unquestionably it wasn't I, if the remains
hadn't been so badly mutilated. These pawns are attached to and
serve under the orders of the various subleaders--Bishops, Knights,
Rooks.

For some reason, at present quite obscure, it was planned to
replace Jules, Varney's chauffeur, by a member of the Black
Company. To this end, and in order that his discharge would occur
naturally, they discovered and played upon his old weakness
for drink. Begun in Philadelphia, it was finished here. Joyce,
the King's pawn, came to take his place, probably on forged
recommendation papers.

Queries: Of precisely what nature is the Black Company? Is Theodore
Varney a member? If so, why the campaign to get Joyce placed here?
Was it to deceive his niece or some one else?

Why did Joyce act as he did, instead of coming here to fill
the position? Did he get cold feet at the last moment, is such
defection punishable by death, and did he try to make his escape,
changing his identity to mine? This is a feeble explanation, but
the only one I can advance at present.

How long can I play the rôle of Joyce? Clearly, if I make no
mistakes, until such time as a member appears who knew him by
sight. Perhaps long enough for me to discover and checkmate
whatever move they're up to. They don't know that Joyce is dead and
buried under my name.

After some further speculation, which led me nowhere, I destroyed the
paper and went to bed, where I dreamed that Corby, a gigantic and
animated black bishop, was trying to drown me in a vat of buttermilk.

CHAPTER VI

I ACQUIRE VARIOUS INFORMATION

By the sober light of morning, if I had been inclined to regard the
Black Company as a myth, and the man Corby as a harmless lunatic, such
thoughts would have been dispelled by a letter which came to me through
the mail. It was post-marked Germantown, which, as you may know, is a
suburb of Philadelphia, but the single sheet of paper bore no address
nor date.

It contained merely what purported to be a typewritten game of chess in
the algebraic notation, and at the bottom was appended the letter and
numeral, E8--which had nothing to do with submarines or torpedo boats.

Here, then, was my first message from the head of the Black Company,
for there was no doubt that this was their secret code, bearing the
King's signature. Obviously, this code was only used when there was
danger of messages falling into alien hands; thus there had been no
necessity for Corby to employ it in his note to me.

To those who are familiar with the algebraic notation, I may explain
it briefly. Beginning with White's queen's rook's square--the first
square on the left-hand side of the board if you play White--the eight
squares across the board are lettered from A to H, while down the board
they are numbered from 1 to 8; thus each of the sixty-four squares has
its own letter and number. E1 representing the White king's square, E8
is therefore the Black king's. It is unnecessary to give the entire
game as it appeared, but the opening moves were those of the Ruy Lopez,
Morphy Defense, and were as follows: 1. Pe4, Pe5. 2. Ktf3, Ktc6. 3.
Bb5, Pa6--and so on for a matter of twenty odd moves.

It may be seen at a glance the possibilities in this for a clever code,
utilizing both letters and number, whose apparent innocence would
disarm suspicion. And though I have dabbled extensively in cryptograms
and secret writings of all kinds, such things appealing to my
mathematical bent, I may say here that, to my knowledge, this was the
first time such ingenious use was made of the algebraic notation. That
it held a secret code I was sure, from the significant fact, aside from
all else, that no such game could ever have been played, the majority
of the moves being quite impossible. They were there merely for the
necessary purpose of the code, though this fact would not be detected
except by a chess player trying over the game.

I had the code, but to read it without the key was another matter,
and try though I did, familiar as I was with many, and the methods of
detection, this one baffled me completely. I set my wits to working,
and the result was a pair of handsomely inflamed eyes produced by a
little elbow grease and black pepper. Heroic measures, perhaps, but
they looked far worse than they were.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Miss Gelette, as I appeared with a pair of smoked
goggles, bought the previous evening in anticipation of a close
scrutiny from Frean. "What's the matter, Peter?"

"Motor eye, ma'am," I said, giving her a look. "I get it now and then.
No, doctors are no use, thanking you all the same. There's nothing for
it but smoked glasses till it wears off. I can still drive, though."

"You won't have to to-day, at any rate," she said.

Just then Frean drove up, with Corby sitting in the rumble. Frean
gave me a good stare as he passed into the house, and I loafed out,
presumably to have a look at the car.

"My lamps have gone bad," I said to Corby, raising the goggles to
verify the statement. "I've just had a code message from headquarters.
Will you read it? It's nothing but a blur to me."

"Stand between me and the house and slip it to me," he said.

I passed him the paper, and he decoded it quickly from memory, writing
it on the back. "Be sure to destroy it," he said, slipping it to me as
Frean and the girl came out of the house. And when they reached the
car, they found a couple of chauffeurs, chance met, talking shop.

Alone, I had a look at what Corby had written:

Keep an eye on new member Frean, and report first hint of treachery.

This was no more than Corby had told me at Knight's, and my hope of
learning something further about the Black Company thus came to naught.
All the same, I now possessed a valuable weapon--the key to the secret
code, for with Corby's translation as a working guide, I at length hit
upon the method used. In future I would have no trouble with messages.

That evening, as Miss Gelette had predicted, old Varney did me the
honor of asking me to play chess with him. He had called it an idiot's
game, but, having recovered from his rage at the problem he couldn't
solve, he was back at his old beloved vice. I could see that the game
was a vice with him, like drink or gambling, and that for its sake, he
was ready to waive even class distinction, implacable Bourbon though he
was.

It was his only pastime so far as I could see; he had no visitors but
Frean, no companionship but that of his niece, and, save for a daily
sedate motor ride, when the weather permitted, spent all his time shut
up in the study, browsing among his impressive collection of books, of
which chess manuals were no small part.

"Well, Peter Henry," he said, rubbing his yellow claws, "we'll see if
you're as good a player as a problem solver. But tell me, had you ever
seen that two-mover before? I thought so." He chuckled maliciously.
"You simply got the answer out of a book, I'll be bound. Well, I give
you choice of men. Which will you have?"

"Black, sir. I'm partial to the Black Company," watching him covertly,
but he gave no sign that this had a hidden meaning for him.

He proved a better player than problem solver, but even so, I should
have beaten him with little effort and much pleasure, had it not been
for his niece's request. However, I pushed him hard for over an hour,
and then let him pull off a pretty but unsound mating combination, into
which I had helped maneuver myself.

The change that took place in him during the game was really wonderful;
his mummified look slowly disappeared, his eyes sparkled, his cheeks
flushed, and he looked twenty years younger. All the venom and
bitterness of the man was sponged out, and when he called mate it was
not with malice, but with the naïve delight of a child proud of its own
successful efforts.

"See here, my dear. Look at this!" he exclaimed to his niece, who
entered just then. "A brilliant, a gem, not unworthy, I think, of some
of Morphy's or Capablanca's." And he proceeded to point out and explain
the combination which had led to my downfall.

If she detected its unsoundness, she gave nothing but praise,
expressing an admiration and delight equal to his own. "Then it was a
good game, uncle? I knew it must be, because you were so quiet."

"An excellent game!" exclaimed Varney, beaming and rubbing his hands.
"One of the best I ever played. This young man is a worthy opponent,
and, after he has learned the finer points, should be ready to tackle
anybody. Peter Henry," he went on, with great formality and courtesy,
"I beg to withdraw any slurs I may have cast on your teachers and your
knowledge of chess. Unfortunately, I've the devil's own temper at
times, and you must not mind an old man's evil humors. Brenda, my dear,
will you make a note of the fact that Peter Henry's wages are raised
seventy-five dollars per month?"

"But I'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind," I hastened to say. "I
play for love of the game and I don't want or expect any extra pay. I
couldn't think of it, sir."

"That's all very good," he replied; "but extra service is entitled to
extra pay. Now that's enough; you speak well, but no man serves me for
nothing. This isn't our last game by any means; I shall take pleasure
in demonstrating to you, in actual play, the finer points."

"That's very good of you, sir."

"Not at all," he said with a regal gesture. "Your skill makes you
worthy of being my pupil; I'll take pleasure in coaching you. You play
a very sound game, and if I do say so myself, it is no humiliation
to be beaten by me. Capablanca himself might be excused for falling
a victim to that last mating combination. A gem, a brilliant!" And
he turned again to the board, chuckling and rubbing his hands as he
pondered anew the clever trap I had helped to set and spring.

This, then, was the beginning of a change in my attitude toward
Theodore Varney, and I was soon convinced that my ideas regarding
him must be altogether wrong, for Miss Gelette spoke to me fully the
following day.

"Peter, you're a jewel," she said in her impulsive, unreserved way. "I
know very well you conspired to bring about that 'brilliant,' to have
yourself beaten after a most exciting game. You kept your promise. I
don't know how you were able to do it without giving yourself away. You
must be a far better player than I thought. At any rate, the result is
that you've put him in the best humor I've seen for months."

"It did seem a bit of a tonic, ma'am. He's quite chipper to-day."

"Yes, you've done him more good than a dozen doctors. The mind can
conquer the body. You haven't a gift for asking questions, Peter--which
is another thing I like about you--and we are a close corporation here,
as no doubt you've discovered. But I wish you to know now just what
is wrong with Mr. Varney; it will help you to understand and condone
things. I'll speak frankly, for I've found you are to be trusted. I
told you my uncle was something of an invalid, but the truth is, he's a
hopeless one, a sufferer from Addison's disease. Have you ever heard of
it?"

"No, ma'am, I can't say I have. I've heard of Addison, of course----"

"No, no, it's not that one. I had never heard of this disease
either; I don't think many people have. It's very rare and peculiar,
known also as Bronze Skin, and it isn't infectious or contagious,
you understand. The symptoms are a gradual darkening of the skin,
increasing emaciation, and debility. There is no cure. There is nothing
to do but grin and bear it--to the end. Peter, do you understand?" she
finished, with misty eyes. "You see yourself growing a little darker, a
little weaker every day, a little more repulsive, a stride nearer the
grave--and nothing can be done. Nothing!"

"It must be very hard," I said. "Hard, too, for those who love him."

"It is, Peter. Think of one of your own loved ones dying slowly before
your eyes, and you knowing that all the care, all the money and skill
in the world are of no avail. It's the knowledge of one's helplessness,
the inexorable and insidious progress of the disease that's so
maddening."

"You've had the best specialists?"

"Yes. So many, in fact, that Mr. Varney can't bear the sight of a
doctor. He knows that he's doomed, but, having always enjoyed the best
of health, and having led a very active life, he refuses to let the
world see how hard he is hit. He pretends nothing is wrong, and we must
pretend, too. That is why he came down here where he wasn't known--to
get away from the sympathy of friends, the vulgar curiosity of others.
He has a very rare disease, and is therefore to be stared at and
questioned, watched and examined by doctors, as if he were a clinical
subject. He has become hypersensitive, and you mustn't let him see
that you know; you must help to play the tragic farce. You will, won't
you, Peter? And you won't mind if, when he has his bad days, he says
spiteful things he doesn't mean? He's suffering, you know; suffering
all the time."

"He may say anything he pleases, ma'am, if it helps him any."

"Peter, I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Fremstad for having that
accident and in consequence giving up motoring. I say this, even at the
risk of spoiling you. All the other servants have grown up, you might
say, in our service, but the chauffeur's position has always been a
worry and nuisance. None of them could stand my uncle's sharp tongue,
and I'm sure I couldn't blame them at times. They had no opportunity of
knowing, like the other servants, what a really good and kind man he
is at heart. He pretends to be a cynic, but is one of those who likes
to jeer at the world, while carefully hiding all the good he does. His
nature has been warped through a very keen disappointment and sorrow he
experienced long ago, and which he has never got over; this, added to
his present physical suffering, makes him appear quite a different sort
of character than he really is."

The growing favor in which I found myself with Varney and his niece
was soon reflected in the servants' hall. Sympathy with their master
and the willingness to enter into the "tragic farce" was evidently the
passport to their confidence, and I gathered enough material at various
odd times wherewith to piece together the family history.

It was quite innocent and intensely respectable, hinting of nothing
dramatic, let alone such a bizarre concern as the Black Company. The
family was an old Philadelphia one, and Varney's fortune was inherited.
He had never engaged in business, was always something of a recluse,
but had done an immense amount of philanthropic and educational
work without his name appearing or any sort of advertising. He was
a bachelor, and a brother and his niece were his only relatives.
Brenda Gelette was an orphan, had made her home with him since early
childhood, and was wealthy in her own right. She was devoted to her
uncle, and had cheerfully given up all social pleasure and the society
of friends when Varney was stricken with his peculiar and deadly
complaint.

To sum up, I was presented with a very human, simple, and not unheroic
picture; an old man, soured by youthful disappointment, yet sweet
at heart, goaded by pain and his impending doom to fierce invective
against even those whom he loved best. A man of unconquerable pride and
spirit, who was dying on his feet, and dying game. A body of loyal and
devoted servants, and a niece whose self-sacrifice stopped at nothing.

It was a picture whose immediate truth, as it slowly unfolded itself
to me, there was no denying, and my theory that Varney was a "dope
fiend" and a member of a sinister secret society had to go overboard
wholesale. Yet that there was some connection between him and those
styling themselves the Black Company was self-evident, and if they
were not with him, then they must be against him; if they were not his
friends, then they must be his enemies.

CHAPTER VII

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

It was nearing the end of the third week, and I had got no "forrarder"
with the Black Company. No other messages in the algebraic notation had
followed, and though I went to Knight's on Friday evening to absorb
buttermilk and play pinochle with Corby, I learned nothing further. We
drank solemnly to the Black Company, but that was all that was said
about it.

Indeed, I could well believe myself the victim of a hoax or that Corby
was a lunatic, were it not for the man himself. That dead-white face of
his, with its bulging forehead, fishy eyes, and small, pointed chin,
that passionless, exact manner, began to get strangely on my nerves.

The more I saw of him the more convinced I was that, sane or not,
whether the Black Company was the single aberration of an otherwise
sound intelligence, and he himself had sent me that code message, the
fellow was a degenerate and scoundrel. This conviction was conveyed to
me by nothing he said or did, for his conduct and language couldn't
have been more circumspect. It was simply the indefinable and sinister
aura he projected, that of the simon-pure enemy of society doomed by
heredity to the ways of crime.

I felt that here was a man who would do murder in the same passionless
and efficient manner he played cards--and the doing of it would trouble
him just as little. That he was no roistering villain, the sort that
kills in the heat of fury or drink, made him all the more dangerous.
Nor was he the type of politico-social or religious fanatic; no wrongs,
fancied or otherwise, of race, class, or creed would ever obsess him.
If he pursued the ways of crime, it would be simply and wholly for
profit. I suspected intemperate depths to him which his buttermilk diet
belied; a nature which, when the need of self-repression had gone,
would delight to wallow in abysmal abominations.

Granting the existence of a blackmailing society, I got no support
for the theory that it was preparing to terrorize Mr. Varney out of a
certain sum of money. Equally futile appeared the one that for some
reason he was marked down for vengeance. True, I was supposed to be an
accredited spy in his household, yet I reported nothing; nothing was
demanded of me but to help keep an eye on Frean.

Almost three weeks had passed, and nothing was happening. Yet I was
conscious that all the time a whole lot might be going on underground,
of which I was supposed to know everything, but in reality knew
nothing. Perhaps the hour for my active participation had not arrived.

Until that hour came, until I learned something definite, I
considered it useless to hint of my suspicions to any one. If Varney
was an ex-member of the Black Company, marked down for some past
treachery, he would certainly deny the fact, even though in fear
of his life. If there was another and less respectable side to the
philanthropic-educational medal he had worn for so long, he would
continue to hide it strenuously from his niece and the world. I had
really nothing to offer but unsupported testimony that Jules' discharge
had been engineered, and that would mean I must confess I wasn't Joyce.
For this I wasn't prepared.

Naturally, I couldn't play my present rôle forever, but I was in no
hurry to advance the day of confession. The arguments which had induced
me in the first instance to assume the rôle had grown stronger, if
anything, with advancing time. I was waging a good fight with the
Demon, and in no small measure was helped by my surroundings. The
courage with which old Varney fought his losing battle against a far
more terrible demon than mine--Demon Death--was inspiring, while the
faith and confidence reposed in me by Brenda Gelette was a great asset.

No doubt because we were almost of an age, and she had no youthful
company, Frean excepted, Miss Gelette got into the way of talking to
me intimately. Then, one day, she began putting questions about myself:
What I had done before working for Mr. Fremstad, and how I had acquired
an education which she pronounced above the ordinary.

"One would think you had been to college," she said.

"You flatter me, ma'am."

"Quite unintentionally then, I assure you. Come, were you never at
college?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"There, I knew it! Which?"

"U. of P., ma'am; Brown, Swarthmore, Yale."

"What! You're fibbing, Peter; you know you are. You simply couldn't
have gone to all those."

"Why not, ma'am? They aren't far apart and it only took a few days. My
old boss--not Mr. Fremstad--made a tour of them and I drove the car.
They are very nice places, ma'am."

"I don't care for your sense of humor," she said, a spot of color in
her cheek. "I think I've remarked that before. You aren't bad, Peter,
when you don't try to be funny. In any case, I think you have an
education that entitles you to something better than driving somebody
else's car, but no doubt I'm mistaken."

"No doubt, ma'am."

"No, I'm not mistaken! Don't contradict me, Peter. I won't allow it. I
say you have an excellent education; anybody could see that; it crops
out all the time. It isn't lack of education in your case; it--it's
downright laziness, mental laziness and lack of ambition; it must
be that. Why you should be content--but it's the complaint of many
young men nowadays. To work with your hands instead of your head; to
accept an easy well-paid--but you haven't told me what you were before
becoming a chauffeur."

"No, ma'am, I haven't."

She waited a moment, then demanded: "Well?"

"Well what, ma'am?"

"I say what were you? Goodness gracious, can't you understand a simple
question? What did you do? Where did you work?"

"Oh, various places, ma'am, and at various things."

"And at various times under various people, I presume. How
intelligible!" she exclaimed, the red deepening in her cheek. "Oh,
very well. But surely if I condescend to ask a few questions you may
condescend to answer them."

"I am sensible, ma'am, of the great favor done me by your interest."

"_My_ interest?" She laughed quite unpleasantly. I had never thought
her capable of such a laugh. "You are quite mistaken, Peter. I have
absolutely no interest in you, your past, present, or future." For
some reason she was very angry. "Is that quite plain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You are becoming spoiled," she continued. "You think you are
indispensable because you've been promoted from the garage to the
study, thanks solely to my uncle's mania for chess. Oh, yes, you do.
I've seen it coming on, but I wish to point out that you mustn't forget
you belong properly to the garage, not the study."

"I'll bear it in mind, ma'am."

Her foot began tapping. "And if you belong there, it's entirely your
own fault; you have elected--however, what I wish to point out and
impress on you is that if any one is remotely interested in you at
all, it is my uncle. You have managed to amuse him, and he has been
good enough to say you should be fit for something better than a
servant--that is, if you had a spark of ambition. Not, of course, that
I agree with him. But that is his opinion. So acquit me of any personal
interest or vulgar curiosity in your private affairs. Of course they
are less than nothing to me. I merely wished to find out for Mr.
Varney, if possible, why you are not occupying a position to which he
evidently thinks your abilities entitle you. That is all."

"It is very good of Mr. Varney," I murmured, my eyes still on the wind
shield.

"It is," she agreed. "Very."

She returned to the attack when I thought the battle was over. "If
you persistently refuse to say anything about your past, one can't
help thinking there must be something to conceal, of course. You
successfully deceived your former employer regarding one very important
fact, and you may have done so in other instances."

This wasn't the lovable, self-sacrificing, and wholly charming girl I
had known of late, but the spiteful, hot-tempered little minx who had
kicked the burst tire that day and bossed me around like a pair of old
boots.

"I think," she added, "it would be a wise precaution to look up every
item of those admirable credentials of yours. I might find something
more than a predilection for alcohol."

"You might, madam," I said, turning and meeting her eyes for the first
time. "I dare say there are many things in my character that aren't
admirable, but one thing you won't find--the will to hurt another in an
inferior position who can't hit back."

Now, that wasn't a lovely speech any more than hers, whatever truth
there was in either, but it had been goaded out of me against my will.
Looking back on it now, I believe we were both suffering from "nerves"
that day, she from the long strain of her uncle's illness and cranky
humors; I from the total stoppage of John Barleycorn. Also, I was
bothered about Frean. She was running with him a good bit, and seemed
to fancy him, while, though I knew he wasn't fit to tie her shoes, I
had to stand by and say nothing. Again, she had got into the habit
lately of riding me with spurs when so minded, flaring up like this for
no reason at all.

"How dare you!" she gasped. "How dare you use such words to me! What do
you mean by it? You've got entirely above your position, and I see I
was greatly mistaken in your character----"

"I'm very sorry, ma'am; I spoke quickly and without thought. I'm sure I
ask your pardon and beg to withdraw the words."

"A slip of the tongue is no fault of the mind. Such words aren't so
easily withdrawn, or forgiven, either, and only for my uncle, I would
discharge you here and now! You deserve to be, if ever an insolent
servant did! This comes of being kind to people, treating them with
consideration, putting them above their position. Some natures are
incapable of gratitude or--or anything!"

"I'm sure, ma'am, I've always appreciated, far more than I can say,
your interest----"

"If you say that again I'll give you two weeks' wages and discharge
you _now_, uncle or no uncle! And, mind you, it will be without a
character. I say I have _no_ interest in you whatsoever!"

"Quite so, ma'am. What I meant, and was about to say, was your interest
in the cause of total abstinence, thanks to which you gave me another
chance."

"You weren't going to say anything of the kind! That's just more of
your horrible deceit. I'm sorry I did give you another chance. I should
have told Mr. Varney of your condition that night. It would have
saved me this extremely lowering scene, a vulgar matter which I won't
condescend to discuss further."

But she did, after an interval of frigid silence. Evidently the more
she thought over it, the angrier she got. "Servants have, indeed,
progressed, as my uncle remarked," she exclaimed. "Now they even
presume to instruct their employers in deportment and ethics. But,
then, they are such perfect and admirable characters themselves and we
should be highly flattered that they deign to accept our wages at all.

"And so I am a brutal and tyrannical mistress, bullying my servants
around because they can't answer back? Truly, that isn't the case with
you, though no doubt your tongue would be more cautiously polite if I
were a man and not a woman. Perhaps I even kick and beat my servants?
That is a nice tale to go round the neighborhood! And yet, with all my
fiendish cruelty, the same people have served me for the past fifteen
years. How do you account for that?"

"Surely, ma'am, you've punished me enough for a hasty and unfortunate
remark."

Somehow I could say nothing right and this in itself was another
unfortunate remark. "Don't add to your impertinence," she said.

But I did, and in the most heinous fashion; for it was at this moment
that I kissed her. It is really remarkable how such things happen; one
moment you are a fairly respectable citizen, in spite of your many
faults, the next an unspeakable criminal, an enemy to society and young
womanhood; in short, the abysmal brute. It is a species of madness,
I suppose, for which there is no accounting, but I had been sorely
tempted for many a day. She had ordered me to stop the car, the better
to air her opinion of me. The road was deserted. I was really annoyed
with her. Her scolding but provocative lips were very near my own,
and--well, that's how it happened.

She struggled like a true heroine, and so I kissed her again. This time
I took more care and deliberation.

"There," I said, "I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

She made no reply, but sat bolt upright, frigid, immovable, as though
her spine were an icicle. She had gone from red to white like a
semaphore, put the back of a hand to her ravaged lips and looked at
me over it. I couldn't meet her eyes and found something intensely
interesting on the dashboard to examine. The silence lengthened.

"Anyway," I said over a shoulder, "if I'm to be fired--well, it was
worth it."

She said nothing, gave no sign that she had even heard. I felt those
eyes boring into my back like red-hot needles. I began to perspire
freely, to fidget, to look, no doubt, the miserable ass I felt. To ruin
everything by a moment's folly! Our good understanding, the superlative
opportunity of penetrating the mystery of the Black Company, Mr.
Varney's high opinion of me, this quiet home----

When the silence had become unendurable she said very calmly and as
though addressing a blot on the landscape, "And now, if you are quite
ready, I should like to return home."

I gave the starter a vicious jab and, making too sharp a turn, almost
succeeded in emptying us in a wayside ditch. But even this failed to
arouse her from her frigid immobility; she never even blinked.

We indulged in a mile of ponderous silence; then I slowed down. "I'm
awfully sorry," I began above the drone of the engine. "I don't know
how it happened. I was mad, clean crazy."

She continued to say nothing.

"Of course it was inexcusable," I blundered on. "It was an accident; I
didn't mean it. I was a fool, a cad. I--I hope you'll try to overlook
it, ma'am; I wouldn't like to lose this job. But, of course, I've made
it impossible----"

I gave it up; I might as well have been addressing the wind shield. One
cannot be eloquent or impressive with such an audience.

The rest of the homeward journey was finished in record time and
silence, and Miss Gelette entered the house without giving me so much
as a glance.

Shortly afterward, when I was in the garage, I was informed by Horace
that Mr. Varney wished to see me; and there was that in the old
butler's face and manner that told me I was "in for it." Of course Miss
Gelette, ignoring the cardinal rule of the house--that nothing must
worry or disturb Mr. Varney--had told him of my conduct, and of course,
I should be summarily dismissed. Well, I had brought it all on myself
and there was no use trying to dodge the inevitable.

Miss Gelette was in the study with her uncle, and there was a visitor
present, a man I had never seen before. He was a large, middle-aged
individual, quiet, respectable, sober, and might have been anything
from a detective to a floorwalker.

Varney, seated in his big armchair and leaning on the gold-knobbed
Malacca cane, the inevitable chess problem at his elbow, was evidently
in one of his fine tempers.

"What's the meaning of this, Peter Henry?" he demanded as I entered.
"Here's a fellow who claims to be Joyce, and who says you've stolen his
name and job, after assaulting and almost murdering him. What's the
meaning of it, hey?"

CHAPTER VIII

CONSPIRING CIRCUMSTANCES

I would have liked very much to know the meaning of it myself, for, of
all things, this was naturally the last I had expected. How could the
grave give up its dead? How could this fellow be Joyce, when I knew
Joyce to have been ground to pieces by a locomotive three weeks ago?
And assuredly he wasn't the man who had eloped with my car.

There remained, then, the obvious answer that he, too, was an impostor.
Either such an organization as the Black Company really existed, and,
for all my fancied cleverness, they had discovered the deception and
sent another member to take my place, or this fellow had discovered it
somehow on his own hook, and meant to profit by it himself.

I would have liked very much also if Brenda Gelette had been somewhere
else at the moment, for the uncompromising stare of her eyes, which
I felt rather than saw, was singularly disconcerting. Certainly her
inning had come, and, in her present mood, I knew she would make the
most of it. For one who had presumed to moralize, I was in rather an
unenviable position.

"If this man says I assaulted and robbed him," I replied to Varney,
"he's saying what isn't so. I never saw him in my life before."

I could see that Varney was more than willing to believe me--and
the knowledge hurt. "What have you to say to that?" he demanded
triumphantly of the other. "Come, repeat your story, word for word. And
mind, if I catch you lying, my man, it will be a very serious business
for you. I'll have you jailed for fraud and false pretenses as sure as
I sit here! So think twice before you speak."

"I've nothing to fear, sir," said the other respectfully, but with
the manner of one strong in the truth. "I repeat, sir, that I'm Henry
Joyce, Mr. Fremstad's old chauffeur, and I can prove everything I say.
On the night of June sixteenth, a couple of days before I was to report
here, I was sandbagged and robbed in Philadelphia. I was out of my
head for over a week in the hospital. My papers and clothes were gone,
and, when I got out yesterday, I had to get a new outfit. Then I came
on here, never thinking to find some one working under my name. If you
call up Mr. Fremstad, sir, on the long distance, he'll tell you I've
been in the hospital for the last three weeks, for I saw him yesterday.
He'll tell you this fellow ain't me. Just ask him, sir, what Henry
Joyce looks like----"

"Pardon me, but there's really no need," I put in. "I admit that my
name isn't Joyce, and that I'm an impostor."

A little gasp came from the window where Brenda was standing, while
Varney looked as if about to choke. At that moment I realized in what
affection I held the old fellow, in spite of his temper and humors.

Our nightly battles over the chessboard had drawn us closer together
than I had ever suspected. For all his bitter tongue and manner, I saw
he had formed a regard for me far beyond my deserts; I caught a look of
pain and distress in his sunken eyes, the sort that can only be caused
by an esteemed one found unworthy.

In a moment it was gone, and he rasped out: "So you're an impostor,
hey? You're not Joyce? Then who the devil are you?"

"Why, a nobody, sir," I replied, seeing nothing to be gained by giving
my real name, considering his poor opinion of my family. I decided,
too, it would be wisest if Joyce knew as little about me as possible. I
realized now the advantages of wealth, for I meant to spare no expense
in investigating the Black Company. Better let Joyce and Corby think me
a poor adventurer rather than one who could hire an army of detectives,
if need be, and use all the influence that great wealth commands.

"You mean to say, then, that you're a criminal?" pursued Varney. "That
you robbed and assaulted this man----"

"No, sir. I was in New York on June sixteenth, and I can prove it.
I repeat I never saw this man before, and I dare him to swear to my
identity in a police court."

"No, I wouldn't take my oath on it," said Joyce, who, perhaps, had no
wish to bring the police into the matter. "It was dark, and I didn't
have a good look at the fellow who slugged me. But the point is, you've
got my papers, you took my name and job; so it looks a bit as if you
was the fellow, don't it?"

"I should say it does!" exclaimed Varney, eying me grimly. "Come, you
had better be more explicit. What is your name, and how did you get
into this mess, if you claim to be innocent?"

I told him I preferred not to mention my real name. "Call me Peter
Smith, sir," I said, "for I don't want my folks to hear of this
trouble. I was simply down on my luck and anxious to find a job. I came
from New York on June seventeenth, and I was assaulted and robbed just
as Mr. Joyce says he was. My clothes were taken, too, and in the ones
left me I found that letter from Mr. Fremstad."

Old Varney listened to my story with open skepticism, at no pains to
hide his disbelief, while Joyce smiled behind a large hand. I could
hardly blame any one for not crediting it, but I received help from
the most unexpected quarter, Brenda Gelette saying quietly: "Peter told
me about his assault and robbery the day he came here."

Noble soul! How forgiving, how generous is woman! It was evident that
she had not told Mr. Varney of my recent unpardonable conduct. Perhaps
there had been no opportunity; or perhaps, knowing how necessary I was
to him, she had decided to sacrifice her own feelings and say nothing.
At all events, here she was coming to my rescue, heaping coals of fire
on my most unworthy head.

"He said, uncle," she continued, "that he spent the night with a farmer
called Taylor, near Sea Bright station, and I know this to be a fact."

So her curiosity as to my past had not been confined merely to
questioning me. It was fortunate I had told the truth about Taylor, one
of those happy accidents that happen to me infrequently.

"It was Taylor's finding that letter from Mr. Fremstad and calling me
Joyce that put the idea into my head," I hastened to explain. "I knew a
lot about automobiles, and when I happened on Miss Gelette, stuck with
that blow-out----"

"Yes, that is quite true," she interrupted again. "It was I, uncle, who
said he was Joyce; he never claimed to be. You see that letter----" And
she explained how it had fallen out of my pocket.

"Thank you, kindly, ma'am," I said as she finished. "There was no
excuse for my deceiving you and Mr. Varney, ma'am, but--but I wanted
the job very much----"

"Were you out of work?" asked Mr. Varney.

"Yes, sir; for six months," I answered quite truthfully.

"How did you lose your last place?" he demanded.

"Through no fault of my own, sir," I replied, pleased at being still
able to speak the truth. "I've been out of a job for all of six months
and when I saw this chance--well, things sort of played into my hands,
sir. I didn't deliberately plan it. I'm unfortunate, but I'm not a
crook, and if Mr. Joyce still thinks I had a hand in his robbery, he
has only to make a charge to the police, and I'll prove I was in New
York that night."

"No, I wouldn't swear to nothing I wasn't dead sure of," said Joyce
virtuously, his little, counter-sunk eyes still very busy with me.
"An oath on the Book is a very serious thing. Besides, I know what
hunting a job means, being hard up and desp'rate, and so, as far as I'm
concerned, this won't be a police case. I've got my health back, and my
job, and that's all I'm looking for."

"That's very decent of you, my man," said Varney, "and I promise you
won't lose by it. Peter Smith, or whatever your name is," fixing his
eyes grimly on me, "I suppose I would be doing my duty to society by
jailing you for obtaining money under false pretenses. However, I have
to bear in mind that you earned the money, that you served me honestly
and efficiently, even though you secured the position by fraud. It
seems a rather remarkable coincidence that both Joyce and you should
have been assaulted and robbed by the same person, yet I believe your
story. It shows you aren't used to the ways of deception, else you
would have known very well that Joyce was bound to turn up and expose
you. I choose to believe that misfortune and your necessity made you
reckless of consequences. You've had your lesson, and I know you will
profit by it. I will see what can be done in the way of getting you a
situation, perhaps more suitable to your abilities--I may say I've had
the matter under consideration for some time--and meanwhile you may
remain here. I warrant you will find plenty to do."

I was in the middle of a speech of gratitude when there came a knock
at the door, and the butler announced: "Mr. Frean, sir." And Frean
followed the words in person.

"Oh, sorry," he said. "Didn't know you'd company----" And then his eyes
fell on me.

It was the first time he had seen me at close quarters without my
smoked glasses, and now I was standing in the full glare of the
windows. "Good Lord!" he breathed, starting back as if he had seen a
spook. "It can't be--it _is_ Pete Lawton!"

"Eh, what's that?" cried Varney, bouncing in his chair, while a stifled
exclamation came from Brenda Gelette. "What's wrong with you, man!"

"It's--it's he!" cried Frean, pointing a trembling finger at me. "It's
Pete Lawton without his mustache--the fellow who was supposed to have
been killed by a train three weeks ago!"

They were all leaning forward, staring at me, and I noted a peculiar
gleam of interest in the deep-set eyes of Joyce. My plan of keeping
him ignorant of my identity was thus ruined just when it promised the
greatest success, for I saw that further dodging was useless. Frean
knew me, and if I attempted to deny my identity, he would set about
proving it. He bore me no love, and would do it for spite, if nothing
else.

I had expected that the mention of my true identity would produce some
unfavorable emotion in Varney, but I had no idea of its depth and
extent. His face had slowly assumed an awful reddish-black hue, and the
veins on his forehead stood out like seams of blood until I thought
he was going to have a stroke. Then he paled to the sickly color of
old gold, and he sat trembling as if with the ague, his congested eyes
positively glaring at me.

"So you're Peter Lawton, hey?" he croaked at length. "You weren't
killed, after all?"

"I'm afraid I must admit the truth of that," I replied. "The story I
told you was substantially true. The man who assaulted me stole my car,
and was killed in my place."

Miss Gelette spoke for the third time, but now there was scarcely
concealed anger, contempt, and animosity in her voice. "Uncle, Mr.
Lawton was the person we nearly ran over that night, and whom you
advised to enter the alcoholic ward of the nearest hospital."

Now I ask you, in all seriousness, is there any comprehending women?
You remember the old darky preacher and how he kept insisting in his
sermon that there was precious little difference between man and woman,
until an aged Don Juan in the congregation was goaded into arising
and declaiming "Well, brudder, let us thank de Lawd for dat little
diff'rence!" But I must say I agreed with the preacher; I mean it has
always seemed to me that a great deal of bunk has been written about
the mystery of woman, her mental processes and psychology, and that
in reality they are little, if at all, different from those of a man.
Understand man and you understand woman. And yet I could conceive
no man acting as did Miss Gelette, executing such an outrageous
right-about-face. One moment she was my friend, the next my bitter
enemy; one moment helping me nobly, the next seeking to complete my
downfall. She had condoned, if not forgiven, my conduct toward her,
and now simply because it transpired that I wasn't a professional
chauffeur----No, I couldn't understand it; it was most mysterious,
astounding, and sad. She looked at me as though I were some pariah.

"Eh?" said old Varney, in answer to her last pleasant remark. "You mean
he was that besotted fool, and you've known it all along?"

"Yes," she said, "I have. I agreed to say nothing to you because I
never imagined it to be his _usual_ condition. He gave me to understand
it was in the nature of an accident. I wanted to give him another
chance; I thought him worthy of it, and, of course, I had no idea
he wasn't Joyce, no idea of his real identity. I didn't know he was
telling untruths; I didn't think _anybody_ could lie so plausibly. I
see now how foolish I was, how utterly mistaken I was in--in his real
character."

Varney turned to me, his yellow face working. He spoke with the utmost
difficulty, a sort of venomous croak. "A fine little joke, eh, Mr.
Lawton?" rubbing his claws. "As I believe you possess an odd million
dollars or so, I suppose I owe your inestimable services to a drunken
debauch and your refined sense of humor? As a spy in my household,
you've been having a little fun with me, hey? Quite in the exquisite
and refined spirit of your famous family! You come to spy out and gloat
over my infirmities, insinuate yourself into my confidence----"

"Nothing of the kind, sir!" I broke in, finding speech at last. "I
never knew you were even acquainted with my family. I never heard your
name mentioned, never knew you existed. I knew nothing about you----"

"Liar!" he shouted. "You're incapable of speaking the truth! Like
father, like son. You've done nothing but tell lies since you came
here. Get out of my house and never let me set eyes on you again! Go!"

"Mr. Varney," I said, "you must listen to me. If you will only have
patience and hear me out----"

"If I only had strength I'd throw you out!" he cried, brandishing his
cane. "Arnold, show this fellow out!"

Frean came forward obediently, but with no great heart, for he
evidently remembered the fracas in my rooms following the dummy-bridge
incident. "You'd better go, Lawton," he said, making no effort to hide
his smug satisfaction. "You don't want the police in, do you?"

I wasn't caring either for him or the police, but I saw it was utterly
impossible for me to say anything further to Varney. He had worked
himself into such a frenzy that I feared he would do himself harm. The
longer I stayed the worse it got, the mere sight of me being apparently
enough, and so, without another word, I left the room and house.

When I was in the garage, exchanging Jules' borrowed plumage for the
cheap serge suit left me by my unknown assailant, Joyce sauntered in
with an air of one taking possession.

"Well, sir," he said respectfully enough, "you've had your joke, but
blamed if I can see where it comes in. Catch me working for three weeks
as a chauffeur if I had all your dough! May I ask why you done it, sir?
You couldn't have been drunk all the time--meaning no offense, I'm
sure."

"I could have been drunk all the time, only I wasn't," I said. "The
whole matter is very simple. It was the result of a silly wager, and,
if you know anything about me at all, you'll know that silly wagers are
my strong point. I bet a fellow I could earn my keep, and that letter
of yours from Mr. Hampsted showed me the way to get a job."

He did not correct my conscious and deliberate mistake about the name
Fremstad. "Well, sir, a bet's a bet, and I've known funnier ones than
that. It's queer how you and me come to be robbed by the same fellow,
me in Philly one night, and you in Sea Bright the night after, for the
same fellow must have pulled it off. Else, how would you have found
that letter? And, of course, I see now you couldn't have done it, for
millionaires don't go round robbing poor chauffeurs. Well, you've won
your bet, sir, and I'm sure you're glad it's over. You must have found
it pretty slow here, with the season only half started."

"Yes, slow enough. But, by the way, I had one funny experience. There's
a fellow here by the name of Corby--he's Mr. Frean's chauffeur--and
as you may meet him, Joyce, I may as well warn you that he's a bit
cracked. Yes, a harmless sort of bug. There's a game called chess--ever
play it? No, I don't suppose you do. Well, this fellow Corby must have
gone kind of nutty over it, for he calls himself the King's Bishop's
pawn. It's a fact. And once he called me the King's pawn. I met him a
couple of times, and he drinks buttermilk to the health of the Black
Company."

The man joined very heartily in my laugh. "Buttermilk! That's hardly in
your line, sir, is it? And what's the Black Company?"

"Search me. Some crazy idea of his own. Maybe he means the black
chessmen. I humored him, pretending to know all about it, just to
see what else he'd say. Funny bug, but then they say we're all a bit
cracked on some subject. Well, I've warned you, so don't be surprised
if he starts calling _you_ the King's pawn and talks a lot of piffle. I
guess you won't find it so slow with him here to josh."

"Maybe not, sir; though joshing lunatics ain't quite in my line. I'd
rather have something healthier. If this fellow what's-his-name was to
find out you'd been pulling his leg--well, he might take it to heart,
and there's no telling how such bugs'll act. He hadn't ought to be let
tool a car if he's as crazy as all that."

"Very likely he isn't crazy," I said. "Perhaps he was only joshing me,
pulling _my_ leg. Anyway, I've given you the tip for what it may be
worth. Crazy or not, he's a funny character."

"I should say so, sir. It's a bum idea, sir, however you take
it--calling himself a chessman belonging to the Black Company. Maybe
it's a thriller he'd seen at the movies. Anyway, sir, I'm sure you're
glad to be quit of it all and to get back home. There's no place like
home, sir, and you'll be having a warm welcome."

There was a look in his eyes I couldn't quite fathom and which he made
no attempt to hide.

"That was some joy ride you had down here, sir," he added. "It must
have been. And to think of you taking my name and job all on account of
a bet! Well, well, we do make fool wagers, don't we? It'll be a great
surprise to everybody, sir, when they hear it was the other fellow who
was killed instead of you. And what a welcome home you'll get! I envy
you, sir; I do indeed."

I said farewell to Joyce and left the garage with the feeling that he
was the owner of some unpleasant joke which he believed I shared. It
had nothing to do with the Black Company, his suspicions of me--if he
had any--or mine of him. No, it was something altogether apart from
that. What was it? I hadn't the least idea, but that it existed I felt
certain. Could it be that, in spite of Frean's identification and my
acknowledgment, Joyce did not believe I was Peter Lawton? That seemed
hardly reasonable, yet I had no other explanation to offer. It was a
puzzle.

CHAPTER IX

I FIND MYSELF A MURDERER

I had no intention of leaving without having, by some means or other,
a word with Brenda Gelette. No doubt she would refuse to see me, but,
whether she wanted to or not, I would see her. I could not leave
without attempting to correct the belief that I had known Mr. Varney's
identity from the start. Why should I plan to enter his house as a
spy, why gloat over his infirmities? Why did he hate me and mine so
ferociously? Perhaps Brenda Gelette would condescend to answer these
questions.

After all, what had I done to be treated with such anger and contempt?
At worst I was guilty of a poor sort of joke. No doubt, too, they
believed the popular press opinion of me. Well, I couldn't correct
that, and perhaps it wasn't such an erroneous opinion after all. "To
see ourselves as others see us!" I had sown a fine crop of wild oats
in a remarkably short time and I must abide by the harvest. Nor dare I
tell her anything about the Black Company, the extra inducement which
had made me continue to play the part of Joyce. But I could apologize
for what I had done, perhaps make her see that it wasn't quite the
ill-mannered piece of levity it seemed. If I could convince her that
my career as a prodigal was a matter of six months only, that I had
turned over a new leaf and meant to keep the pages clean, that it
was a life-and-death struggle with the Demon and that she had helped
me profoundly, my regeneration dating from the day I had first met
her--yes, if I could convince her of all that----

I went up on the veranda to ring the bell and ran into Frean who had
just come out of the house. "The very man I wanted to see," I said, and
beckoned him to a quiet corner.

He came unwillingly, watching me warily. "You needn't blame me for
any of this," he said defensively. "I'd no idea you were still living
or that you weren't Joyce. Of all your fool escapades, Lawton, this
is about your worst. You've got yourself into a nice mess, but it's
entirely your own fault."

"Have I said it wasn't?"

"Well, if you take my advice you'll beat it while the going's good
instead of hanging round here. Mr. Varney may change his mind and have
you jailed for false pretenses. He can do it, you know."

"I suppose he can. But never mind about that; I'll run the risk. I want
you to tell Miss Gelette that I wish to see her; a servant wouldn't
take the message, but you can."

"She won't see you, Lawton."

"She will if you ask her. I must see her before I go. You can get her
to come down here. Go ahead."

"I'll do nothing of the kind. Why should she see you? I tell you it's
no use; she knows all about it."

"All about what?"

"Oh, you know what I mean. What's the use? There's nothing for it,
Lawton, but to go back and face the music, the sooner the better.
You've only made it worse by this delay."

"What music? What the Harry are you talking about?"

He laughed unpleasantly. "This possum game's played out, Lawton. I
assure you it is. You knew very well what I mean--that double charge of
manslaughter. Manslaughter? It's really murder!"

"Look here, my boy," I said, "this isn't my day for laughing at jokes.
What are you getting at? Give us the works."

"Oh, cut it, Lawton," he sneered. "You can't play the innocent on me,
you know. Why, everybody knows it! Varney and Miss Gelette know now
the real reason why you were anxious to change your name, why you've
been in hiding these weeks. You thought it better to play dead till
it blew over, eh? A pretty cute idea, but your little game's gone up
prematurely in smoke. You've got to answer for those two killings, and
all your money won't save you this time."

I shot out a hand and got him by the collar. "Now spring the rest of
this joke, Frean. Open up, or I'll open you!"

"None of your beastly violence, Lawton!"

"You'll find it pretty beastly, my boy, if you don't come clean. I'll
darned well spoil your pretty looks. Come, now!"

"All right," he choked with a white sneer. "If you prefer to play the
innocent--though don't think you're fooling anybody--I'm referring to
what was in the newspapers and what everybody knows. You're like an
ostrich with its head in the sand. Everybody knows you ran over a woman
and a child the night you were supposed to be killed. You murdered
them, never gave them a chance, though they call it manslaughter. But,
of course, you didn't know about it."

I am sure he was amply repaid by the effect of this horrible news on
me; I must have shown something of what I felt. Suddenly I understood
Joyce's queer manner and his remark about my receiving a warm welcome
home. I felt physically ill, stunned, aghast. That mad ride and the
fears it had conjured up at the time had faded into the limbo of
forgotten things. It is so easy to forget our lucky escapes, our just
punishments! And, poor fool, all the time I had been congratulating
myself on having escaped; I had believed that a special Providence
watches over the drunk. A woman and a child killed--yes, murdered!

"I give you my word, Frean, I knew nothing about it," I managed to say
at length. "You must be trying to kid me. You are, aren't you? I saw
the account in the papers of that crazy ride of mine, but nothing was
said----"

"It was in the next morning's paper. You couldn't have failed to see
it."

"I didn't see the next morning's paper."

He shrugged and smiled as he arranged his disordered collar. "No? Well,
there are some things we don't care to see. I'm sure I believe you,
Lawton, but there are millions who wouldn't."

"You needn't jeer; I'm telling you the truth. Anyway, how do they know
I'm responsible? What if they did identify the car and license? Wasn't
the car stolen from me?"

"So you say."

"D-do you mean--why, hang it! There's the fellow they found in it! You
can't get away from that."

"I'm not trying to. Of course, if it wasn't you, somebody else must
have been driving."

"Well, then, if this other fellow was driving----"

"There's no use trying to fool yourself, Lawton, and certainly you're
not fooling me. The woman and child were killed in Red Bank, on the
route you took from Princeton to Sea Bright, while the man you induced
to take your car was killed at Camden. He had no reason to be near Red
Bank."

"Induced to take my car! What do you mean, Frean?"

"Paid, then, if that's the word. None of your beastly violence, Lawton!"

"Are you insinuating that I knew about killing this poor woman and
child, and that I paid some fellow to impersonate me while I lay hid
under an assumed name, afraid to face the consequences? Is that what
you mean, eh?"

He backed away. "None of your violence now, Lawton. You asked me to
tell you and I have. If any other construction can be placed on your
incomprehensible actions during the past weeks, I'm sure your friends
will be only too glad to hear of it. You asked for an honest opinion,
and I've given it. It's the opinion of Mr. Varney, Miss Gelette,
everybody--as you'll soon find out."

"There's more than that I want to find out," I said, choking down my
anger. "Let us put aside my affairs, bad as they are, and come to your
own. What's your game down here, Frean?"

I had no intention of mentioning the Black Company, aware he would only
deny all knowledge of it, and then inform Corby of my lively interest.
All my talk with Joyce had been toward the idea that I regarded the
whole thing as a joke, and I had no intention of now exposing my hand.
Of course, Frean had no idea I knew anything about the mysterious
secret society, yet my question brought a startled look to his eyes,
gone in a moment.

"My game! What do you mean? I've known this family for years--not as a
servant, but as a friend----"

"Don't bother to sneer at me. I want to know why, as a friend, you lied
so outrageously to Mr. Varney. Your pretenses here are as false as
my own, if it comes to that. Perhaps you don't know I heard the real
reason why you had to leave your father's house and business?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," he said, though he plainly was. "I'm sure
you'd go snooping into my private affairs just to see what trouble you
could make. You blame me because you're a hopeless drunkard."

"You're quite wrong. I'm not a drunkard, hopeless or otherwise; and
though I've a pretty good idea why you induced me to take that first
drink, I haven't any grudge against you. Not a bit, Frean. Your private
affairs are nothing to me except this--that I've a natural objection
to seeing you hanging round any decent girl. Is that plain enough? We
needn't mention any names, but what I'm getting at is this: If you're
going to do any courting, it's got to be on the level; otherwise I'll
make it my business to see that the girl knows just how you stand with
decent society."

"Decent society!" he laughed, though his eyes were venomous. "That's
a good phrase, coming from you. Perhaps, Apostle Peter, you'll go in
and tell Mr. Varney and Miss Gelette all the dreadful things you know
about me? Of course, they'll be quite ready to believe you, for you've
set up such a remarkable reputation for telling the truth. Oh, yes,
they'll take your mere word for it; they'll know it's pure altruism on
your part. I assure you it will pay you better to make it your business
to attend to your own and not mine. You'll have to work off your spite
against me in some other way."

"I tell you again, Frean, that I've no spite against you; not an atom.
I don't care a hang how you've acted, or may act, toward me. I'm well
able to look after myself, but I intend to see that you act decently
where Miss Gelette is concerned."

"You're a nice censor of morals, Lawton, I must say. Even if you got
a hearing--which you won't--I could easily disprove whatever garbled
version you may have heard about my difference with my father. Anyway,
you're a bit late on the wire, for that difference was made up before I
came down here."

"So you say."

"It's the truth, though it's nothing to me whether you believe it or
not, and Mr. Varney knows all about it. Finally, if Miss Gelette wants
any outsider to manage her affairs, she'll hardly select a person of
your stamp. No, you can't harm me, Lawton, and the best thing you can
do is to mind your own sorry business and give yourself up to the law
before they send detectives after you." And, as if to show his contempt
of my warning by leaving me in undisputed possession of the field, he
jumped into his car and drove off.

I now realized the utter hopelessness of trying to see Brenda Gelette
or saying anything further in my own defense. Added to all my other
sins, Mr. Varney and she now believed I had been hiding like a coward
all this time, with those two deaths upon my conscience. Indeed,
circumstances had so conspired against me that I really couldn't blame
anybody for thinking so, nor could all my excuses and explanations wipe
out the fact that I was guilty of those two deaths. There was no use
hanging about the house any longer, for they would refuse to see me
under any circumstances, and so I left the veranda.

Near the foot of the steps my eyes fell upon a piece of crumpled paper
lying under a rosebush, as if deposited there by some idle wind. Little
things had begun to interest me vastly of late, and so I picked it up.
Typed upon it was a fragment of another chess game, opening with the
Petroff defense, and, decoding it, I read: "Varney moves on second."

Pocketing it, I passed out of the gate, wondering what it meant, and
believing that Frean had inadvertently dropped it. Halfway up the block
I turned instinctively, and, screened by a neighboring privet hedge,
took a farewell look at the house where I had spent such an eventful
three weeks, and which, for all my disgrace, drew me like home. As I
looked I saw Joyce come out of the garage and go hunting about the
veranda, as if searching for a thousand-dollar bill. It would seem that
the paper in my pocket belonged to him, evidently a message from the
Black King.

Varney moves on second. Second what? Did it mean a certain square on
the strange chessboard? But there are sixteen second squares, White and
Black having eight each. Which one was it?

CHAPTER X

I DO SOME INVESTIGATING

Half an hour later I was on my way to Philadelphia, not New York;
not to "face the music," but to begin investigations concerning this
mysterious organization styling itself the Black Company. I wasn't
trying to put off facing the music, nor had I any intention of shirking
it; the tune itself meant nothing to me, but the death of that poor
woman and child weighed heavily on my soul. I was a murderer--a double
murderer--and I had flattered myself on getting off so easily! I had
killed an innocent woman and child. It was no use pleading I had not
done so intentionally, that I had no remembrance of it, that I wasn't
responsible for my actions. I _was_ responsible. I was a man grown, and
my own master. No one had asked me to get drunk that night, much less
compelled me. I had elected to do so, and I must take the consequences.

I saw myself as Miss Gelette must see me, at best a drunken fool with
no respect for human life; at worst a callous coward to boot. It was
not a lovely picture, and yet some good can come from the worst evil,
and in truth our dead selves may be stepping-stones to higher things,
for this horrible news I had heard heralded my final conquest of the
Demon. I was effectually sobered for all time, as well I might be.
Henceforth, I could never look into the flowing bowl without seeing
mirrored therein a murdered woman and child.

No, I was not running away from merited punishment. Indeed, the
worst punishment I could suffer was what I took with me and could
not escape--memory and conscience. Three weeks had passed since
that terrible night, and a few days more or less would make little
difference to waiting justice, while it might mean everything as
regards my solving the riddle of the Black Company. Once I made my
identity known in New York I could say good-by to personal freedom;
even though I were allowed out on bail, my movements would be severely
restricted, and it might well be that I should receive a stiff jail
sentence. Accidents from joy riding had been alarmingly frequent and
the courts had threatened to make a summary example; well, they could
find no more fitting example than myself and, as Frean had said, all my
money couldn't save me. I was just the type that the courts were after.

And so, while I still had the opportunity, I determined to learn
something of the Black Company at firsthand, the only satisfactory way.
For who would believe that such an organization existed, that it wasn't
the figment of an alcoholic imagination? Let Frean, when I didn't turn
up, set the police after me; let it be thought I was still trying to
hide. I didn't care; the public's opinion of me could hardly be worse
than it was. In all likelihood this man, Augustus Fremstad, was the
Black King and through him I could learn much. Joyce had come straight
from him, and it might be taken for granted that the "accident" which
induced Mr. Fremstad to give up motoring was purely imaginary and
designed simply as an excuse to pass Joyce on to Varney.

Augustus Fremstad; obviously a German or hyphenated American. Was he a
secret agent of the Central Powers and was I about to unearth a plot
of the kind that was coming to light day after day? A plot to cripple
the help that America was giving the Allies, or frustrate her coming
participation in the war which most of us saw to be inevitable?

In view of what was happening all over the country, this seemed the
most logical answer. And yet where did Theodore Varney fit in? His
personality had impressed itself strongly on me. I liked and admired
the old tyrant, and I could not believe he had the remotest connection
with such a conspiracy. How often and eloquently, during our nightly
games of chess, had he spoken of the tragedy of Belgium and how, for
reasons of self-preservation, if none other, we should be in the field
with France.

Reason and inclination approved the theory that, rather than being
associated with this secret society, he was a prospective victim. But
in what way? He was not even a wealthy man, as wealth goes--or so I had
been given to understand; he had never mixed in politics, never figured
prominently in anything but unobtrusive good works. And yet what did I
actually know about him? No more than the servants and Miss Gelette had
told me. Sea Bright wasn't his home; he had no background there, and my
opinion was based simply on hearsay and the little I had seen of him.

Could it be possible, as I had thought initially, that there was a
reverse side to the touching picture of the heroic and kind-hearted old
invalid? Had he really Addison's disease or, for reasons of his own,
faked the symptoms? Had that cryptic message "Varney moves on second"
emanated from him, a message, say, to the Black King, dropped by Frean
or even Joyce? It behooves me to take nothing for granted, to not let
favorable prejudice blind me to possibilities. I must investigate
Theodore Varney, look into his past in his home town. And I must visit
the Charity Hospital and prove what I suspected--that Joyce never had
been there.

I reached Philadelphia by what an Irishman I know would call a
"circuitous" route, for though I believed I had fooled Joyce
completely, I was taking no chances. Frean, of course, had no idea I
knew anything about the Black Company, and even Corby, when he learned
my true identity, would believe with Joyce that I had been merely
trying to dodge the double charge of manslaughter and thus had every
reason to assume the rôle I had. At the same time, just in case Joyce
had some suspicions and communicated them to Frean or Corby, I made
every pretense of leaving for New York, then doubled back at Red Bank
and so went on to Camden. I was careful to see if I were followed,
laying several clever traps, but there was no sign of Corby, Frean or
Joyce.

It was evening when I reached the Quaker City with which I am fairly
familiar; indeed, I know it better than most New Yorkers, for there
was a time when it was my temporary home. That was some ten years ago
when I was working my way through college and, in summer, held down
a job with Cable & Co., the big engineering firm, whose head offices
are in New York. It wasn't much of a post, but it helped me to pay my
way, was obligingly waiting for me when the college year closed, and it
led ultimately, on my graduation, to a good position in the New York
office. Those were the days when I had ambition and a lean purse, the
best companions for a hard road. Truly the real test comes with riches,
not poverty.

My plans, such as they were, were simple; I would secure a humble
lodging and pose as a chauffeur looking for work. I had almost
seventy-five dollars with me, my wages from Varney--I meant to return
the money in due course--and this was enough to see me through; for, of
course, though my check was good for hundreds of thousands I daren't
raise a penny on my true name. I should take the name of Smith, John
Smith of Boston. Frean had not recognized me when I wore the smoked
glasses but, in my present rôle, these would be too conspicuous,
attracting the notice I wished to avoid, and a pair of ordinary ones
would serve better. It was highly improbable that I should meet any one
who knew me; it was years since I'd been in the town for any length of
time, and at that period my acquaintances were in a far different class
than my present ones. Howard Roupell, I believed, hailed originally
from Philadelphia, and, of course, there were others, but I should
steer clear of their luxurious haunts.

Having bought a pair of genuine brass-rimmed spectacles from a quack
oculist who assured me I had astigmatism, and who charged me only five
dollars because I reminded him of a long lost brother, I went straight
to the hospital in question.

"I'm looking for an old pal of mine, Henry Joyce," I explained to
an official behind a railed partition in the entrance hall. "He's a
chauffeur, like me, and I heard tell when I was in Boston----"

"Joyce, you say?"

"Yes, sir. I heard he'd been in a smash-up and brought here. Smith's my
name. I come on here----"

"Your friend has left."

"What!" The fact that the man actually had been there was so
unexpected, so contrary to my theory, that I could only gape.

"He was discharged yesterday," said the official, still consulting a
large book. "It wasn't a motor accident but assault." And he turned me
over to a white-capped nurse who appeared, saying she could give me a
history of the case.

Well, this nurse--I think she was in charge of the accident ward--very
obligingly proceeded to tell me exactly what I had heard from Joyce
himself; it was entire corroboration of his story, down to the hour and
night of his admission to the hospital. The ambulance had brought him
in, suffering from what was thought at first to be a compound fracture
of the skull; he had been sandbagged and robbed out Moyamensing way in
a lonely street.

"I believe he has gone to New Jersey--I forget the place," concluded
the nurse. "He said he had a new situation there. But, no doubt, you
know the address."

"Well, I can't say I really know much about him, ma'am," I confessed,
feeling that, for an old pal, I was displaying rather surprising
ignorance. "You know how it is when you get out of touch with a
fellow, ma'am, him and me working in different cities. I just heard in
a roundabout way, through another friend, of him being laid up here,
and I took it for granted it was a smash-up, that being in our line.
Did the police get the fellow who banged him up?"

"Not to my knowledge. I understand that on that same night a prisoner
escaped from Moyamensing and that the police think he may have been
responsible, but I've heard nothing further."

So that was that, and I left the hospital feeling something of a fool.

This feeling increased by leaps and bounds during the next two days, at
the end of which period I was ready to believe that Corby had really
been having a joke with me, that the Black Company had no existence but
in his fertile imagination. Perhaps it was the sort of thing produced
by buttermilk, for not only did I find Theodore Varney's character
to be above reproach, agreeing with all I had heard of it, but also
that of Augustus Fremstad. Thus another of my theories went west in no
uncertain fashion. Rather than Mr. Fremstad proving to be a German or
hyphenated American, he came of an old Dutch family who had been in
Philadelphia since the time of Penn, a man of the most blameless and
upright character it was possible to conceive. Moreover, he _had_ given
up motoring through an accident in which both he and Joyce had had a
very narrow escape, the brakes of their car suddenly failing to act.

I need not weary you with the details of how I conducted my
investigation, but that I was able to do so thoroughly and quickly
was due in no small measure to a man whom I had known by sight--as
did most people in Philadelphia--when I worked with Cable & Co. This
man was "Big Tim" Scallon, in those days a political czar of sorts
and, if report went for anything, no better than the general type. In
appearance he resembled Nast's worst caricature of "Boss" Tweed, a big
bruiser of a man with the inevitable cigar and diamonds. But I had a
certain admiration for him in those days. They were corrupt days in
Philly--they may be so yet, for all I know--and I thought Scallon got
blamed for things he never did, for the faults of the "system" rather
than individual ones.

At all events he faded from the public eye, how or when I didn't know;
for I'm not much on politics and have all I can do to understand
something of the New York game without going elsewhere. At any rate
I'd heard nothing of Scallon for years, and had forgotten all about
him until, toward evening of the second day of my visit, I saw him in
Market Street, as large as life and seemingly as prosperous as ever.
I don't know how they manage it, but I've never yet seen an eclipsed
politician who didn't manage to look like real money, even if he'd
reached the bottom of the old sock at home.

Now this investigation business isn't so easy as it sounds; I used to
think that these private agencies were the softest way of making money,
but they're not--not if they're on the level like, say, the famous
Blunt Agency. It sounds easy in books but it isn't, and I didn't take
long to find that out. You have to wade through tons of chaff before
reaching any wheat.

To begin with, I had to disentangle the Augustus Fremstad I wanted from
half a dozen others before starting to get a line on him. I was pretty
well fed up with the job, and when I spied Tim Scallon, I realized he
could do more for me in five minutes than I could for myself in five
days. I knew that his career had been as varied as a bottle of the
fifty-seven varieties, that he had been born and bred in Philly and
knew everybody in town, high and low, like the palm of his own hand.
And he would part with his information on very little provocation, that
being part of his stock in trade, you might say. Of course, he didn't
know me, and I wouldn't proclaim my true identity, but the very fact
of his owning such a huge and mottled acquaintance made imposition
all the easier. He would even pretend to remember having met me if I
insisted on the point. It was his job to remember all the voters and
their progeny, the name of the first-born and what grandma died of,
interesting and memorable stuff like that.

So I stepped out as his huge waddling figure heaved abreast of me and
introduced myself as the friend of one Harrigan, whom I knew definitely
as a former crony of his who had settled in New York some ten years
ago. He shifted his cigar to port and received me with the genial smile
I had always liked; a good-hearted fellow for all his unlovely looks.
But his eyes were shrewd and cautious as he added, "Well, Mr. Smith,
what can I do for you?"

I told him nothing much; merely that I was employed in a private
investigation bureau in New York, that a client wanted inside dope on
Theodore Varney and Augustus Fremstad, and that Harrigan had advised me
to see him, Scallon.

"It's fortunate we met," I said, "for I was going to look you up. I've
got a letter of introduction to you." And I began an imaginary search
of my pocket. "It's here somewhere; I hope I haven't misplaced it----"

Scallon interrupted, acting precisely as I had judged he would. "That's
all right," he said, waving a pulpy hand. "Never mind. Sure, I know
Fremstad and Varney, though we never were what you might call bosoms.
They're out of the top drawer, y'know--swell folk, not in my alley at
all. Anybody could tell you about 'em, and you're welcome to what I
know, which is plenty. If this client of your firm is figgerin' on
diggin' up something nasty about 'em, he's wasting his money and your
time, see? Why, there ain't a more harmless coupla old cooties in
Philly! I bet they was born with a crown an' harp."

Thus Scallon corroborated not only what I had already learned by my own
endeavors, but told me a good deal more, even affirming that it was
generally known old Varney had some disease that made him "yeller as a
yeller dorg" and, because of that, was living the life of a recluse.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he had ever heard of
such an organization as the Black Company, but I refrained. Not that
I didn't trust Scallon, for the man confirmed, on this meeting, the
opinion I had always held of him. Gross, no doubt, but honest according
to his lights; kind-hearted to a fault, and loyal to his friends and
the friends of friends; above petty malice or spite. A lot of good in
these old-time, two-fisted politicians, let people talk as they may.
They had their virtues. It went against the grain to impose on him even
in so small a matter. Nor did I doubt his local knowledge. If such a
society existed, he, of all men, would have heard some rumor of it. No,
it wasn't that; it was simply that, standing there in Market Street
talking with so sane and normal a being as Big Tim, and mindful also of
the past days' failures, the whole matter of the Black Company seemed
an absurd fantasy. Scallon would laugh at me; how he would laugh! And
perhaps, in any case it would be just as well if I said nothing. He
would pass it on as a joke to some one, and if there _should_ happen to
be any truth in it----

But was there? What had I to go on? Nothing more than what Corby had
told me, a man who might be half insane or who had a sense of humor
even more eccentric than my own. Those two messages in the ingenious
chess code might have come from Corby himself as part and parcel of the
joke. Out of what flimsy material had I constructed this melodramatic
play of the Black Company!

"A play that refuses to play. A play in which nobody acts but
myself--and I'm the clown," I thought as, saying farewell to Scallon,
I walked through the darkening streets to my humble lodgings near the
river. "I'd better be getting back to New York; I'm only wasting my
time here. There's nothing in it, and anyway, what business is it of
mine? No, I've nothing to do----"

But I had, right at that place and moment. Indeed there was rather too
much to do; for there were three of them, waiting for me obligingly
in the dark alley near my lodgings. I walked right into the trap and
never even saw the blow that was meant to finish me. That I dodged it
was due to no skill on my part, nothing but an accident. I tripped and
stumbled over something at the right moment. The next, all four of us
were inextricably involved. That sort of thing suits me, being built,
as I am, something like a steam roller. I am no Carpentier, a thing of
agility and grace, and my every movement is distinctly not a picture.
The confined space also suited me; it's difficult to dodge a steam
roller in an alley. The darkness suited me, too; I had three people
to hit, my opponents only one; they had considerably more margin for
mistakes, and they made them. Even so, I might not have survived, had
it not been for an inquisitive policeman who promulgated himself into
the proceedings; with unerring intelligence he centered his attentions
on me so that, by the time explanations were in order, my adversaries
were probably as far as Chestnut Street.

"Well, we've had a nice little go, officer, and no hard feelings," I
said. "But those other birds started the show. Yes, maybe it is what
they all say, but that doesn't make it less the truth. Yes, perhaps I
was doing all the fighting; I had to. All right, I'll go home; I'm not
looking for more. Too much is enough."

Alone in my room I found a rip in my coat where a knife had missed the
jugular, discovered a gash on my left forearm, and located several
bumps on my head that had not been there when last inspected by the
phrenologist. He would have called them, no doubt, bumps of folly and
stupidity.

Thinking it all over, I decided anew that it was indeed time I returned
to New York. After all, there is no place like home, and certainly jail
is preferable to a coffin.

CHAPTER XI

I RETURN HOME

I left my lodgings the following morning, unobtrusively, to say the
least. As my landlady had had the forethought to secure the week's rent
of my room in advance, there was no occasion to interview her, nor
was I hampered by excess baggage. Early to bed and early to rise is a
splendid maxim, and I was up and out before the sun--for the first time
in many years. Perhaps the best thing to get a fellow out of bed bright
and early is the fear of being murdered in it. At least it worked very
successfully with me.

You may have gathered by this time that I am no hero, so I may as
well admit it. Somehow, the idea of being potted from dark corners by
somebody you don't even know, never appealed to me particularly. I was
born with the failing. I don't mind a decent row now and then, but this
clutching-hand game--no, thank you, it is not for me.

As I sneaked downstairs in the dark and left the house, via the back
yard and a couple of fences, I could say with that hero in Dickens'
yarn, "It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done; I go
to a far, far better rest than I have ever known." After all, perhaps
I should be safest in jail.

Yes, there isn't a lazy bone in my body when it comes to keeping ahead
of the emaciated old boy on the white horse, and that little affair in
the alley was a hint I meant to take. Those three worthy fellows had
been laying for me, and their purpose wasn't robbery. I wasn't worth
robbing, nor do footpads use knives right off the reel. By all odds I
should have gone west right then and there, with nobody knowing what
had happened to me. I was supposed to be dead in any case; old Varney
and Miss Gelette knew I wasn't, so did Frean and Joyce, but the former
wouldn't worry if I never claimed resurrection, while it might suit
the purpose of the latter for the general public to think me under the
clover and violets.

Fantastic or not, I had to admit the possibility that the Black Company
not only existed outside Corby's buttermilk brain, but that it was a
far more ruthless criminal combine than I had imagined. Yes, and able,
too; rather much so I assure you that alone in my room in that house
with the door barricaded--for it wasn't a cheerful neighborhood--the
possibility seemed considerably less fantastic than it had in Market
Street when I was talking to Tim Scallon. I was quite ready to believe
they had suspected me from the first and that I had been followed from
Sea Bright; or word had been sent on with a detailed description. They
knew of my visit to the hospital, of my investigations, and, even while
talking to Scallon, those fellows had been waiting to cook my goose.

I had been a fool, underrated the enemy and given myself away; and in
coming here alone under an assumed name, and with strictly limited
funds, I had played right into their hands. Thus situated, what could I
hope to accomplish against a combine with such a spy system, who struck
in the dark and without scruple? Nothing, and less than nothing. They
knew where I lived. I would be dogged by people I didn't even know, and
sooner or later put out of the way.

Adventure is all very well--I love it, especially when lying in bed
armed with a good pipe--and perhaps there are some superhuman souls
capable of grappling single-handed with such a situation as I faced,
but assuredly I wasn't one of them, nor had I any longing to be. My
inflated conception of my own ability and cleverness had received a bad
puncture, and it behooved me to get out of this mess as quickly as I'd
got into it.

If they thought me bottled up in that house, and were keeping watch on
it, my early and unorthodox manner of departure fooled them, for I got
safely aboard the New York train. Try though I might, I failed utterly
to detect anything that would lead me to think I was being followed.

I bought a paper, expecting to find some announcement of my
resurrection; surely it was time the yellow press got after me with
such captions as "Lawton alive and hiding from justice. Hires tramp to
assume his identity." Perhaps they would even hint that I had conspired
to have my victim pulped by that train; that I had drugged, or murdered
him offhand, and then placed him and the car on the tracks where they
would do the most good. I expected to read something like that; but,
no, there wasn't a word about me of any description. Why had Frean said
nothing? It seemed to support the idea that he had reason to keep my
resurrection secret. I wasn't exactly a national figure, but certainly,
in view of that manslaughter charge, if nothing else, the papers
would have something to say--even the most conservative--did they
know I still lived. And now they treated me as though indeed I were a
month-old corpse.

My trip was completed without incident, and when I got into the
Pennsylvania Station I ran plump against Howard Roupell, the friend of
all others whom I cared least to meet at that moment. He was a bore
and gossip. I shouldn't have minded, indeed would have welcomed, Bob
Hewitt or Tommy Ashton; but no, it had to be Roupell. He considered it
his mission in life to tell alleged funny stories, and though I admit
he's a first-class mimic, that sort of thing gets rather wearing at
times, especially when the perpetrator mistakes pure dirt for humor,
as Roupell so frequently did. I am no puritan, but--well, there's a
limit.

I hoped to dodge him, or that he wouldn't recognize me without
my mustache, but that hope was vain indeed. Although fat and
sleepy-looking, he can be very observant. He started back, gulped,
threw wide his short arms and bellowed, "Mug! By all the saints, it's
Mug!"

Now that's a pet name; it's only a few particular friends who call
me that on occasion, fellows like Ashton and Hewitt who knew me at
Princeton. They have a right to admire and remark on my beauty. Roupell
wasn't in that category at all.

"It must be Mug!" he added. "Mustache or no mustache, there's no
mistaking that face."

I dare say there isn't; all the same I didn't like to hear about it
publicly from him, any more than I liked the flamboyant greeting that
followed. He thumped me on the back, spluttered questions, pawed me
all over, created quite a scene. I knew the old Falstaff meant well,
and his joy at seeing me was flattering, joy at the return of the dead
prodigal, but I didn't care to partake of the fatted calf right there
on the public platform. People were stretching their necks and asking
questions.

"Let's get out of this," I said. "I'm not on exhibition, Roupell. Yes,
of course I'm alive. Do you think I'm a walking corpse? Didn't Frean
tell you and the bunch I wasn't dead, that it was all a mistake?"

"I haven't seen Frean for weeks; don't know where he is. And how should
he know? Where have you been?"

"I haven't time to explain it all now. I'll see you later----"

"No! You must tell me now. Why, it's the most astounding thing that
ever happened and you act as if it were nothing! Why, man, you're
supposed to be dead and buried! Why, I even sent a wreath--a beautiful
one--and went to the service and all that. I did indeed."

"And now it's all wasted. Too bad. But I'll do as much for you some
day. No, I can't lunch with you; I'm sorry but I've an appointment----"

"No, you haven't--except with me. You've got to lunch with me. If you
don't want publicity, we can go to my rooms. I must hear all about
everything; I'm entitled to it. And I've got a new story, Lawton--the
funniest thing you ever heard. You must----"

I managed to break loose, after promising to dine with him on the first
opportunity. It went to his heart to see his prey escape; not only was
I a new audience on which he could lavish his latest story, but I had
a story of my own--I must have--which he wished to be the first to
hear and publish. However, he had to be content with the mere fact
that I was alive, a startling enough news item, which I knew he would
proceed forthwith to broadcast. I shuffled him off in the crowd and
then hopped a taxi, giving the driver an address on lower Broadway. It
was the address of old Hannay, my lawyer; I must see him first before
surrendering myself to the law.

Mr. Hannay had known my family for twenty years and more, knew facts
about them that even I didn't. He had had sole charge of my uncle's
affairs and had always shown a fatherly sort of interest in me, perhaps
because he was an old bachelor; indeed it was through him that I
had been able to secure my first job with Cable & Co. He had helped
me--unknown, I am sure, to my uncle--in many little ways like that. He
was a lawyer of the old school, of the best type, and I knew that my
conduct, since coming into the Lawton money, had wounded him terribly.
I had proved a sore trial and disappointment.

Of course I now gave him a bad fright when I walked in on him, for,
like Frean and Roupell, he had no difficulty in recognizing me; and
yet, as he afterward was good enough to say, it was the happiest
experience of his life. When he got his second wind he pumped my hand
up and down, clapped me on the back, and all but wept over me. I had
never suspected him of having such really great affection for me, and I
was deeply touched.

"Resurrection!" he exclaimed, wiping his eyes. "And not only of the
flesh, but of the spirit! Yes, it is; I can see it, anybody could. You
are your old self, Peter. You are the young man who entered this office
six months ago, full of ideals and high ambition----"

"And left it last full of idleness and rum? Exactly."

"No, I wouldn't say that, but----"

"It's the truth, and you know it. I've been taking a new kind of cure."

"Well, it's the best I ever heard of; whatever you've done, it's been a
howling success. I never saw such a change in my life. For a dead man
you're wonderfully, beautifully alive, your old self. Come now, tell me
all about it. If I wasn't so happy, I'd be incensed with you--not to
tell me before this that you were safe and sound."

"Yes, I owed you that, you of all people. But I thought it best to cut
the whole crowd, let me be supposed to be dead. Well, I'll start at the
beginning."

Now I had no intention of telling him a word about the Black Company,
not that I didn't trust him above anybody; but shrewd and able though
I knew him to be, he was really about the last person who would
have credited the melodramatic and totally inadequate evidence I
was prepared to supply. He was not a criminal lawyer, had little
imagination, and I knew would pooh-pooh the whole matter. In all
probability he would think, though not say--and on this point I was
acutely sensitive--that I was laboring under a hallucination conjured
up initially by John Barleycorn. I didn't mean to say a word about it
even to Hewitt or Ashton, intimate friends though they were. There was
one person in New York to whom I meant to speak freely, one and one
only; I had thought it all out and decided.

But, of course, I had to tell about Mr. Varney, just where I had
been and how employed; that was bound to come out in any case. So I
proceeded to give a slightly revised version of what had happened since
I left the Princeton Inn that memorable night.

"It all came from a drunken bet--at least _I_ was drunk," I explained.
"But it turned out to be the best thing for me. I've discovered there's
nothing better for my sort than getting up at six in the morning,
looking after three cars, and doing odd jobs around a big house. I've
been sampling the sort of stuff I was reared on--plain grub, lots of
work, and no drink. I've found it's the only kind that suits me if I
want to stay above ground, and I've come back to put in a few good
licks at the plans of that engineering school and other stuff you and
I mapped out. No more thick days or nights for me; I've had my lesson
and I'm through, eternally through."

"I see that a miracle has happened," he exclaimed, shaking hands with
me all over again. "I believe that, of all the Lawtons, you are going
to break the terrible family curse. I thought it from the first day I
saw you, and now I know it."

"I only hope you're right, Mr. Hannay. Anyway, I'm going to do my level
best. If prohibition ever comes to this country I guess it will be
mainly because of people like me; I mean other fellows who can take
a drink decently, and perhaps be all the better for it, will have to
suffer through my failing."

"It's more than that, my boy."

"Yes, I know it. I believe some doctors say that you can't inherit such
a craving, any more than you can inherit T. B., but I know better.
Certainly I didn't have to learn to like the stuff; it's a gift. I've
caught this thing just in time and, seeing you can't make a fellow
drink by main force, the Lawton curse will have to peter out right
here."

"I'm sure it will, my boy. You've had your lesson."

"Yes, but I've yet to pay for it. I wanted to see you first, get the
plans about that free engineering school settled, and some other stuff,
too; so let us go to it while I'm still free."

"Free? Are you thinking of getting married?"

"Yes, but the lady isn't--at least to me. What I meant, of course,
was that Roupell knows I've turned up, and that means the whole town,
sooner or later--generally sooner. I prefer to surrender myself."

"To whom? And for what?"

"Why, to the police, of course. You know, for that double charge of
manslaughter. I hope you believe, Mr. Hannay, I didn't know anything
about killing that poor woman and child. Honestly, I hadn't the
faintest idea----"

"But, my dear boy, you didn't kill them!"

"What!" I cried, springing to my feet. "Do--do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do," said Mr. Hannay, beaming on me. "You've been blaming
yourself quite unnecessarily; you aren't guilty and never were."

CHAPTER XII

THE RETURNED PRODIGAL

It is impossible to describe adequately the effect that this news had
on me, to convey the relief I felt; it seemed too good, far too good,
to be true, and yet Mr. Hannay spoke with such complete assurance and
authority as to preclude all doubt. Somehow, in some manner, I had
escaped after all! These torturing thoughts of mine had had no real
basis in fact. I had been a trusting fool, the victim of a cruel lie.
Ah, Frean----

"So it never happened?" I cried. "Frean knew I hadn't seen the
papers--I told him so--and that I wouldn't want to see them, read about
what I was supposed to have done. He banked on that. He wanted me to
run away and hide. There was no accident, no woman and child----"

"Oh, yes, there was," interrupted Mr. Hannay. "And both were killed;
that's all quite true. But don't you see that if your car was stolen it
entirely exculpates you?"

From the heights I plunged anew into the depths. I felt like hitting
the good Mr. Hannay for having raised such false hopes. "It doesn't
exculpate me at all!" I exclaimed. "I only wish it did!"

"Why doesn't it?"

"Because it doesn't! Any fool knows that. Don't you see that
Camden----" And I repeated what Frean had said. "Excuse me for being so
short with you, Mr. Hannay, but you don't know what I've been through
in the way of remorse, and these false hopes----"

"But, my dear boy, they aren't false; not a bit of it. I wouldn't say
so if I wasn't absolutely sure. It's quite true that Red Bank is on the
route you took, and that your assailant, in going from Sea Bright to
Camden, would have no reason to pass through it. Yet the facts are that
he _did_."

"What! How do you know?"

"Well, you say you met Mr. Varney and his niece in their car at about
nine o'clock?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly sure of that. When I left my car, I noticed by the
illuminated clock that it was a quarter to nine."

"And it was after ten when the woman and child were run over in Red
Bank," said Mr. Hannay. "There is no question about that, and if you'd
happened to read the account in the paper you'd have known it. Here it
is; see for yourself." And he handed me the paper in question.

"Yes, I see that!" I exclaimed, reading the paragraph he had marked.
"By George, I--I----" In my relief I got up and shook him by both
hands. An unbearable load had lifted from my heart. After all, I _had_
escaped! The fatality had occurred at ten minutes past ten, and at
that time I was lying unconscious behind a hedge near the Sea Bright
station.

And then a horrible doubt assailed me. "But can I prove it?" I cried.
"Will anybody believe me? I'm sure about the time; I observed other
details accurately that night, even though I was hopelessly drunk. I
observed things that were afterward proved to be correct. But you see
what people will say--that I was drunk and couldn't have known the
time."

"But Mr. Varney and his niece weren't drunk," said Mr. Hannay. "They
will be able at least to approximate the hour when you talked with them
at the crossroads. You may be sure of that."

"Yes, but I don't think Mr. Varney would lift a finger to save me from
the gallows. I told you what happened when I was discharged. He hates
me."

"U-m-m," murmured Mr. Hannay. "Just so. Well, we can do without his
evidence, if need be. There's the man Taylor to prove where and how he
found you early the next morning. If it was you who came back through
Red Bank, how could the car be smashed to flinders at Camden near
midnight and you found half unconscious at Sea Bright five hours later?
How could you get there without being seen? No, it's impossible on the
face of it. I tell you that the fact of another person having the car,
and being killed in your place, explains everything, and we won't have
any trouble proving your innocence."

"I only hope so," I said, "but Mr. Varney's evidence may be absolutely
necessary. Now, Mr. Hannay, you've known my family since before I was
born; you know, I dare say, things that even I don't?"

"Possibly," said the old lawyer cautiously.

"Well, have you ever heard of Theodore Varney previous to this? Do you
know of any reason why he should be so bitter against my family? For I
tell you it wasn't merely that I'd imposed on him; he had forgiven me
posing as Joyce until he heard my real name. Then he went right up in
the air. It wasn't that he believed me guilty of those two deaths and
thought I was a coward in hiding; that was only part of it. Back of it
all was a dislike for me personally because I was Peter Lawton. I'm
sure of that."

Mr. Hannay stroked his chin. "Well, I suppose I'd better tell you, my
boy; I can't very well keep it back now. He hates you because you are
your father's son. You see, Mr. Varney was deeply in love with your
mother."

I wasn't so greatly astonished at this information, for some such
idea had occurred to me that morning in the car, when Varney spoke so
bitterly of my father. "Then it is merely a case of a jealous and
disappointed suitor still nursing a fancied grievance? Come, tell me
all you know."

"Well, with all due respect to the dead, I'm afraid your father hardly
treated Mr. Varney fairly--nor did your mother, either, for that
matter. I knew all the interested parties personally, and can speak
with authority. Varney and your father were very intimate friends, and
it was the former who introduced the latter to the then Miss Canning.
Varney and she had known each other almost from childhood, and though
there was no official engagement it was common knowledge that they
cared for each other, were pledged, in fact, and would eventually
marry. Indeed, Varney confided this to his chum, your father. At
this time, also--when your father first met your mother--the same
understanding existed between your father and Varney's only sister----"

"Phew!" I exclaimed. "You can't mean Brenda Gelette's mother?"

"I do, Peter. You see the fearful mix-up that followed? Your father
and mother fell in love with each other at first sight, one of those
passionate, all-sacrificing attachments, not unknown to human history,
which is bound to promote or end in tragedy. Miss Varney seems to have
survived the shock of their sudden elopement--at least she eventually
married--but it certainly ruined her brother's life.

"I should never have told you all this if you hadn't insisted,"
finished Mr. Hannay kindly, "and don't think I've exaggerated or
overstated the case. Your mother was an honorable woman, your father
an honorable man, and, though I've no experience of such things, it
is clear that in this instance their mutual attachment overcame every
scruple. But Mr. Varney is entirely wrong if he says your father broke
your mother's heart. He did so only by dying--and she followed him
quickly. Nor did he die in an alcoholic ward, as your Uncle Peter
claimed, though I can't pretend he conserved either his fortune or his
health."

"Well," I said at length, "it's not for me to judge. At any rate, I now
understand Mr. Varney's cordial dislike for me, and I must say I don't
blame him. I only wish I'd known about it."

I proceeded to put some adroit questions to the old lawyer concerning
Mr. Varney, for here was one who had known him and his brother
intimately and who might unwittingly give me some clew to the other's
connection with the Black Company. I succeeded, however, in learning
nothing that Scallon hadn't told me already.

We now discussed more material matters connected with my affairs, and I
learned that my will had not been probated, and that my old quarters in
the Belvedere, on Madison Avenue, were just as I had left them. I was
glad to hear, too, that Watkins, whom I had had since starting my new
mode of life, was still at his post.

"As you know," said Mr. Hannay, "the lease isn't up till the end of
the year, and Watkins begged to be allowed to remain in charge of the
apartments till they were sublet. It's a funny thing, but he said from
the first he had a feeling you weren't dead at all, and might come
walking in any day. About giving your story to the press, of course,
you can't avoid that. Is it possible to keep Mr. Varney's name out of
it?"

"Unfortunately not. Frean would tell all about my employment there if
I didn't. By the way, has he made it up with his father? I heard he
hadn't, but I'm not certain."

"You may be certain. The scamp's getting money from some quarter,
according to all accounts of the way he's living, though I don't know
who would employ him even for his parents' sake."

"Where do you suppose he's getting it from?"

Mr. Hannay shrugged. "Considering that crooked brokerage deal--he ought
to have been jailed--I shouldn't be surprised if he was interested in
some bucket shop, probably as a tout. A thoroughly bad egg, if you
want my opinion. I hope you'll steer clear of him in future, Peter; he
can't bring you any good. No, he can never make things right with his
family, the time for that is past and the break is absolute and final.
His people have stood all that is humanly possible, far more than is
generally known. There are some people you can't do anything with, no
matter how hard you try; people who seem to have no morals, in whom
there is nothing to appeal. Arnold Frean is one of them; he never was
any good and he never will be. I never could understand what you saw in
him, why you made a companion of him."

"But I didn't," I replied. "He was at Princeton with me, you know, and
after all, that means something. But I hardly knew him at college; we
weren't in the same year, and in entirely different sets----"

"I dare say," interrupted Mr. Hannay grimly. "You'd no money to throw
around then."

"No, and he had. He had too much. It wasn't until after I inherited
Uncle Peter's check book that I really knew Frean, and I can't say I
know much about him even now. I met him as I met dozens of others,
people you don't seem to meet unless you've money. Perhaps you can tell
me who his intimate friends are----"

"No, and I don't care; nobody to be proud of, I'll wager. And now, my
boy, we'll trot down and see the district attorney; we just have time.
There is another point in that newspaper article to which I wish to
call your attention; you may have overlooked it. It states distinctly
that the car came from the south and turned west, whereas you would
have come from the north. Having no idea it wasn't you who were
driving, the only supposition was that you'd gone south, returned to
Red Bank, and struck out for Camden, aiming possibly at Philadelphia.
But I doubt if you actually passed through Red Bank at all, for why was
the car and its license number noted only on the return trip? No, you
may rest assured that we'll have no difficulty in establishing your
innocence."

Nor had we, at least nothing approaching what I had expected. But I
couldn't help wondering what my reception would have been had I been
poor and unknown. I don't mean to say that I could have bought an
immunity bath, or clogged the wheels of justice with gold pieces,
but--well, wealth and position certainly make a difference. Witness
Frean's case, the influence that kept him out of jail. The mere fact
that a man like Mr. Hannay was my friend made a profound difference in
itself, and a story that might have seemed incredible from the lips of
a pauper, seemed otherwise when voiced by a millionaire. At all events
it was credited and, pending corroboration from Varney and the man
Taylor--a mere matter of form, I was assured--I was released on my own
recognizance. Of course I was entitled to be released, for I wasn't
guilty, but had I been poor and unknown I should have been remanded to
jail while my story was being investigated. That is the difference, I
suppose, between wealth and poverty, influence and nonentity.

It was nearing six o'clock when I left the Tombs and, saying farewell
to Mr. Hannay, boarded a subway local. At Fourteenth Street I got out,
intending to change to the uptown express. The station presented its
usual bedlam rush-hour appearance, and I had some trouble in bucking
my way through to the first row waiting to rush the doors. I thought
I heard my name called, but could see no one I knew. Then, just as
the express drew in, some one gave me a violent shove, and I pitched
headfirst to the rails.

I don't know to this day how I escaped. Nobody does. By all odds,
I should have been pulped under the wheels or "third-railed" into
eternity as quick as winking. I imagine, perhaps, my old football
training helped me; I mean I knew instinctively how to fall without
breaking any bones, and even if tackled and thrown from a totally
unexpected quarter, to keep my wits and go on thinking. At all events
I hit on my shoulder and scrambled over to the downtown rails in some
occult fashion as the express with screeching brakes shot past, far too
close for comfort.

Having no wish to figure further in the papers, I scrambled on to the
downtown platform, waved a hand to the gaping crowd to show I was
unhurt, and dodged up the steps to the street before most of the
people realized what it was all about. I had got off with a bruised
shoulder, though the Black Company had meant my life. It was a nice
reception for a returned prodigal!

CHAPTER XIII

AT THE ADMIRAL

This and last night's affair was asking too much of coincidence. They
must be related and instigated by the same hand, and I decided to
finish the rest of my homeward trip by taxi. I had been foolish not to
return in the one that brought Mr. Hannay and myself to the Tombs.

As I reached the sidewalk, on the opposite side of the street, somebody
stepped up quickly behind me and, my nerves being jumpy by this time, I
whirled round with ready fist, thinking another play was being made for
my life. Indeed I had almost swatted the man before I recognized him as
Tommy Ashton. The relief was so great that I burst out laughing.

I may pass over our initial greeting; Ashton, of course, was delighted
to see me, but not greatly astonished, for news of my miraculous return
was pretty well over town by this time and, no doubt, would appear in
the evening papers.

"Yes, I've a story to tell, but I don't want to tell it here," I said,
anxious to get away from the scene of my recent "accident" before
Ashton got wind of it. "I've told it three or four times already
to-day so it's getting pretty monotonous. Suppose you come home with me
and then we'll call up Hewitt----"

"Bob's in Florida on business and won't be back for a month or
more--the plans of that new hotel at Ormond, you know. I'm leaving for
Philly myself in an hour or so. Let's beat it to the Admiral for a bite
and your story; that's all I've time for."

"My story will keep, Tommy, and you'll see it in the papers----"

"I want it at first hand--now. I'm entitled to it. Come on."

So we hopped a taxi--I said I wanted to dodge reporters--to the huge
new hotel where Ashton, a bachelor, had recently installed himself, and
secured a quiet corner table in the grill. He received a shock when I
turned down the wine card but, a true friend, climbed up on the wagon
beside me.

"Far be it from me to add to your temptations," he said as I protested.
"And it's really no sacrifice on my part. I know what it is to have
that stuff shoved under your nose. I must say you're looking prime,
Pete, whatever you've been doing with yourself. If you're really on
this water-wagon game for good----"

"I am, booked through for life. I mean it, Tommy."

"Shake hands on that!" he exclaimed. "I believe you _do_ mean it and
that you're capable of pulling it off. You've changed a whole lot; even
the loss of that alleged mustache is an improvement. And now let's hear
all about it."

"Well, to begin with, if I didn't win that bet I came mighty near it. I
earned my keep by the sweat of my brow for three whole weeks, if not a
month. You see----" And I proceeded to tell the whole thing over again,
omitting, as heretofore, all reference to the Black Company.

"Well?" queried Ashton as I finished.

"Well what?"

"Your adventures are all very interesting, but what about the rest?"

"There isn't any more; I've told you everything."

"Oh, no, you haven't; you've omitted the most interesting part."

"I don't know what you mean."

Ashton raised his eyes and they met mine over the planked steak.
"You're a poor sort of liar, Pete; you always were, even if an
industrious one, and you forget I'm a lawyer. Also, my friend, I saw
what happened on the subway platform."

"Oh, that accident? Was it you who called me? There was such a crowd,
and you see I fell----"

"Naturally, after such a shove. It's no use, Pete; I was there and saw
the whole thing. Yes, I was on my way up here. I couldn't get near
you, and the fellow who did it escaped in the crowd."

"He didn't mean to shove me; it was an accident, or he was drunk."

"Neither one nor the other, and you know it. Why, when I overhauled
you, you almost smashed me! You thought I was going to jump you.
Somebody's after your life, Pete, and you can't tell me anything
different. Aside from all else, the way you keep looking round as
though expecting----"

"I'm looking at Frean," I said. "He has just come in. I hope he doesn't
land over here."

But he did, seeing that I observed him. "Killing the fatted calf, eh,
Ashton?" he greeted.

Ashton received him coldly and didn't ask him to join us; nor,
naturally, did I. Frean didn't appear to notice this; he draped his
elegant person over the back of a chair and smiled at us, particularly
at me. There was something very irritating in his smile.

"Lawton's been having a wonderful time," he continued. "I suppose he
has been telling you all about it? Romantic rural drama, you know, with
me for the villain of the piece. Only for me, he'd still be down in Sea
Bright washing automobiles and paying court to the cook. I turned up at
the wrong time."

"I thought," said I, keeping my temper, "you'd have spread the joyful
news of my being alive. It seems you didn't. I wonder why?"

"Why should I?" he asked blandly. "I'm not your press agent, no, nor
your conscience either. It wouldn't have been a very friendly act to
set the police after you. I knew you'd give yourself up; better late
than never. I don't suppose you're hiding here, eh? Oh, no offense,
Lawton; don't get excited now, it's so dangerous for a man of your
build. I'm afraid you'll have a stroke some day. Well, cheerio; I've
got to amble. Sorry I can't partake of the fatted calf."

"Rotter!" muttered Ashton, as Frean smiled himself off. "It's clear he
doesn't believe your car was stolen, so I didn't say anything about
your satisfactory interview with the district attorney. Let him find it
out for himself; it'll make him mad. He never liked you, Pete, even at
college. I've always felt that."

"I suppose he didn't, and yet I hardly knew him."

"No, but he knew you, of course. That little set of decadent highbrows
he flocked with had no use for Brokaw Field; they were jealous of any
reputation made there. There's a set like that at every university,
more's the pity; fake highbrows who pretend to scoff at athletics, fake
high priests of culture. He has turned out just what I expected."

"I'm sorry for his people, yes, and for him too. I mean, Tommy, I know
what it is to have too much money; believe me, it's worse than having
too little. Oh, I don't mean in a physical sense; but if you aren't
mighty careful, it rots you body and soul. I've been through it and you
haven't. I think Frean's people are to blame in a way; they shouldn't
have allowed him all that dough----"

"You're too soft, Pete. I've tried to help Frean but I'm through, like
all his friends, and you are too, if you've any sense. Cut him out;
he's a total loss. I haven't even words to waste on him, for I want to
hear about this enemy who's trying to measure you for a wooden kimono.
Who is it? Come, out with it!"

"I'd rather not, Tommy, if you don't mind. Of course, it isn't a
question of not trusting you or anything like that; aside from all
else, I don't want you to get mixed up in it. It isn't any little
simple affair--no, I won't tell you----"

But I did; I had to. He gave me no peace until I had told him
practically everything. Ashton was like that, pertinacious and dogged;
he would have stuck to me all night, canceled his Philadelphia
engagement, until he had got the truth out of me. Nor was it simply
curiosity on his part, though he had seen and guessed so much that he
was dying to hear all; no, he had a very real regard for me and wished
to be of service. After all, I couldn't have had a better adviser; he
was junior member of a noted criminal law firm and well on the way to
making a name for himself. All the same I didn't want to tell him.

"Well, that's the queerest thing I ever heard, and I've heard some
queer things in my time," he said as I finished. "The Black Company! No
relation, I suppose, to Conan Doyle's 'White Company?'"

"I knew you'd laugh, Tommy, but----"

"I'm not laughing; not a bit of it. But if I hadn't actually seen that
fellow shove you--and at that I never got a good look at him. I think
I was the only one who saw him do what he did. What sort of a combine
is it? And the Black King! It must be some political conspiracy, not
necessarily against America. I mean actively. For instance, there may
be a plot brewing to put a new ruler on one of the tottering thrones of
Europe; they're all pretty wabbly these days. And, of course, if wind
of this plot got known--you see it may mean a new ally for the Central
Powers----"

"I've thought of all that, but Varney could have nothing to do with it."

"You never can tell; he's living at Sea Bright and that's Washington,
you may say, for the next three months. Every political adventurer will
make it his stamping ground. Intrigue is in the air; everybody seems to
be engaged in it and the country is overrun with secret agents. It may
not be a coincidence that this summer Varney should be a neighbor of
President Wilson. No, you can't tell, Pete; he may have more interest
in world politics than you or any one imagines. Why, if I'm not
mistaken, his brother has some political job. This alleged disease may
be only a blind, something to keep him under cover----"

"I don't believe Varney has anything to do with the Black Company; I
mean he's not a member but a potential victim, though I don't know in
what way."

"And yet he's intimate with Frean who, you say, is a member?"

"Yes, on probation--according to the man Corby. You see I really know
nothing for certain; I can't find out anything. It's all guesswork, but
after those two attempts on my life I can't think the thing a joke; at
least I fail to see the humor. The whole thing is so bizarre that the
police would only laugh at me; you know they would. I haven't any real
evidence to give them."

Ashton nodded and fell silent. "You were wise in keeping this to
yourself," he said at length. "I understand why you didn't want to tell
even me. Of course it won't get past me. But it's far too big a thing
for any amateur handling; it may prove bigger even than we suspect. And
we've got to do something, Pete. Now there's only one man to handle a
case like this--Lisping Jimmie."

"I agree with you. He's the very man I had in mind from the first, the
only man I meant to tell. I've got the money and can give him a free
hand till the cows come home. That's one advantage of wealth."

"Well, see him first thing to-morrow," said Ashton with decision. "I
would say to-night only that I happen to know he's in Washington and
won't be home till to-morrow. See him as soon as you can. Meanwhile
I'll see what I can find out in Philly. As it turns out, it's a
providential thing that I've got to go there to-night, that I met you
and had this talk. You drew blank in Philly, but I should have better
luck; I mean that I'm educated to the investigating business and you
aren't. I think I'll be able to find out something for Blunt to work
on, put him that much ahead of the game."

"Well, for Heaven's sake, be careful, Tommy! You don't know these
fellows. I'd much rather you stood out of it; I do indeed----"

"Rats!" laughed Ashton. "I've legitimate business there and they'll
never suspect me. Anyway, I'm a match for these cowardly highbinders.
You'll see."

CHAPTER XIV

I CONSULT LISPING JIMMIE

The following morning found me in the offices of the Blunt Detective
Agency. James Blunt, popularly known the length and breadth of the land
as "Lisping Jimmie," represented the best criminal-investigation talent
in the market, and I knew that I would need the best. At heart I didn't
believe that Ashton would be able to learn any more than I had. Blunt,
however, would.

It was the first time I had met him, though I had followed his record,
like every one else, since he first leaped into fame as a headquarters
"bull" in the old Mulberry Street days. Since then he had further
gilded his name, and incidentally his pocket, in a dozen famous cases,
and the reputation of the private agency he had established was so high
that its services were even enlisted for difficult government jobs.

Naturally, such talent did not stoop to picayune cases, nor were its
fees picayune, either; James Blunt was the foremost specialist in moral
diseases of society, and entitled to a specialist's prices, yet he
wasn't mercenary.

Many stories have been woven round his remarkable personality--among
others, that his name was assumed, and that he had left Yale under
romantic circumstances--but what undoubtedly endeared him to the man in
the street was the fact that his humanity was as big as his intellect,
that love for his profession took precedence over all else, and that
he had handled many a case for nothing. If you were in a hole without
a red cent, and your wail reached the quick ears of Lisping Jimmie, he
would pull you out for nothing. Another fact was--and undoubtedly this
was responsible for his great and continued success--he took a hand
personally in every case, and worked as hard as any of his operatives.

Even now, when his reputation and fortune were made, he didn't content
himself with lying back in a chair and throwing orders at subordinates.
I knew then that the difficult business of the Black Company would be
cleaned up as quickly as possible, and that if he couldn't do it, none
could.

"Before I begin, Mr. Blunt," I said, after introducing myself, "I want
you to believe that, no matter what you may have heard about me, what
I'm about to relate can't be charged to the account of John Barleycorn.
In the vernacular, however bizarre or fantastic it may seem, it's not
the dream of a booze fighter. If we start with that understanding,
we'll get on much better."

He removed his nose glasses--I had heard they didn't magnify, and that
his vision was really hawklike--and rubbed them with a pale heliotrope
silk handkerchief that matched his scarf and socks. I had already
verified the story that his dress was fastidious and exquisite. For
the rest there was nothing of the traditional sleuth about him. He
looked just the sort of average, clean-cut, successful young business
man you see everywhere. His eyes were remarkably far apart, and with
the pronounced lumps over them which are supposed to denote the
calculating faculty, while in his manner there was a hint of languor
and affectation which I knew to be characteristic.

"Mr. Lawton," he replied, with a faint, pleasing smile, and the
peculiar lisp that had earned him his nickname, and which I needn't
attempt to reproduce, "you can't say anything in the bizarre line
too strong for me. After fifteen years' experience I've come to the
conclusion, like some investigators in other lines, that in this world
nothing is impossible. As for the rest, whatever popular legend may say
of your thirst, I should give it as my opinion, if appearance goes for
anything, that you haven't overindulged it for at least three weeks."

"That's quite true," I said. "Of course, you've seen the morning
papers, so I needn't explain where I've been for those three weeks. But
there's another news item to which I wish to draw your attention--that
of the unknown man who was nearly killed last evening by a subway
express."

"Yes, I saw it. Supposed to be a would-be suicide who repented
providentially at the last moment, or the victim of an accident. So you
were that man, and it was a deliberate play for your life? Oh, yes,
it's an old dodge, but safe if pulled off right."

It was a comfort to meet an intellect that marched ahead instead of
trailing behind; that made its own swift, unerring deductions, instead
of asking a lot of long-winded questions; that could believe without
having chapter, verse, and argument.

"Have you ever heard," I said, "of an organization calling itself
the Black Company? A body of presumably sane men, representing such
a fantastic idea as the black chessmen, who are known to one another
as bishops, pawns, and so forth, and who even correspond by means of
a secret code compiled from imaginary chess games? There's something
bizarre for you, Mr. Blunt. And yet it was a member of such an
organization that made the play for my life last night. Don't ask me
how I know. I haven't a shred of evidence, yet I'm absolutely sure of
it."

At first mention of the secret society, I noticed that the rather
sleepy look departed from Mr. Blunt's eyes. "Dear me," he said mildly,
"this promises to be a bit interesting. I'm something of a chess crank
myself."

He pushed a button under his desk, and to a long-nosed man who entered
said briskly: "The evidence in the Joe Turner and Andy Quigg cases,
Fleming. Oh, yes, and the Isaac Goldmann affair."

Fleming disappeared, reappeared, and disappeared again like a phantom,
the only evidence of his movements being a loose-leaf volume which he
left at his employer's elbow.

"Now for your story, Mr. Lawton," said Blunt, and I opened up and
told everything. I related every little incident from the time I left
Princeton on that crazy ride, to the moment of my entering Blunt's
office. I made a secret of nothing, for I even related what Hannay had
told me about my father and Mr. Varney.

If I am ordered to build a bridge or construct a dam, I don't expect
some of the blue prints to be held out on me, and that was the way
I felt about this. I was engaging a master workman, and if I wanted
results, it was up to me to see he had all the specifications. I think
I told the whole thing in as few words as possible, for he never asked
a question, merely taking several notes in shorthand as I went along.

"Now, that's absolutely all of it," I finished, "and here's the note
I got from Corby and the two code messages. I won't be springing some
all-important fact on you at the eleventh hour, and I don't think for
a minute I can teach you your business any more than you can teach me
mine. I'm not here to obstruct, but to help, if I can, and I'll take
orders, not give them. Finally, I'm not out for revenge on anybody,
even Frean, and if the whole thing can be kept quiet, so much the
better. If there's a criminal gang after Varney I want it squelched,
that's all, and I don't care what money or personal effort I spend in
doing it."

"Mr. Lawton," he said dryly, "any time you think of giving up the
engineering profession and want another job, come to me. I don't
distribute compliments idly, but I say that of the many people who have
tried at various times to teach me my business, you certainly would be
the most qualified. As a client, your brevity, clearness, candor, and
grasp of essential detail have been a refreshing surprise, while your
whole conduct of this case has been very creditable indeed. Your only
mistake was in saying anything to Mr. Scallon and this friend of yours."

"I couldn't get out of telling Ashton; he saw that affair in the
subway. He is to be trusted absolutely. I've known him since prep
school days, and can answer for his character and ability. He's as
sharp, close, and true as a wolf trap."

"Well, that's something, and I'm inclined to believe you're a pretty
good judge of character."

"As for Scallon, I wasn't taking any chances and so I didn't say
a word about the Black Company. I was afraid he might pass it on
unwittingly."

"Yes, but, of course, you see the whole point is this: that though
you didn't say anything about the Black Company, you did ask a lot of
questions about Mr. Varney. You may have been overheard, and they could
put two and two together, especially if they knew you'd been to the
hospital asking about Joyce. Up to that point I believe you may have
succeeded in disarming suspicion to a great extent; they didn't know
if you were really harmless or dangerous. Once they were sure that you
were dangerous, they tried to short circuit you before you could use
your money and information against them, and they'll keep on trying for
revenge if nothing else."

"Yes, I suppose they will. Then you really know something about this
secret society?"

"It has been suspected for some time that such an organization existed,
but up to the present our only grounds for suspicion lay in these
three cases," picking up the loose-leaf volume from his desk. "And
by 'we' I mean not only this agency, but the police departments of
New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. All three cases happened in these
three cities, and within the past two years. The first was that of
a young medical student called Turner; shot and killed one night in
Broad Street, Philadelphia. Assailant unknown. Last conscious words
were: 'The Black Company.' Here, then, is the first and last mention we
have of that name. The second case happens six months later in Beacon
Street, Boston, and at night also. A saloon keeper named Andy Quigg
is stabbed through the lungs, and expires in the arms of a policeman,
murmuring 'The King's Rook's Pawn.' The third and last case happens
here one night last winter, on Fourth Avenue. Jewish rabbi, name of
Isaac Goldmann, garroted on returning home from the synagogue. Found
on him was a typewritten chess game in the algebraic notation, and a
half-defaced phrase running: 'This is the secret code of----' Some
policeman very obligingly destroyed this paper as unimportant before I
had a chance to see it."

Mr. Blunt replaced the book on the desk and went on: "Now, here we have
three victims in three different walks of life, in three cities, and of
widely different ages--a young medical student, a middle-aged saloon
keeper, and an old rabbi. In no case was robbery the motive, nor would
the personal histories of these three men seem to suggest their being
mixed up with criminals in any way. Of the three, certainly not Rabbi
Goldmann, who was something of an idol among his people on the East
Side. Turner belonged to a rich family, while Quigg was prosperous and
respectable. Nothing was ever discovered by the police that would throw
any light on these three murders.

"You understand," he finished, "that those three were distinctively
police cases, and that this is the first time I've had a case dealing
with the Black Company. I may say that the police have little if any
belief that such an organization exists, and, lacking all evidence, in
face of six months' silence, I was beginning to think I had attached,
privately, too much significance to those three cases, when you now
walk in and confirm all my suspicions."

"You agree with me, then, that it's a criminal organization, not
politico-social or connected in any way with this Prussian propaganda,
but simply out for profit?"

"In the main, yes. But I know no more about it than you. They may
employ everything, from blackmail to burglary--though not of the crude
variety. It is clear that they are rich, powerful, clever, and utterly
unscrupulous. We know of these three murders. But how many more have
occurred--the sort of 'accident' that happened to you last night? They
are not a band of ordinary thugs. And so," he added gravely, "you're a
marked man, Mr. Lawton. You've kicked up an invaluable find at great
peril to yourself. You have discovered and solved their secret code,
and you know three of their members. They haven't prevented you from
delivering that information, but I warn you they will try to take it
out of your hide. I'll get you a permit to pack a gun, and detail a man
to shadow you. You won't like it, I know, but lack of precaution or
foolhardiness is only playing the other fellow's game.

"Now," he continued, "you might have saved yourself that trip to the
hospital for it was a foregone conclusion that Joyce wouldn't tell a
story that could be so easily disproved. That fellow at Varney's is the
real Joyce, and his stay in the hospital accounts for you being able
to take his place for so long. He was out of his head for a week, and
therefore couldn't notify his superiors what had happened, and they
naturally thought he was on the job. As soon as he was able, he put
them wise, and so for at least a week they knew you were an impostor.
That explains why you got no more code messages, and why Corby told
you nothing further. I don't pretend to understand the fact of Joyce
and you being robbed by the same party; it may be no more than a
coincidence, or it may mean the entrance of a complicating factor--some
enemy of the secret society, though that doesn't explain his attack
on you. We must follow that line, try to discover the man's identity.
Unfortunately the remains are useless for that purpose. In general
appearance, of course, he resembled you, but can you add some definite
detail?"

"Yes. I noticed a striking deformity. As he pointed out the imaginary
lights of New York with his left hand--he had the crank in his right
ready to wallop me--I saw that it had six fingers, or, more correctly,
five and a thumb. Now, I also saw that night more than one moon in the
sky, yet I'm sure about this extra finger; it was rudimentary and as
if stuck on to the little one. That hand must have been cut to pieces
in the accident, or it would have proved that the victim wasn't Peter
Lawton."

"Yes, he was so badly mangled that we'll never be able to prove that
extra finger. All the same, and despite your confession as to the
abnormal number of moons, this is a valuable item. Now," switching the
conversation suddenly to another subject, "what do you know about this
friend of yours, Howard Roupell? Why was he at the station?"

"He told me he had come to meet a friend who hadn't turned up." I then
added that Roupell was no more than an acquaintance, one of the many I
had made six months ago. "I really know very little about him except
that he's a retired broker and man about town. One of the kind you may
meet for years and never know any better. He's a member of one of my
clubs, and goes in a bit for first nights, the bottle, and bridge. Of
course he can't have anything to do with this business; a genial old
Falstaff, if a bit of a bore, and about the last person you'd think of
being mixed up with murder and sudden death."

"You never can tell," said Mr. Blunt, with his faint, pleasing smile.
"Superfluous flesh is a great asset to malefactors. If you want to be
a really successful crook, you must first feed up, for no jury likes
to convict a fat man. They can't believe he's really so bad as he's
painted. Of course, Mr. Roupell didn't shove you in front of that
train, but he may have deputed a pawn to do so. I've an idea that in
this agreeable organization the pawns do all the actual dirty work,
until, as in the game of chess, they reach the eighth file and are
promoted; then they become a capital piece, with a pawn of their own
to direct. Perhaps they are advanced a square according to a certain
number of successful enterprises. Who knows? Meanwhile we'll take a
run down to Center Street and see if you can recognize anybody in the
gallery. It's better than my private collection."

Although, for the sake of clearness, I have given our dialogue in
sequence, it was really broken up into brief lisping sentences, and had
frequent interruptions. Lisping Jimmie wasn't given to rounded periods,
and, moreover, had a trick of leaving phrases unfinished. You had to
march ahead with him, grasp the conclusion which he considered obvious,
or be left in a hopeless muddle; and while he talked he worked. The
long-nosed phantom, Fleming, was out and in the room constantly, taking
the briefest but clearest orders. When we left to visit the rogues'
gallery, trailed by a couple of operatives to see if any one followed
us, the efficient machinery of the famous agency had been set in motion
against the enemy.

It did not need Blunt's reminder to convince me that the task set
us was no easy one, and might consume months. The securing of the
necessary evidence against such an astute and cunning organization
as this had shown itself to be would require infinite patience and
caution, as well as enterprise. Obviously, it wasn't a simple matter
of arresting Joyce, Corby, and Frean out of hand; even if we had the
authority, based on the proper evidence, that would be only scotching
the tail of the venomous reptile.

"What we want are the men higher up," said Blunt. "Of course, they're
warned now. It's an even chance that they know of your visit to me. In
that case they may abandon whatever game they're up to with Mr. Varney."

"Do you know anything of this peculiar disease of his?" I asked. "I
mean, could the symptoms of Bronze Skin be produced by artificial
means, say some chemical?"

"I don't think so, but that's one of the things we'll have to find out.
We must follow every line."

Naturally I didn't like the idea of Mr. Varney's past being probed,
but there was no help for it. The greatest puzzle was why Joyce should
have been installed in the house, what connection there was between
Varney and the Black Company. I was convinced it was a wholly innocent
one on his part, that he was a prospective victim, but Blunt was taking
nothing for granted. He meant to investigate everything and everybody.

"Your theory that they're attempting his life by some subtle poison
which gives the symptoms of Addison's disease is ingenious," he
said. "He first developed it in Philadelphia, you say, the reputed
headquarters of the society. And it would explain Joyce's presence if
the poison had to be constantly administered. Yes, it's ingenious, but
not sound, for it doesn't explain Frean's or Corby's part. No, we have
yet to find the key move to this problem."

"In that code message what does it mean by 'Varney moves on second?'
Has it a hidden meaning, or are we to take it literally? It may mean
any square from king's rook's to queen's rook's second--any one of
eight squares. Is something to happen on that particular square? I've
racked my brains but I can't get any meaning out of it."

"It may mean a date."

"But Varney isn't going to move anywhere on the second; he's booked
there for the summer. Anyway, that's one thing they don't know--that I
found that message."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," said Blunt. "It's hard to say what
they know or don't know. They seem to have an excellent spy system. How
long is your friend, Mr. Ashton, staying in Philadelphia?"

"Two or three days."

"Oh!" said Lisping Jimmie, and I caught a rather queer look in his
eyes, which I was to remember later.

Our visit to the gallery was a distinct failure. I scrutinized profiles
and full faces of every conceivable type, until I was almost dizzy, but
in no case could I identify one as that of Joyce or Corby. Curiously
enough, the only photo that stirred my memory had nothing to do with
that worthy couple. "See here," I said, pointing it out. "If this
fellow had a mustache, he'd look like the one that stole my car. At
least, he reminds me of him. He had a hook nose and bushy brows like
that."

"I'm not familiar with his map," said Blunt. "H'm, Charlie Banks, doing
time for grand larceny, eh? I'll have to look Charlie up."

"By George!" I exclaimed. "Supposing it was a false mustache? Look
here, I haven't told you about that; I thought, of course, I'd only
imagined the thing. I thought it was impossible, like all those moons
I saw. But, apart from those moons, I seem to have observed things
pretty accurately that night. Now when I found this fellow cranking my
car----" And I explained about the wonderful automatic mustache that
was capable of intelligent self-movement.

As I finished, an official came in--I learned afterward that he was
head of the detective bureau--and nodded familiarly to my companion.
"Heard there's been a murder over in Philly," he said at length
laconically. "New Yorker by the name of Ashton. Beats hell how business
keeps up."

CHAPTER XV

A WEEK'S EVENTS

A week had passed since the tragic death of Ashton, a week that dragged
interminably, and which to me was one of the bitterest and most
miserable I had ever known. The relief experienced at finding myself
innocent of the Red Bank fatality--I had been fully exonerated in the
press, thanks to the man Taylor and Mr. Varney--was short-lived, for
I had merely exchanged one burden for another. I accounted myself
indirectly responsible for the foul murder of one of my best friends,
a friend for whom I would have laid down my own life, if need be. I
remembered now Blunt's queer expression when I said Ashton would be
home in a few days. Little did I think at the time of the tragic manner
of that homecoming.

Poor Tommy Ashton and his boast that he was a match for such cowardly
enemies! How strange and awful to think that but a few weeks ago
he was attending the burial service over what was thought to be my
mangled remains, and that now I should be the mourner and he, in truth,
the corpse! It was one of the incomprehensible and ironic tragedies
of life. How I wished now, when too late, that I had stuck to my
intention of telling him nothing about the Black Company; and yet,
looking back on it all, I hardly see how I could have done it. As
Blunt said, it seemed to be one of those things that are just bound
to happen. I had not wanted to offend Ashton, and even if I had kept
silent at the risk of our friendship, in all likelihood the result
would have been the same.

"I expected something like this," said Blunt. "I believed him to be in
as great peril as you yourself, but I didn't wish to alarm you. I could
do very little, for you didn't know his address. I wired Philadelphia
headquarters to look him up at all the hotels and keep an eye on him,
but it was too late. Of course, there isn't a shred of evidence to
show that the Black Company is responsible, but I think we are safe in
assuming that. They meant to bag him as well as you. Now, you mustn't
take this too hard, or start brooding over it. As I say, it isn't what
you told him, but what they took for granted you told him. You were
seen with him----"

"Yes, by Frean. And, by Heaven, if he's responsible----"

"Steady now; we don't know that he is, so don't do anything rash if you
happen to meet him. You won't for the present, unless you go out of
your way, for he has returned to Sea Bright."

Blunt then told me that he had verified what I had learned about Mr.
Fremstad and Joyce. "Another foregone conclusion," he said. "They work
through innocent and respectable people. That accident which made
Mr. Fremstad give up motoring could have been engineered by Joyce if
need be. Anyway, he leaves with the best credentials. Taken with the
downfall of Jules, it looks undoubtedly, as you said, as if there had
been a carefully thought-out and long-matured plot to plant Joyce with
Varney. Jules has disappeared, but we're looking him up to find who
helped him off the water-wagon in Philadelphia. It was Corby, for all
his buttermilk diet, who continued the good work in Sea Bright. That's
the report of the operative covering him. Another of my men has taken
the place of Williams, the gardener."

"If they had nothing to fear from Mr. Fremstad and Joyce being
investigated, the one being innocent and the other having been actually
a patient in the Charity Hospital, why was poor Ashton killed?"

"But we don't know what line he was following," replied Blunt. "I
think it's fairly obvious that he must have hit on evidence of some
kind not connected with Fremstad, or, necessarily, Joyce, which made
his removal compulsory. What took him to that low quarter of the town?
If we knew all that happened from the time he left his hotel to the
finding of his remains in that back alley in Chinatown, we'd know a
lot. I believe that Rabbi Goldmann was put out of the way for the same
reason--stumbling on incriminating evidence. But in your friend's case
it was no accident; he got what he went after--some of it, anyway--but
he wasn't allowed to get away with it."

Mr. Blunt then urged me again to have patience. "Don't think I'm trying
to hog this thing; I'm working hand in hand with the police of half a
dozen cities. I know you're ready to spend your whole fortune to avenge
your friend, but all the money in the world couldn't hurry matters.
Criminal investigation isn't what you read about in some books; against
an organization like this it isn't a one-man job, but the slow forging
of a chain, link by link, by many hands. All that it is possible to
do is being done, and you may rest assured of that. Remember that a
gun that goes off at half cock seldom hits anything. Finally, the sort
of detective that has marvelous bursts of inspiration and can tell
from the way your hair is parted what you had for breakfast, has no
counterpart in real life. Whatever stories have been told about me, and
which may have given you an exaggerated idea of my ability, success
never came to me except through hard work and the application of some
intelligence. There's no royal road nor short cut in my business, Mr.
Lawton, any more than there is in your own or others."

This common-sense talk did me a lot of good, for I was getting
captious, and in the mood for demanding miracles. So I apologized for
the impatience I had shown, and asked if there wasn't something I could
do to help, aside from spending money hiring other fellows to do the
work.

"Yes," said Lisping Jimmie promptly, "it would help a lot if you took a
vacation in Timbuktu until this thing's cut and dried. No, I don't mean
you're a nuisance; far from it. I mean it would relieve me to know you
were out of harm's way. I know you won't go, but I assure you it would
be the best and wisest thing to do. You can't take an active hand in
the game because you're known."

"I'm in no more danger than, say, you yourself. No, I can't run away.
It's not that I'm a hero, but if I'm not able to take an active part I
simply have to stick around and see what's doing. I can't help it."

I don't pretend that I found any keen enjoyment in the idea that some
one was gunning for me, and that I had only escaped so far by the
exercise of vigilance and precaution. When I walked abroad I carried an
automatic pistol slung, according to Blunt's advice, in a holster under
my left arm beneath my coat.

Drawing it was a matter of a second, but it was quite a different
matter whether I could hit anything short of the Woolworth Building,
for I hadn't been brought up with firearms. I had misgivings about
the weapon, especially when sticking the clip of cartridges in the
handle--queer place to load a gun--and I always made dead sure that
the safety catches were on the job. My idea would have been a thick
blackthorn, something I could take a good swipe with, and be sure of
getting home, but I must admit the pistol gave me quite a martial
feeling and desperadolike air.

I was shepherded, too, like any ewe lamb, a novel experience for one
who has had a long tussle single-handed with the world. One of the
agency's men was on hall service in the Belvedere, while another picked
me up and kept me in sight wherever I went.

This last was a little, ferret-eyed person called Nast, who looked like
a broken-down old-clothes man; he was a painstaking and conscientious
disciple, and as hard to get rid of as a bad name. More than once I
tried to shake him, for mere diversion's sake, but he always turned up
like a bad penny. I believe he must have been an ex-bill collector or
process server.

Of course, my movements were restricted, too; I wasn't to stay out late
at night, or go wandering off the beaten track. All this proved very
irksome, and I wished another try would be made for my life, if only to
justify these measures and help break the monotony.

As the end of the week approached, and nothing happened, I began to
think the enemy had cold feet, and was scared off. This was supported
by the news that Frean was back in town. He had taken his old quarters
at the Marlborough, while Corby had disappeared. Blunt wasn't telling
me everything, however, and I had an idea Corby wasn't so securely
hidden as he may have imagined.

I was no nearer solving the key move of the problem--why Joyce had been
"planted" with Mr. Varney. The latter's past had been thoroughly raked
over, and not a solitary fact was unearthed that would go to show him
connected in any way with the Black Company. Nor, according to medical
authority, could the symptoms of Addison's disease be approximated by
the administration of any known poison. Thus another of my theories
went by the board.

Meanwhile I had sent Mr. Varney a check, amounting to the three weeks'
wages paid me, and a formal note thanking him for helping to establish
my alibi regarding the Red Bank affair. He had not appeared in New
York, under the plea of ill health, but had made a deposition as to the
hour he had met and talked with me at the crossroads. The check which I
sent was returned promptly with the indorsement, in his neat, crabbed
handwriting: "The laborer is worthy of his hire." This at least showed
less venom toward me, and I began to hope I might eventually reach a
better understanding with him, but I knew it would be fatal to try to
rush matters. Only by the future could I wipe out the past unworthy six
months and show I had ambition to be something more than a dissolute
moneyed loafer.

I was working hard with the plans of the engineering school, and the
other projects Mr. Hannay and I had mapped out, while I was considering
an offer made by my old employers, Cable & Co., to come back as a
working partner. So I was kept busy.

If I have said nothing further about the Demon, it must not be supposed
that he did not trouble me any longer, that my victory was sweeping and
lightly achieved, or that I considered it absolutely final.

By that I mean I could only consider it final when, through the process
of time and nature, the morbid craving left me. An inheritance such
as mine is not killed instantly by all the poignant lessons, all the
vows and good resolutions in the world. It is a matter of daily, hourly
battling, of fierce, grueling conflict, of slow but inexorable wearing
down. Often, when the long day was done, I breathed a silent prayer
that it found me unashamed.

If I saw little progress in other directions, the end of the week at
least cleared up the mystery about the man who had stolen my car. It
was proved beyond all possible doubt that he was the "Charlie" Banks
whose picture had caught my attention in the rogues' gallery. It was
shown by the Bertillon record that his left hand bore the deformity I
had mentioned to Blunt. He was the man the nurse at the hospital had
told me about; he had been serving a long sentence in Moyamensing and
had escaped the night of Joyce's assault.

"It simply shows how a case may be complicated by the entrance of
outside factors," said Blunt. "This fellow had nothing to do with the
organization we're after. He robbed Joyce and you simply to help his
get-away, for he had no money, and needed a change of clothes. That
mustache was a fake, as you suggested, and if he hadn't been smashed to
pulp that fact would have been discovered."

CHAPTER XVI

SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES

I had dropped most of the old crowd--rather, they dropped me, not
approving of my new mode of life--but that evening, Saturday, I dined
with Roupell at Sherry's. It was one of those invitations, long
standing, you can't avoid without giving serious offense, and I had
nothing against the jovial Falstaff. Blunt's remark that he might be
connected with the Black Company was simply a haphazard one, for all my
acquaintances might be open to the same suspicion, and I had thought
little more about it.

"What!" he exclaimed, visibly affected, when I turned down his offer of
a drink. "This is a staggering blow. Come, surely you're not going to
compel me to drink alone? Only one glass, just to be sociable."

"Not one drop," I said, though every fiber of me was crying out in
protest. It was my first big temptation, and I set my teeth to meet it.

"You don't mean you've gone temperance?" he asked incredulously. "I
heard a tale to that effect, but couldn't believe it. Is it because of
that Red Bank affair? My dear man, a miss is as good as a mile. Why do
penance for something never committed?"

"No credit to me that it wasn't. I can never forget what might and, by
all odds, should have happened. No, I won't take anything, thank you,
and that's final."

So, still arguing and protesting, he consumed his own with such slow
and evident relish that I could have cracked him over the head. "Sure
you won't have a little?" he kept saying every once in a while; and
then he would squint at his glass against the light and smack his lips.

"If I come through this," I thought, clenching my hands under the
table, "I can come through anything."

"Awfully tragic about poor Ashton," he remarked presently, sighing
windily. "Haven't the police done anything yet? Ah, these 'business'
trips! But, then, boys will be boys."

"You're entirely wrong if you think he was on the loose," I said hotly.
"I know that some of the papers even went so far as to hint at opium
smoking, but any one who knew Tommy Ashton at all----"

"But consider the circumstances, Lawton. What else took him to
Chinatown?"

"He must have had business there."

"What kind? Come now, of course it won't go any farther, but between
ourselves we may as well admit--eh?"

I think it was a sudden and transient gleam in his cushioned eyes,
a mere hint of watchful suspicion so startlingly different from his
perennial jovial twinkle, that acted on me like a douche of ice water
and stilled my too ready tongue. Perhaps it was only a trick of the
light, but, anyway, I found myself regarding Howard Roupell with a new
interest, while suddenly mindful of Blunt's remarks about superfluous
flesh and malefactors.

For all its indulgent lines, the man's face was powerful in a sense,
and I wondered if there was a reverse side to the jovial mask--if mask
it were. On the other hand, he might be as innocent and harmless as I
had hitherto believed, with no ulterior motive in urging me to drink,
or in his talk about Ashton. The knowledge that a hidden and ubiquitous
enemy was gunning for me was having its inevitable effect, and I was
becoming suspicious of every one.

The entrance of Arnold Frean at this point changed the conversation.

"Hello," said Roupell, "there's that young scallawag. Since his father
chucked him out he's more affluent than ever. Wonder where he gets it?
Touting, I suppose. Hope he doesn't see us. You know, I'm no Puritan,
Lawton, but, between you and me, that's one fellow I never could
stomach. There isn't a straight hair in his head."

Being totally bald himself, Roupell never could have this criticism
passed on him. I refused to sit in judgment; and Frean, catching sight
of us, strolled over. It was our first meeting since that night in the
Admiral and, thinking of poor Ashton, my impulse now was to give Arnold
Frean a bit of all that was coming to him. If he had not actually
plotted or participated in Ashton's death, he was at least an associate
of those who had. But mindful of Blunt's emphatic request, and that a
hasty or ill-judged action of mine might ruin far-reaching plans of
which I knew nothing, I forced myself to meet Frean with composure,
though I could assume no show of cordiality. Roupell's greeting was
also chilly, but Frean was neither discouraged nor embarrassed. It took
a lot to shake his high opinion of himself.

"Awful crush to-night," he said. "May I butt in here? Thanks!" And he
sat down without waiting for an assent. I thought he wasn't looking
particularly well; his face was a bit drawn. He would take nothing but
mineral water.

"What!" exclaimed Roupell, as if startled out of his dignity and
aloofness. "What's the world coming to! You and Lawton both--two in one
night! This is an awful shock. Have the two of you fallen in love?"

A faint color tinged Frean's cheek, while I was uncomfortably aware
that my own countenance wasn't as impassive as I might have wished.

"Aha, that's it!" exclaimed Roupell, giving his loud, jovial laugh.
"Nothing but the ladies--that is, some of 'em--could produce this
tremendous catastrophe. Sworn off, eh? Till after the honeymoon, of
course. Who are the fortunate fair? Let us hope for the plural, that
it isn't a case of the old unhappy triangle. I'm afraid, Frean, you
wouldn't stand much of a chance against Lawton--I mean, the reformed
article. Consider his beauty and purse, a sort of Apollo-Midas, going
in strong for temperance and charity."

"When I think of marrying, Roupell, I'll let you know first--it would
be the simplest way of sending out announcements," yawned Frean. "If
I'm not drinking, it's on account of my liver, not my heart." But I
saw that Roupell's words had gone home, for Frean glowered at me for a
moment, and I sensed what Blunt would have called "the entrance of an
outside complicating factor." He was in love, or near it, with Brenda
Gelette.

"You got off mighty lucky from that Red Bank mess," he sneered
presently. "Nothing like being rich. How much did it cost you?"

"More, perhaps, than you would care to pay--simply the truth."

"You call me a liar?" he cried.

"Here! Remember where you are," exclaimed Roupell. "This is no place to
settle differences."

"I haven't called you anything," I said to Frean, "but you're at
liberty to draw your own inference. If you think I paid any hush
money or tried to square the case, you're mistaken. My innocence was
established on the facts."

"Oh, of course," he sneered. "You can establish anything if you're rich
enough; and that tale about your car being stolen was awfully thin."

"Well, don't worry about it," I said, pushing back my chair and
determined to keep my temper. "Sorry, Roupell, but I have to cut along."

"Hold on," said Frean. "You've given me the lie, Lawton, and I demand
satisfaction. I'll fight you with anything you please, and I know where
we can go. You can bring along Roupell here to see fair play."

"I say, that's hardly in my line, you know," protested Roupell, in some
distress. "Still, Lawton, I'll be happy to oblige. I think a lesson in
manners wouldn't do some one any harm."

"Thanks, but I'm not in the business," I replied. "Don't be an ass,
Frean, but go home and cool your head. If you're not drunk, you ought
to be."

"You're a rank coward!"

"Perhaps I am," I agreed. "Anyway, I refuse to quarrel about it." And I
left the room, marveling somewhat at my new-found self-control.

In the cloakroom Roupell said: "That fellow needs a good scragging,
and you ought to give it to him, Lawton. The Lord knows I'm a man of
peace, but you can't lie down under that insult. Take him up and finish
it to-night. I'll second you. If you don't, he'll brand you all over
town." Falstaff had grown very warlike, perhaps, like his prototype,
because some one else would be doing the actual fighting, and when I
signified utter indifference about the branding process and refused
absolutely to do any "scragging," he was visibly affected and seemed
quite put out.

As I walked the few blocks to the Belvedere, closely trailed by Nast,
I decided that on the following Monday, when I next saw Blunt, I would
direct his attention to Howard Roupell.

The next afternoon, while strolling aimlessly down the Avenue, one
of the Sunday four o'clock throng, I met Brenda Gelette. Indeed, we
actually collided as I turned the corner of the Waldorf. I had no idea
she was in town, and it was not until I had doffed my straw bonnet and
was voicing the conventional apology that I recognized her. We stared
at each other for a moment, and I saw the angry color mounting to her
cheek.

"Oh, how do--er--you do, Miss Gelette?" I finished lamely.

"I--er--do very well, thank you, Mr. Lawton," she mimicked acidly, and
marched past me toward my old friend, the maroon de luxe, standing at
the curb. Joyce was at the wheel.

Cheered greatly by not receiving the cut direct, I turned and overtook
her in a stride. "May I have a word with you, please?"

"No, you may not," she said, looking accurately through the brim of my
hat. "I don't talk with strangers."

"That's why I want the privilege of introducing myself."

"I don't desire your acquaintance, thank you."

"I'm not offering it. I merely wish the opportunity of apologizing and
explaining some past events."

"They are beyond explaining."

"Even the worst criminal is permitted to be heard in his own defense."

Already some curious passing glances had been turned on us, and she
flushed and bit her lip. "You're taking an unfair advantage of me," she
protested. "Must I call for help?"

"Really I don't need any."

"I shall call a policeman if you don't stop annoying me."

"It will take the whole force to get rid of me. In the words of Ruth--I
think it was Ruth--'Whither thou goest----' I insist on being heard.
You cannot be less generous than--well, lots of people."

"At least I didn't think you could be a coward and bully----Oh, very
well; anything to save a street scene." And she marched toward the car,
head erect and cheeks crimson.

"Where to?" I asked, bowing her in.

She sank back in a corner and smiled wickedly. "Oh, that's entirely for
you to say. I have absolutely nothing to do with it."

"Claremont," I said to Joyce, "and go as slow as you like."

The car moved off, and I had a fleeting glimpse of the faithful
Nast, supporting a lamp-post in his Sunday best, looking unutterable
reproaches. I had slipped him for once.

Miss Gelette had lost her momentary calm, and was once again indignant.
"How dare you!" she exclaimed. "If you think I'm going to dine with you
at the Claremont----"

"It's not compulsory. There is music and a beautiful view."

"I'm not going there at all!"

"But you are; you said it was for me to decide."

"I am not!"

The car continued up the Avenue. Miss Gelette drummed her heels. "I am
not!" she repeated. "Besides, I can't leave my uncle for so long. Stop
the car at once!"

I did not stop it.

"Oh, very well," she said. "You will answer for this--this outrage.
You refuse to stop, you prevent me by main force from communicating
with Joyce----"

"I haven't."

"Well, you will; I know you will."

"Certainly. I am absolutely reckless. It wouldn't do you any good to
try the speaking tube, anyway. Joyce's morality has been undermined; he
has been heavily bribed."

"How exciting!" she murmured. "Abducted by an ex-chauffeur, and what
a lovely afternoon it is." She leaned back and eyed the gay, moving
panorama of the sunlit Avenue through the open windows. Her mood had
changed; she was resigned. I could have asked no better confessional
than the town car; Joyce was completely shut off, and we were alone.

"Well," she said at length, "you may begin and have it over with. Or
haven't you rehearsed sufficiently?"

"I was wondering where to start----"

"I'm not surprised you find some difficulty."

"I suppose I'd better begin by saying how much I appreciate what your
uncle did for me! If he hadn't corroborated my statement--and I'm sure
he was entitled----"

"He could do nothing less, not through any veneration for you, but
because he is not in the habit of perjuring himself. He was asked for
the truth and he told it--quite unlike some people."

"Indeed, yes. It is remarkable how some people simply cannot tell the
truth."

"It is," she said, looking at me.

"Of course there are occasions when one must prevaricate; one is forced
into deception. There is an excuse----"

"There was absolutely no excuse for your deception, and you needn't
try to make one up!" she interrupted violently. "Oh, yes, it was one
of your well-known jokes! Something to laugh over later with your
dissolute friends. Yes, you even admitted to Joyce it was the result of
a drunken wager! Oh, the shame of it! I wonder how you can sit there
and laugh----"

"But I'm not laughing."

"You are!"

"Then my face isn't telling the truth."

"I'm not surprised."

"Really, I'm not laughing. Far from it. I tell you I never felt more
solemn or full of weighty reproaches in my life. In the first place I
ask you to consider my inheritance. Understand that I'm not trying to
shelter myself behind that; but I overheard you say one day something
to Mr. Varney regarding it which showed you could understand and,
perhaps, sympathize a little. I ask for that understanding now."

"I think you have always had it." Her eyes softened, but she added
uncompromisingly: "Well, does that explain and excuse everything?"

"No, I didn't mean that it should. I'm merely leading up to what lay
behind that wager with Mr. Hewitt. On his part it was not unworthy.
It was an effort at my reformation, and, when I was in a position to
realize it, I determined to profit by it. I assure you it meant a great
deal more than the winning of a wager; it meant the winning back of my
manhood and self-respect. It meant the battle of my life, and, if I
lost it, Peter Lawton would remain 'dead' for all time. My surroundings
helped me greatly; I was working once more for my living, spending
only what I earned, and I was cut off from friends I could well afford
to do without. Nor can I estimate your unconscious influence and that
of Mr. Varney. The promise I gave you that day was not given in jest,
something to laugh over later with my friends. It meant the turning
point in my life, the life of the previous six months. I have kept that
promise faithfully, and shall do so to the end, God helping me. To
sum up, consider a man fighting for his soul, and therefore throwing
everything into the scale."

She turned away suddenly and looked out of the window. "I--I think you
might have told me," she said over her shoulder.

As I had promised Blunt to say nothing to any one about the Black
Company, I had to leave all reference to it out of my present argument.
"How could I tell you?" I replied. "You know it could only have meant
my instant dismissal. I knew your uncle hated my people, but I didn't
know the reason. I assure you, also, I was ignorant of the Red Bank
matter. That had absolutely nothing to do with my maintaining the rôle
of Joyce."

"To do my uncle and me justice, we never thought it had," she said.
"We knew, though Mr. Frean didn't, that you couldn't have been in Red
Bank at that hour, considering the hour we met you at the crossroads.
And if there had been any trouble proving your innocence, we would have
offered our evidence unasked. Resentment or animosity never obscured
my uncle's sense of justice. And I will say I never actually believed
you were aware of the family history which caused that resentment and
animosity. I myself knew nothing about it till my uncle told me the
other day. Do you know now?"

I replied that Mr. Hannay had informed me. "As I have enough sins of my
own to answer for," I added, "I ask not to be blamed too much for what
my parents may have done. To put it baldly, they jilted Mr. Varney and
your mother, and none too delicately either. I quite understand why Mr.
Varney and you, too, for that matter, should have a particular aversion
for me."

The car had turned into Seventy-second Street from Broadway, and we
were speeding up the Drive.

"Then you credit me with a very narrow mind. There is excuse for my
uncle; he was affected immediately and has brooded over it. If I were
in his place I would have probably taken it the same way--if I didn't
kill your father, which would be more to my notion. On the other hand,
if I loved like your parents and was in the same situation, I should
very likely follow their example. We don't know how we may act under
certain circumstances, so what's the good of trying to judge others?
No, that ancient family history had no part in my 'particular aversion'
for you, nor could it. I only thought you treated me personally pretty
shabbily--and I'm not at all sure yet that you didn't.

"Of course," she went on, before I could reply, "it is very flattering
to think I was of any assistance at all in the terrible struggle you
were having. And I quite realize now the nature of that struggle, all
you suffered----"

We had reached the Claremont, and she arose to enter a final protest.
But a few minutes later we were seated at a table in a quiet corner.

"Well, certainly this is the last thing I expected!" she exclaimed.
"You are a singularly overbearing person, Mr. Lawton."

CHAPTER XVII

AN INTERRUPTED DIALOGUE

Very soon I learned that Mr. Varney and she were stopping at the
Waldorf. They had come up the previous day on "business," which
included a visit to a famous specialist, and she had been on the way to
call on friends when I abducted her.

"And what does the famous specialist say?"

For answer she made a hopeless gesture and her mouth drooped.

"I have a great attachment for that uncle of yours," I said. "Is there
any chance of squaring things with him? I rely on you putting in a good
word for me."

"Do you really? Your confidence is amazing. It always was. Have you
seen Mr. Frean lately?" she added abruptly.

"Yes, last night."

"You and he aren't particularly good friends, are you?"

"Well, I suppose I should feel a bit resentful for his exposing me."

"Is that the only reason?"

"I wasn't aware we were actual enemies."

She made an impatient gesture. "Indeed! I suppose you call that being
true to your idiotic man's sense of honor--what you call playing the
game? It doesn't do to say to a woman a derogatory word about a man
behind his back, no matter how he may deserve it. You know very well
that Mr. Frean has the making of an excellent scoundrel."

"You astonish me."

"No, but I shall; I overheard everything you and Mr. Frean said that
day on the veranda. Yes, I did."

I looked appropriately astonished; indeed I was, very much so. I had
never imagined she thought Frean a potential scoundrel; certainly she
had disguised her feelings very well.

"How did you happen to overhear us?" I asked.

"Well, I thought you might have the grace to apologize, and so I came
down to the drawing-room----"

"I wanted to apologize; I came to the house for that purpose. I wanted
to see you, and then, when I met Frean and he told me about that Red
Bank business, that you and your uncle believed me guilty, of course,
and that I'd been hiding--well, I hadn't the nerve."

"It is your turn to astonish me," she said. "I thought you had nerve
enough for anything--and I'm not at all sure you haven't. I haven't
found you lacking in that commodity."

"There is nerve and nerve. But I don't see how you could have overheard
all our conversation unless you listened deliberately."

"Of course I listened deliberately," she said, unabashed. "The windows
were open and I listened for all I was worth. It wasn't one of those
stage conventions, where one is caught and is forced to eavesdrop--or
pretend that one is forced. I'm making no bones about it, and I'd do it
again if I had the chance."

"I am pained and shocked beyond words."

"So was I. To think you knew all the time, and never told me! We had no
idea Mr. Frean was guilty of such things, but my uncle has proved their
truth."

Perhaps this, then, accounted for Frean's sudden return to town, and
not the fact of my engaging the services of the Blunt Agency. No doubt
he believed I had gone to Varney with the facts of his evil career,
done as I had threatened.

"So it was Mr. Frean," pursued my companion, "who induced you to take
your first drink, well knowing your inheritance?"

"I wasn't a child. He couldn't have induced me if I hadn't let him."

"Oh, I quite realize you don't blame him in the least. You're a very
strong person, and quite able to stand alone, aren't you? But I'm
curious to know what particular incident made him your enemy in the
first place."

"Oh, we fell out over some trivial thing, I forget what."

"No, you don't, but you've made up your mind not to tell me. Very well,
I shan't press you. Only, I think it's perfectly stupid of you to
champion him. Tell me, supposing he hadn't recognized you, and Joyce
hadn't turned up, how long would you have kept up the fraud on us? Had
you any reason for remaining so long?"

"I should say I had; the best reason in the world."

"Indeed. What was it?"

"I was in love."

"O-o-h. With whom, may I ask? The cook?"

"No. I'll give you three guesses."

"Then it must have been the upper housemaid."

"No, it mustn't; nor the lower, either. Marvelous to relate, it was
yourself."

"Mr. Lawton!"

"Miss Gelette."

"You--you--I----"

"You needn't try to seem astonished. You know perfectly well how things
are with me, that I crashed head over heels in love with you from the
first day I saw you. You know that; you've known it----"

"I know nothing of the kind!" she exclaimed, growing crimson.
"This--this is ridiculous, Mr. Lawton! I cannot listen----"

"I have merely answered your question, and I see no harm in the simple
statement of an obvious truth. The fact that I can never marry you
makes it all the simpler."

"H-have I asked you to marry me?" she demanded, almost choking with
anger, astonishment, and exasperation. "This is too much!" She pushed
back her chair and arose.

"If you will only let me explain----" I began.

"I am going home," she said icily, "and I'm going _alone_."

But she wasn't. When she got into the car she found me on the seat
opposite.

"To resume," I said, "I cannot see why the simple fact----"

"There is a great deal you cannot see. It appears to be a
constitutional defect. Would you mind saying nothing further? It would
make your forced presence less intolerable."

Having agreed to silence, I said: "But we were getting along so
splendidly, and then this happened suddenly and all over nothing. I'm
sure I can't help loving you; that is something beyond my control.
And is there any harm in saying what I feel? I remember acutely what
your uncle said about my father. I agree with him. A man with my
inheritance has no business marrying--not, as your uncle said, if he
loves the girl better than himself. That is my position."

"Your heroism and self-sacrifice are to be profoundly admired, Mr.
Lawton, and you take it all, this great tragedy, with such delightful
cheerfulness. But then, you are a philosopher."

"You know perfectly well that the greatest tragedies must be spoken of
lightly. If I didn't speak with cheerfulness, I couldn't speak at all."

"What a pity, then, there is such a thing as cheerfulness! May I call
your attention to the fact that this is the second time you have said:
'You know perfectly well----' I object to having knowledge of certain
facts imputed to me. I know what I know and what I don't know, and no
one knows better. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly. You mean you know I don't know what you know you know."

"Exactly. So at no time was I aware of your feelings toward me, nor do
I know how one must speak about tragedies--though I should say you were
the very worst of tragedians. Also, your explanation and apology--if
you meant it as such--is hardly satisfying. The fact that you cannot
marry isn't such a tremendous fact of world-wide importance, nor the
cause of public lamentation, as you appear to think it. Moreover, it
hardly gives you the right to go round telling people that you love
them, does it? Forgive me, then, if I feel a trifle bored."

It was here that, as if to relieve her boredom, there came a loud
report, the car stopped with a jerk, and Joyce informed us respectfully
that we had a blow-out.

We found ourselves on a dark and lonely road, which, I learned later,
was up near Washington Heights, between the river and Broadway; a
street recently cut through, and in which building operations were in
progress.

"Is this the way home from the Claremont to the Waldorf?" I demanded of
Joyce. "Do you really think so, even if you do come from Philadelphia?"

"You said first off you was in no hurry, sir, and I thought I'd be
doing you a service if I went a bit out of my way going home," he
remarked, in a confidential aside. "I can be a longish time over this
job, sir, if you and Miss Gelette was to take a little walk. I've done
a bit of sweetheartin' myself, sir."

"Have you? You're very obliging, Joyce, but we won't be taking
any little walk. You get that blow-out fixed at once; I've been a
chauffeur, remember, and I know just how long it should take. If
there's any slacking, I guarantee to speed you up."

Murmuring something about the ingratitude of certain people he took off
his coat and went to the tool chest; and then out of the darkness on
my right there came three reports that were blow-outs of another order,
the bullets droning past like angry hornets, and one nicking me on the
ear.

I scuttled out of the circle of light in which I had been standing,
and, drawing my trusty weapon, charged valiantly for the spot whence
came the flashes. But somehow I find it awfully hard to be a hero,
though it looks so dead easy when, say, Douglas Fairbanks gets into
action. I admire Douglas; he is the original little cleaner-up of
trouble and nothing ever goes wrong with his game. He never foozles
or duffs a shot and, had he been in my place, he would have smoked
out those varlets in ambush--aye, even had they been a hundred in
number--and killed them slowly and painfully and most satisfactorily.
Darkness is nothing to him, nor are ten-foot fences.

Unfortunately I didn't see the fence until I couldn't help it, until,
in fact, I'd crashed into it headfirst, bounced off buoyantly and
landed in a heap of muck. Then I knew it was there. This, and a few
stars, was all I did see or find, though I hunted round promiscuously.
But presently I heard something else--the chug of a motor from the
side street across the vacant lot. The birds had flown, so I returned
my automatic to its swinging hammock under my left arm, and retired in
good order to the car, covered not with glory but with refuse. Somehow
it always happens thus with me.

When I got back to the car Joyce was hiding manfully behind it while
Brenda Gelette, womanishly, was out scouting round to see what was up.
While I was trying to explain, a policeman broke into the family circle
and demanded anxiously if we thought it was the Fourth of July.

"It wasn't you, sir, they was after," said Joyce, as I explained the
fireworks. "It was me. You remember we was standing in the light
looking at the forward wheels; and then I dodged round to the tool
chest. That move saved my life, for it was me they was aiming at."

"Of course, I know that," I replied, smiling sweetly at him. "I haven't
an enemy in the world."

"And I have," he sighed. "This ain't the first time I've been potted
at, not by a long shot."

To the policeman he told a moving story of an Italian whom he had
crossed in some love affair in the Quaker City. Joyce was clearly a
man of parts, for he related the tale circumstantially and well, while
he looked at me as much as to say: "I told you, sir, I'd done a bit of
sweetheartin'." It gratified him, too, when the conscientious policeman
laboriously wrote down the mythical Italian's name, his description,
and former address.

The bluecoat was no Sherlock Holmes, but he seemed to think it rather
remarkable that the would-be assassin should have known beforehand our
homeward route, and that our tire should happen to explode conveniently
near where he was hiding in ambush. Of course, I had remarked these
little oddities myself, but I forebore comment. I hate to criticize a
good story, such as Joyce's.

When at length we resumed our journey, Brenda Gelette manifested a
flattering interest in my damaged ear, after which we hastened to
return to our former footing.

"It was perfectly stupid of you to act as you did," she said quite
angrily. "There's a difference between bravery and mere folly. The idea
of rushing like that at a hidden enemy who has a loaded revolver! It's
a wonder you weren't riddled like a sieve. I hate people who are always
showing off."

"My action was based on sound strategy and tactics, which any properly
qualified military authority will admit," I said injuredly. "Out of the
light from the car I was on equal terms with the enemy; we were both in
the dark. Added to which I was too frightened to really know which way
I was running. And, finally, I was in no danger, for the enemy wasn't
mine, but Joyce's."

"He wasn't Joyce's. I saw what happened. Joyce had stepped safely to
the opposite side of the car, leaving you alone in the light, before
those shots were fired. At that short distance there could be no
mistaking you for him. Joyce may have a hundred jealous Italians after
him, but those bullets were meant for you, and it was only by a miracle
you escaped. And if you 'haven't an enemy in the world,' why do you
carry a pistol? Yes, you needn't deny it; I saw you draw it as you ran,
and it's there at this minute under your coat. I suppose you carry it
merely for ornament?"

"Well, something like that," I admitted. "You see I come of a warlike
family--my grandfather beat the big drum in the Greenwich Village
fencibles--and I never feel contented unless carrying a deadly weapon
of some kind. It's in the blood, so to speak; I cannot help the martial
strain. A lethal weapon is, to me, what a--well, a walking stick is to
the average man. You needn't be afraid of this weapon; in my hands----"

"I'm not afraid in the least--except that you'll blow your eye out if
you keep handling it like that. I know more about such things than you
do; I've fired one many a time. I don't believe you know a thing about
it."

"On the contrary I am a qualified master-of-arms. I took a thorough
correspondence course. To demonstrate, you see the peculiarity about
this instrument is that you load it in the handle. I'll show you; you
see--why, drat it----" For there wasn't a blessed cartridge in the
magazine.

"I knew it," said Miss Gelette icily, for some reason more angry than
ever. "You poor idiot!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I say you poor idiot! It wasn't even loaded. And you rushed after
those men--oh, my goodness me!"

"One can't account for such things," I said. "The beauty of this
instrument is that one can't see when it is loaded. It is all Watkins'
fault and I must speak to him about it. What's the use of having a
valet if he can't attend to such things? It's really not the fault
of this weapon; I assure you it's a very deadly one if somebody only
happens to remember to load it."

"You are absolutely hopeless--in every way," she said viciously. "I
hate you!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I hate you! I never knew I could hate anybody as I do you. But, of
course, your affairs are your own, and I'm quite sure it's less than
nothing to me if you happen to be killed a dozen times a day by all the
hidden enemies in the world."

"That," I said, "would be manifestly impossible. The only hidden enemy
that has me thinking of nights is one whom you know; they call him John
Barleycorn, and some day, when I'm absolutely certain I have him down
for the count----" But I was fated this evening to have all my best
speeches interrupted. We had reached the Waldorf, and I had to get out.

"I am indebted to you for this afternoon and evening," I opened again
on the steps of the ladies' entrance. "They have been quite the
happiest in a lonely and worthless beggar's life. I took them by force,
and have still to pay for them; but no price could come too high.
Please believe I have never meant to offend you in any way, and that
your lightest wish is my command. I ask you to believe, also, that many
a light word comes from a heavy heart."

"You got that out of a book," she said.

"I didn't," I protested.

"And you really mean," she added inexorably, "that many a heavy word
comes from a light head." She said this with a laugh, but, to my
astonishment, I saw that she had been crying. Whereupon all my good
resolutions went overboard.

"Brenda!" I cried. "My dear little girl----" And, starting forward
impulsively, I almost fell into the arms of a portly dowager who,
leading a gay female parade, had swept into the vestibule. Brenda was
hopelessly lost in the shuffle, and the dowager, properly objecting to
being addressed by a total stranger as "my dear little girl," gave me a
basilisk stare and suggested loudly to her retinue that "the man must
be drunk."

CHAPTER XVIII

FURTHER DISCOVERIES

It was Watkins' night out and when I got home, shepherded by the
ridiculous Nast, I was thinking more of Brenda Gelette than of the
Black Company, which was not to be wondered at. Indeed I was thinking
of her to the exclusion of all else; thus, you may say, I was ripe
for the experience that befell me. And yet even if my mind hadn't
been preoccupied I never would have suspected that here in my own
stronghold, guarded inwardly by the faithful and efficient Watkins, and
outwardly by Blunt's hirelings----

However, to proceed, I walked into the parlor, like the historic fly,
switched on the light, and found a spider waiting for me in the person
of Arnold Frean, and quite a venomous spider he now appeared. He was
looking worse than he had the previous night, there was a febrile fire
in his sunken eyes, and his face was drawn and haggard. He sat behind a
table facing the door by which I had entered; his right elbow rested on
that table, and in his hand rested a veritable young cannon, its black
white-rimmed eye directed accurately at the middle button of my sack
coat. I hate to get hit in a place like that and so I stood promptly
at attention. A forty-five bullet wouldn't agree with what I had had
at the Claremont; I could visualize it plowing through the menu and
creating quite a disturbance.

"Put that beastly thing away, Frean," I said. "It might go off."

"It might," he agreed, finger on trigger.

Now I have heard and read a great deal about the human eye; so have
you. You must have. You know how it has the power to soothe the savage
breast--or is it music that does that? But you know what I mean; it
has the power to transform the most voracious lions into lambs, the
most enthusiastic murderer into a puling philanthropist. All the best
writers are agreed on that; it has been done over and over again. You
have heard also of the will to win and the power of mind over matter.
Decidedly I had the will to live and, summoning all my great mental
and spiritual powers I looked at Frean and commanded him again to
demobilize. Nothing doing; there was something wrong somewhere. Perhaps
it was because Frean wouldn't let me look him in the eye; at least
his eye refused to be inveigled from that middle button. It seemed to
fascinate him.

"At least," I said, "turn it a bit up or down. In the words of the
martyred Barbara--I forget if they really did kill her; they should
have, for I've had to learn that poem--shoot if you must but spare
your country's victuals. I paid fifteen dollars for a recent dinner.
Also, my friend, consider the carpet. Cleanliness is next to godliness."

To my great relief he gave a sickly sort of smile and then pocketed the
weapon. "You've nerve, Lawton; I'll say that for you. But I was only
fooling, showing you what I could have done. I never meant to shoot
you."

Now I was very angry for I'd been properly frightened. "I don't care
for that sort of fooling," I said, "and I believe I can see a joke as
quick as anybody. If you ever try anything like that on me again--how
the Harry did you get in here?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I knew it was Watkins' night off and I happened to
have a key."

"Happened? People don't happen to have keys that fit these doors. What
did you come for? Look here, if you've come to resume last night's
affair, it's a mere waste of time. I refuse to quarrel with you
seriously. You know I've licked you once, and that, no matter how you
may deserve it, I can't go on beating you up. There's no glory in it.
Therefore, knowing that, it doesn't show much spirit on your part----"

"I'm not here for that," he said jerkily, with twitching lips. "I--I've
something to say to you, something that no one else must hear. It's as
much as my life's worth. You're right; I didn't happen to have a key;
one was made specially and given to me."

I sat down and looked at him; in spite of Ashton's tragic death I still
felt a certain pity for Frean. Perhaps "understanding" is a better
word. Like myself, he had taken the wrong turning in life's highway, a
far more dangerous one than that which I had trod for a time, and he
had gone on blundering into the abyss. Unlike myself, early poverty had
never fostered the best in him.

"What exactly is the idea?" I said.

"I was sent here to kill you, Lawton," he said slowly, pausing between
each word, while he fixed his somber eyes on me. "You will do me
justice to admit that I could have done so easily. I could have shot
you down like a dog----"

"And been caught and sent to the chair for it."

"Perhaps, but that isn't the point. I could have done it and I didn't.
I saved your life, and now I ask you to save mine."

"I'd like to, Frean, but it takes two to do that. You've been throwing
your life away, living----"

"I don't mean that. I'm a marked man now; they'll kill me!"

"My dear fellow----"

He broke in upon me passionately, almost hysterically. "You must listen
to me! You must believe all I say! You must take things seriously for
once. You're a marked man, Lawton, and now, so am I! So am I! They'll
kill me for betraying them. They'll kill us both as they killed poor
Ashton! They're devils, I tell you; they'll stop at nothing! That
fiend, Corby, suspects me. He has all along. I've seen it in his
bloodless face and dead eyes. He says nothing, but he knows. He's
like a white snake, waiting to strike! I--I can't bear the strain any
longer. I know you think I'm crazy--God knows I soon will be!"

He covered his face with his hands and cowered back in the chair,
the picture of an utterly broken and abject spirit. It is a terrible
picture, one you can never forget.

I got him to swallow some whisky, speaking to him as I would to a
child. "You're absolutely safe here," I repeated, "and you don't have
to convince me of your sanity. I've heard of the Black Company."

At the words he dropped the glass with a crash, started up, and stared
at me wildly, terrified and astonished. "You--you've heard of it? How?"

"Never mind that now. I know you're a member. Pull yourself together
and tell me all about it. I'm not your enemy, Frean, and never was."

"N-no, but I was yours," he said brokenly. "I hated you, Lawton. I
hated you for catching me at the card sharping and because you'd always
been too decent to me. I got you to drink, hoping you'd go the way
of all your folks. I hated you--and yet I've come to you to-night,
feeling that you're the only man who could or would help me, the only
man I could rely on. Queer, isn't it? I don't pretend to understand it,
but it's so."

"Don't try to understand it," I said. "Now I want to ask you one
question; did you know beforehand anything about what was going to
happen to Tommy Ashton?"

"As God is my judge, I knew nothing about it! I don't know yet. I've
only suspicions."

"I couldn't bring myself to think you did, Frean--a man who'd been to
college with you and had done his best to help you. And yet you saw us
together at the Admiral that night. What brought you there?"

"To see Roupell. I didn't know you and Ashton were there until I walked
into the grill. Roupell asked me to meet him there; he phoned me. No,
I never even knew that Ashton was going to Philadelphia that night. I
swear it, Lawton."

"Then I'll help you," I said. "I'll help you to the last cent and the
last kick in me. I've a bone to pick with these jovial clubmates of
yours, and we can help each other a lot. This visit of yours hasn't
surprised me so awfully much; I knew last month the society suspected
you, that they weren't sure of you, and I saw last night signs of you
cracking under the strain. You've got the right line on Corby; he was
detailed to watch you--and so was I."

"_Y-you?_" His face went livid, and he made a sudden dive for the
revolver.

I swept it aside and shoved him back in the chair. "Keep your hair on,
Frean. I'm not a member of the society, and you haven't fallen into any
trap."

"You gave me an awful turn," he gasped, mopping his face. "You see, I
don't know half the members. What do you mean, then?"

"I'll explain later. First, I want to hear all you know about this
crew. You can trust me absolutely. How did you get in with them?"

"I hardly know myself," he said despondently, and with a dazed
expression. "The past few months have been a nightmare. It was all my
own fault, of course. You know the pace I was going. Well, I needed
money badly, and got into the clutches of Howard Roupell. You don't
know the real Roupell, Lawton." He glanced about him with the old
hunted look and instinctively lowered his voice.

"I'm not sure that I don't," I said. "Isn't he a member?"

"Yes, though I don't know how you guessed it. It was he who put me up
to the twenty-thousand-dollar stock job for which my father chucked
me out. If I hadn't bungled it a bit, the thing might never have been
discovered. Roupell got most of the profit, or, rather, it went to the
general funds of the Black Company. Of course, I haven't a shred of
evidence, the kind that would make good in a court of law, to prove
his part in it. They're too clever for that. Anyway, if I had tried to
squeal, they'd have finished me."

"Just what a sort of a society is it?"

"It's a criminal organization or company, run on business lines. I'm
not a full-fledged member, for six months have to pass before you're
really admitted. In other words, you're under supervision for that
length of time. Roupell assured me they only shaved the law. I--I had
no idea of the organization's true nature until it was too late. I
swear I hadn't."

"Why do they use the names of the chess pieces and the algebraic
notation? Yes, I know about that."

"I don't really know, but Roupell told me they took the name of the
Black Company because life was a chess game, and they were the Black
pieces because they were always on the defensive. The White pieces,
representing the law and organized society, were always attacking them.
They're anarchists, but without the anarchist's sacrifice of self, or
his folly. They are foes of the State and Church, but they don't aim at
any Utopia. They aim merely to secure the riches which they claim the
world owes them. Trusts are the order of the day, and this is simply
a sort of criminal trust. Of course, I haven't been admitted to their
full confidence, or all their secrets, but I believe they've regular
meetings at the Philadelphia headquarters, when they all appear dressed
to represent chessmen. I'm not eligible to attend such meetings, and I
don't know where the place is."

Frean then verified Blunt's surmise: that a pawn was attached to every
capital piece, and that these pawns were promoted, according to service
rendered, until they became capital pieces in turn, that they did all
the actual dangerous work, and were sacrificed ruthlessly at the first
sign of treachery. The earnings of all members were pooled, and every
one drew a percentage according to his standing in the company.

"I don't know how many members there are," he finished, "but certainly
there are more than sixteen, for there are the 'probationers,' like
me, to reckon with; those who haven't yet become full-fledged pawns.
There is a capital piece, pawn, and probationer in different cities;
for instance, here in New York, Howard Roupell is the King's bishop,
Corby the pawn, and I the probationer. With the exception of Joyce and
another, these are all the members I know. And I wouldn't have known
about Joyce but for what you said a minute ago. You meant that _he_ had
been detailed to watch me?"

"Yes." And I related briefly all that had happened at Mr. Varney's, and
the attempt on my life in Philadelphia and the subway.

"This is all news to me!" exclaimed Frean. "Roupell never said a word
to me about suspecting you; I suppose I wasn't to be trusted. Well,
they were right, as it turns out; maybe they knew me better than I knew
myself. But those fellows in Philly might have been ordinary thugs, and
are you quite sure you were shoved in front of that train?"

"Oh, quite; there's no mistake. I knew I was a marked man before
you told me, and I've grown quite used to it. They made a third try
to-night."

"To-night? You mean me--my being here----"

"No, I don't. I was up at Claremont----" And I related the incident.
"Of course I can see now that Joyce must have telephoned from the
Claremont that I'd slipped the detective who's been watching me, and
they fixed it up to take me out of the beaten track which I've been
sticking to closely. You can make a blow-out to order if you want, and
they had the surprise package all ready. It would have served me right
if the thing had come off as they planned, for I should have obeyed
orders. You see, the Blunt Agency's been on the job for the past week,
and I've been guarded like a pet lamb."

"The Blunt Agency! You mean, Lisping Jimmie?" cried Frean, with a look
of fear. "This, then, explains everything. No wonder you're a marked
man! They must suspect what you've done. I had absolutely no knowledge
of this. I've been all kinds of a rotter, Lawton, but I'd no hand in
those two attempts on your life. Yet I admit that I wanted you out of
the way, not because you were an enemy of the society--because I didn't
know that--but because I hated you. Listen, did you suspect that that
affair last night was all prearranged, that if you had consented to
fight me and accompanied Roupell and me to the place I named, it would
have been the end of you?"

"Oh, yes, I saw that pretty clearly, though that wasn't the reason I
dodged the invitation. I had an idea Roupell and you had set the stage.
As you weren't drunk, I saw no logical reason why you should insist on
being licked again--for you know very well you haven't a chance with
me, and Roupell overplayed his hand a bit."

"You're no fool, Lawton; it would take a mighty clever man to get to
windward of you. You're far sharper than I, for, even knowing Roupell
as I do, I never thought he was playing a double game with me. He told
me he hated you secretly because you'd cut him out with a woman last
winter--the Swedish dancer, Nelson----"

"That's all piffle. I met Selma Nelson exactly twice, and never alone."

"He worked on my hatred and jealousy," continued Frean, "for I may as
well admit that my regard for Miss Gelette is more than that of a mere
friend. But don't think I'm still fool enough to imagine there's any
hope for me in that quarter," he finished lifelessly. "She's done with
me. I've lost, as I deserved, while you've won out, as you deserved. I
know that."

"Then you know a lot. I haven't the slightest reason to consider myself
in such a fortunate position, rather the reverse, in fact. Leaving Miss
Gelette out of it, I wouldn't think of trying to saddle any woman with
my inheritance----"

"A million or so? Most of them wouldn't mind."

"I wasn't speaking of dollars, and they aren't everything. I mean, I'd
have to be a good deal surer than I am at the present moment that I've
killed out the drink craze for all time."

"Well, anyway," he said, with a shrug, "I'm out of it, and I don't feel
bitter toward you any longer. If it wasn't you, it would be some one
else--never me. But, as I said, Roupell worked on my jealousy, and had
me so I didn't know what I was doing. I was afraid of him, too--and
I'm afraid of him yet. He put me up to coming here to-night, saying
how easy it would be, and he intimated that if I didn't do it, I would
find myself 'removed'--that being their polite term for murder. It
was a case of your life or mine. This, then, was my first suspicion
that it wasn't such a private and personal matter between you and
Roupell as he would have me believe. I realized that I was to be the
instrument. That finished me. From something Roupell let drop the other
day, I suspected that the society had had a hand in the killing of poor
Ashton. The thought was driving me crazy, Lawton."

"Yes, I should think it would."

"Well," added Frean, "I determined to end it to-night, to come here,
pretending to carry out Roupell's orders, and confess everything to
you. I've done so. Now let them do their worst." And he sank back
wearily, with white, haggard face. "Anyway, it's all up with me, for if
they don't get me, the law will. That fellow Blunt has a reputation for
getting what he goes after, and he must have the case cut and dried by
this time."

"No, far from it. It's a tough proposition, and we've hardly made any
headway--but we shall now. Of course, I guarantee you complete immunity
where the law's concerned; that's no more than your right. Now, have
you any idea who is at the head of this crime trust, the man known as
the Black King?"

He looked at me queerly for a moment in silence. "Yes, that's the one
other member I said I knew. But surely you know. The Black King is
Theodore Varney."

CHAPTER XIX

I LEARN A LOT MORE

Frean's last words rendered me speechless, all my old suspicions
regarding Theodore Varney boiling to the surface of my mind. The fact
of my genuine regard for the man wasn't enough to stay them. First
suspicions are hard to dispossess.

"But that's impossible!" I exclaimed at length. "Varney's been
investigated pretty nearly back to Adam, and there was absolutely
nothing to show him guilty of the smallest legal offense, let alone
being head of a crime trust."

Frean looked at me with a sort of pitying expression. "Investigated by
you personally?"

"No, by Blunt, too."

"Then Blunt, being the man he is, may have found out more than he has
told you. As a rule, clients aren't let in on everything till the case
is finished, sometimes not even then."

"I admit that. But why should I get a code message from the King in
Philadelphia, while Varney was at Sea Bright? And where would be the
sense in having Joyce smuggled into the house? And why would Varney
write of himself: 'Varney moves on second?' No, there's no sense in it;
it isn't logical."

"On the contrary," said Frean, "I think if you consider it carefully,
it will appear entirely logical. I believe that those two messages were
meant simply to throw you off the track. How do you know that the first
one actually came from Philadelphia? There was no address, was there?"

"No, but there was the postmark on the envelope."

"And what was to stop them using another envelope, from a letter, say,
that Varney had got that day? I believe that the second message was
even dropped purposely for you to find. Those messages were a bait, if
you ask me; they may have wanted to see what you'd do with them, to see
how much you knew. Haven't you said that they must have known for over
a week before you left that you were an impostor?"

"Yes, they must have, according to Joyce's stay in the hospital."

"Well, and as for Joyce himself, he simply comes back to his master.
There isn't anything to prove your theory that there was a plot to
remove Jules. He may have gone back to the bottle of his own sweet
will, and Corby's drinking with him doesn't show anything. Joyce may
have been planted with Mr. Fremstad for a reason and, his work done,
returns to his master. Mr. Fremstad may be the potential victim."

"That's a new idea."

"Well, of course, I'm only guessing," added Frean. "Fremstad may be a
member for all I know. The one and only positive fact that I do know is
that Varney is the Black King. I can prove it just as I can prove that
Roupell is the King's bishop. But you see what it means? Suffering and
disgrace for Brenda Gelette. Of course, she has no idea of the truth.
For her sake and because I was in fear of my own life--perhaps that was
the stronger reason--I've kept this under my hat. But now it's up to
you, Lawton. You can't hit Varney without hitting his niece, but if you
still decide to go through with the thing, I'm ready to do my bit. I've
the necessary proof under lock and key at home, but if you don't use
it, no one else shall."

"There can be no question of Miss Gelette in this," I said. "These
fellows have got to be smashed, no matter who suffers, but I'll only
believe Varney guilty when I see the indisputable proof. Look here," I
added, fixing my eyes on him, "are you trying to slip anything over on
me? If you're not playing straight, Frean, I'll clean your clock for
you! I'll show you absolutely no mercy."

He made a weary, impatient gesture that was convincing in itself.
"What could I put over on you? Look at that gun and think what I could
have done if I was still your enemy. No, I've come to you for help and
am telling you nothing but the truth. I've no spite against Brenda
Gelette, either; if I had, I could have informed on her uncle long ago
if I cared to face the risk. There's a decent spot in the worst of us,
Lawton, and I'd do a lot to save her from suffering. Surely, if you
knew that Joyce and Corby and I were members of the Black Company, you
must have suspected Varney; otherwise why should we three be in Sea
Bright?"

"At first I suspected him, but afterward I thought there was a plot of
some kind against him, and that you had come down to help it along. Of
late I haven't known what to think, for we could prove no connection
between him and his crime trust. When did you find out, and does he
know? And what are these proofs you mention?"

"No, he isn't aware that I know. I don't wonder you've difficulty in
believing him a member of this gang; I had myself and I've known him
far longer than you. I've known him off and on for the past ten years,
our families having met in the Berkshires one summer. Of course I'd no
idea when I joined the society that Varney was its head."

"But the proof?"

"I've got the best in the world, not only about Varney but Roupell. I
got possession of code messages showing Varney to be the Black King and
Roupell to be the King's bishop; they passed between them via Corby.
These messages also contained a reference to the murder of Ashton.
I obtained possession of them long enough to take photos of them.
They were in Varney's and Roupell's handwriting. I guess that's proof
enough."

Frean had hardly finished speaking, when the desk telephone rang, and,
taking down the receiver, I heard the welcome and well-known lisping
voice of Blunt. It was a fortunate happening, for I didn't know his
private address, and, it being Sunday night, I had been wondering how
to get in touch with him before morning.

"Hello, thith you, Mr. Lawton?" came his sleepy, lisping drawl. "Yeth,
thith ith Blunt talking.... Yeth, ith quite all right. Nobody's
listening in; I've theen to that. I'm at the Waldorf, and a taxi with
a couple of my men will call in ten minutes to bring you here. Can you
leave without the houthe detective and my man in front theeing you?"

"Yes, I can go down the back way and leave by the employees' entrance
on the side street. But look here----"

"Wait. I want you to get thith right. The car will wait for you at the
employees' entrance. If possible, I don't want my man to know you've
left; a certain party is watching him, and if my man thinks you still
in, the other party will, too. Thee? Bring Mr. Frean with you----"

"How in thunder did you know----"

"Oh, a little bird told me," he drawled. "We have the case about cut
and dried. Tell Frean that thith ith his one and only chance to square
the game. He can either come with you and face the Black King here, or
wait to be scooped. It's all one to me. Ta, ta! Thee you later." And
the wire clicked as he rung off.

"Lisping Jimmie?" queried Frean, as I hung up the receiver. He was pale
and his voice trembled, though he tried to appear composed. "What's up?
What did he say about me?"

I related the conversation.

"What did I tell you?" said Frean, with a fatalistic shrug. "He wasn't
telling you anything. You can't beat him. He must have old Varney dead
to rights. Well, I've beaten him to it; I've squared the game already,
and he doesn't have to put on the screws. You won't go back on me,
Lawton? You know I told you everything of my own free will before I
knew of this round-up?"

I wasn't so sure that he hadn't known of it, at least suspected its
imminence and made a virtue of necessity. But I said nothing. I
couldn't blame him for trying to get the best out of his unenviable
position. Far better to appear as a voluntary penitent, a savior of
my life and all that, than to await inevitable arrest. He was a born
turner of State's evidence.

I was rather floored by the unexpected and sudden turn of events.
Rather irritated, too. I hate to be thought stupid, and yet I had sadly
underestimated Jimmie Blunt. But resentment at the thought of his
keeping everything so quiet till the last moment was stilled when I
recollected how often I had disobeyed his strict injunctions. I was cut
up, too, about Varney. For all Frean's convincing talk, I had held a
sneaking hope that he was honestly mistaken about the man. But Blunt's
being at the Waldorf, and his words concerning the Black King, admitted
of no other construction.

"I suppose Blunt's waiting to play his big ace, pull off a grand
dramatic tableau. They all do," said Frean, with a sneer. "Well, I'll
play my part; can't do anything else. Mind if I take a slug of brandy?
It's going to be a beastly scene. I'd stay out of it if I were you."

"I hadn't a chance to decline. I suppose I'm a necessary supernumerary."

"Rather you're the necessary angel of the show, and the stage manager
wants to give you full value. You're entitled to a front seat. Well,
you've done some good with your money, Lawton, though Miss Gelette may
not see it that way all at once."

"Forget it, will you? I can think of that part without your help. Are
you coming?"

He nodded, picked up the revolver and threw it on a chair. "Keep it as
a souvenir, Lawton. Remember what I could have done with it, and that
you've sworn to help me."

I had always known him for a secret coward, and now, instead of pity, I
felt a mighty disgust. He was in a state verging on absolute funk, and
helped himself to another hooker before quitting the room.

I was familiar with every twist and corner of the building, and had
left by the employees' entrance more than once in my abortive attempts
to elude the oppressive vigilance of Nast.

"I'm just as glad we're taking this route," said Frean, as we dodged
the elevators and went down the back stairs. He wiped his damp
forehead. "Some of our friends may be watching the front entrance, and
might risk everything for a crack at us. After all, it's something to
have a fellow like Blunt watching over one. I've learned to believe in
the majesty of the law. It's a mighty good thing for me that it exists."

We got down the back stairs and out of the employees' entrance, halfway
down the block, without glimpsing any one but a stray bell boy. A taxi
was waiting with purring engine, and a couple of men were posted on
either side of the open door.

"Mr. Lawton?" queried one, as we approached. "Yes, sir, the Blunt
Agency. The Waldorf, Jack," he added to the chauffeur. "Let her go."

Frean and I jumped in, followed by the two men, the door slammed, and
we were off.

The next moment I stopped a tremendous wallop behind the ear that sent
me to the floor. I heard Frean's half-hysterical giggle, and for a
brief time the closed and darkened car rocked as I tried to put up
some kind of a fight against hopeless odds.

I think at that I might have had some kind of a show but for Frean. He
was half crazy with fear and hatred--a deadly mixture--and he went at
me like a wild cat with everything he had, while he urged on the other
three. For another man had appeared from nowhere.

"Don't give him a chance!" he kept snarling. "Throw it into him, boys!
He'll take more killing than a bull."

Finally some one got an elbow under my chin, my head was forced back,
and a sweetish-smelling sop jammed over my mouth and nose. And so I
quit.

CHAPTER XX

THE BLACK KING

It is strange how occasionally one has a repetition of the same
fantastic dream. I dreamed now, as I did that night at Varney's, that
Corby was an animate Black bishop trying to drown me in a vat of
buttermilk, and, awakening, I found him sitting staring at me with the
familiar and repugnant lifeless eyes set in the dead-white face. He now
wore a straggling fair beard, which didn't help his beauty. It wasn't
false, because no imitation could have been such a failure.

I was lying, "hog-tied," on a couch in a barely furnished room. I
was full of aches and pains as a jumping tooth, while the chloroform
or ether had made me sick. But I was more sick with myself, with my
trusting faith and stupidity and I groaned inwardly when I thought of
what Blunt would say of it all. For one who had always rather prided
himself on his cleverness I had made a sad hash of things.

I was gratified somewhat to discover that Corby had a discolored eye
and several plaster crosses on his ugly, top-heavy dome. Evidently he
had been a member of the reception committee, waiting inside the cab,
and whose presence I hadn't suspected until too late.

He now sat at a little table, munching Swiss cheese and pretzels,
and swilling buttermilk, just as I had seen him do at Knight's, just
as dispassionately and thoroughly. As if attracted by the smell of
the cheese, and encouraged by the silence, a mouse crept out from a
corner and watched us for a moment with bright, inquisitive eyes, then
scuttled away home. As I had free use of my tongue, I took it that we
were in some place where I might burst my lungs with noise and be none
the better for it; so I decided to save my breath. I decided also to
keep my temper.

"Well, Corby," I said, "how long are you going to sit staring at me
like a stuck pig? Speak up and say how happy you are to see me. Don't
be bashful. You're not looking well. What's the matter with your eye?"

His thin lips opened in a mirthless smile. "You are a good fighter and
a very clever man, Mr. Lawton," he said, with as much emotion as if he
were speaking of the weather. "It's a pity, speaking of stuck pigs,
that so much good bone and muscle and intellect as yours should go to
feed the worms."

"I agree with you, but that's the ultimate fate of us all, isn't it,
unless we choose the fishes? What's the idea? Why not have fed me to
the worms at once, instead of carting me here?"

"Orders are orders, Mr. Lawton, and that isn't within my province. But
don't worry about the worms."

"I can't help it, Corby. Naturally I don't want to figure at such
a banquet earlier than I can help. Let us have a straight business
talk, like sensible fellows. As I understand it, this Bowery melodrama
troupe of half-baked highbinders, of which I'm surprised to see you're
a member--for you seem to have more intelligence, and you should have
better taste--are simply out for profit. Well, cast your avaricious
thoughts on my various bank balances, and then name your figure. As a
starter, how would ten thousand do to set me foot-loose and give me a
chance at that window? No playing with fingers crossed, of course."

"Bribery? Fie! Mr. Lawton," he said, with grave reproof. Then he took
out a double-edged knife and began to sharpen it with the air of one
attending to a trivial detail. "You got me in bad with the Company for
the way you slipped it to me at Sea Bright," he said, without anger or
even interest. "There's some things money can't buy, Mr. Lawton. When
they're done with you I believe I'm to have the pleasure of attending
to you." A voracious light suddenly appeared in his dead eye as he
rubbed the knife on the sole of his shoe.

"Put that thing away, you ghoul!" I said, suddenly growing very angry
because I couldn't help feeling frightened. I knew it wasn't only
talk with him, a trick to scare me. "I believe a lot of you are half
crazy----"

The door opened. Roupell came in; and Corby, saluting like a wooden
soldier, went out.

Roupell pulled up a chair and sat down by the couch, a gleam of malice
and amusement in his cushioned eyes. "What a predicament for a really
clever man! I'm sorry, Lawton, but you would use your beastly money,
you know, and horn in where you weren't wanted."

"If you leave me five minutes alone with Frean, even with my hands
tied, I'll call all bets off," I said.

"Oh, you really mustn't blame him too much. Weren't you anxious
to learn all about the Black Company--an unfortunate obsession,
Lawton--and didn't he oblige you? Much of what he told you was the
truth; otherwise you wouldn't have believed him. And then you had to
be prepared for that stirring message from the famous and, by the way,
quite incompetent Lisping Jimmie. Did it never occur to you that a
lisping voice, especially over the phone, is the easiest thing in the
world to imitate?"

I didn't know which was the worst, Corby with his colorless face
and manner, and his methodically sharpening the knife on his shoe,
or this Falstaff, who stroked his fat paunch and beamed at me. In
diametrically opposite ways they expressed the same sentiment--fixity
of purpose and utter ruthlessness.

"It takes such elaborate stage setting, such infinite attention to
detail, to impress a really clever fellow like you, Lawton," he went
on, in his playful manner. "You gave us a lot of trouble, I'll admit.
You were so deucedly well guarded, and, except for to-night, after
leaving the Claremont, we couldn't coax you off the beaten track.
I'll do you the justice to say you often tried to shake those agency
bloodhounds--but no doubt you refrained from exerting your full and
vast intelligence. After your skillful evasion of last night's trap and
that of to-night--I won't say the former was due simply to cowardice
and the latter to bad marksmanship and bull luck--we saw that the lion
must be taken in his lair. We suspected you had engaged the services of
the Blunt Agency, but we were sure of nothing; we didn't know how much
you really knew. You have very kindly told us of your own sweet will.
There's nothing like an exchange of information, a heart-to-heart talk
with a repentant sinner."

"You needn't rub it in, Roupell. I can manage to understand the sort of
an ass I've been without all this labored sarcasm. You always did spoil
a good story by overemphasis, you know."

Even at such a time this remark touched him on the raw, as I knew it
would. Perhaps it was the only one that had power to hurt him. He
wouldn't have minded being called a blackguard, but he was acutely
jealous of his reputation as a raconteur.

"Yes, you're a great fool, Lawton," he said, with less amiability and
more spite. "There's no fool like the one who thinks he isn't one.
You've been an infernal nuisance, too, and have made your removal
compulsory. We'd have let you alone if you'd let us alone. You
understand that it's simply a business proposition, that we can't
afford to have a paying concern injured simply because an interfering
fool like you refuses to mind his own business. Instead of being
content with your own fortune, you use it to try to take the bread out
of the mouths of those who have never done you any harm."

"That's a novel way of putting it," I said. "Your psychology is beyond
me. Well, what's the program in regard to me?"

"You'll learn that in due time. But for one thing your money is going
to be of great help to us. You are going to order that dog-eared
bloodhound, Blunt, back to his kennel, and write several fat checks to
'bearer.'"

"Am I? Not so much as a penny, Roupell."

"We shall see. You must understand your position, Lawton. We chose your
servant's night out and gave that advice about the back stairs so that
none would see you go. You may stay and rot here by inches, and none
would be the wiser. I say you are going to write to Mr. Blunt, send him
a check for his services, and say that you've left town incognito;
that you're tired of the whole business and want a rest."

"I shall do nothing of the kind--not that it would help you any, but
simply as a matter of principle. You've overplayed your hand, as usual.
For if Blunt was called off, there remain the police, over whom I've no
control. The police of three States are after this paying concern of
yours, and my disappearance will only make the hunt keener."

"That's a feeble bluff," he said, smiling contentedly. "The police
have no evidence, and refuse to believe that we exist. Credit us with
knowing something. Blunt isn't the man to share your information with
rivals, he'll be wanting all the glory for himself. The jealousy
between private agencies and the police is well known and approved
by us. No, you must understand your position, Lawton, and not make
it harder than it need be. It may not be a matter of your life if we
can come to a satisfactory understanding. I repeat that it's simply a
business proposition, and, rest assured, we'll take every necessary
measure for our protection. You shall do exactly as we say, sooner or
later."

"Well, I guess I can stand anything but one of your alleged funny
stories. Meanwhile, how about easing these ropes a bit and giving me a
glass of water?"

"I'm truly sorry, Lawton, but, as the legislators say, the answer is
in the negative. Nothing to eat or drink, not a mouthful of thick,
nor a toothful of moist, until you come to terms. Nor dare we let you
foot-loose, for we haven't had time to prepare an appropriate dungeon.
You remain as you are, and Corby occupies the same room. For your own
good, I must warn you that he has certain orders in case you attempt to
escape--which I admit is virtually impossible. Still, he has a personal
score to settle with you, so I wouldn't advise you to give him the
slightest chance. Ta, ta! Thee you later," he finished, with a perfect
imitation of the lisping voice of Blunt.

"Hold on," I said. "Will you tell me one thing? Is Varney really the
head of this amiable paying concern, or was that a lie, too?"

"You'll meet the Black King all in good time," was all he said.

Corby not appearing when Roupell left, I had a whole-hearted try at my
bonds; but Samson himself would have been unable to burst them, for the
job had been thoroughly done. The aggravating fact was that, once free,
I would have a chance of getting away, for the window was unbarred. As
Roupell said, there had been no time to prepare a proper prison, and I
was quartered in a humble wooden dwelling; but where it was situated I
had no idea, nor could I estimate what time had elapsed between the
fight in the taxi and my regaining consciousness.

If you have ever been hog-tied by a skilled and conscientious hand you
will know just how powerless and cramped I was. I saw absolutely no
chance of freeing myself for all my great strength. I had often read
of storybook heroes in a similar position who had effected wonderful
escapes, how they had severed their bonds with a bit of broken glass
or by burning them over a lamp or candle, unmindful of great personal
suffering. But I wasn't providentially provided with any such articles;
a single incandescent lighted the room, and, even if given the chance,
I would be quite unable to reach any impromptu instrument.

Then I had an idea. It dawned upon me with the reappearance of the
hungry and inquisitive mouse, which, accompanied by several friends
or relatives, came out to forage again. They saw what I had neglected
to see until that moment--that in removing the remains of his frugal
supper, Corby had dropped a slab of cheese.

It lay close beside the couch; and the foraging party, bold with
hunger, made an enterprising attack on it, contemptuous of my presence.
But I needed it more than they, and I routed them by jerking my head
over the couch; then came the undignified and difficult task of picking
up that bit of cheese with my teeth alone. I can recommend this feat
to all athletes who wish a new form of indoor sport; but it would be
fatal to fat men.

There remained the still difficult task of placing the bit of cheese
under me and against the cords connecting my feet and hands. The warmth
of my body would do the rest. In all this I succeeded simply because
I knew I must, for I was reduced to a position where a lowly piece of
cheese might mean the difference between life and death. I had no faith
in Roupell's statement that I would be spared if I agreed to do their
bidding; they would utilize me first, and then put an end to me. They
couldn't afford to let me live.

I had hardly finished performing my novel calisthenics when the door
opened, and, instead of Corby, Frean entered. He sidled over to the
couch like a maimed crab and looked at me in the most curious and
repulsive manner. It was a blending of hatred, fear, triumph and shame.
Yes, he had the grace to be ashamed, yet at the same time I knew he
wouldn't lift a finger to undo the work he had done. More curious
still, he started to justify and excuse himself, while reviling me in
the same breath.

"I couldn't do anything else," he said. "I told you it was my life or
yours, and so it was. They'd have killed me if I hadn't hooked you.
You're going to get yours at last, you big bruiser! I owe you for a
lot, and it's going to be paid. And when you're under the sod I'll
marry Brenda Gelette! I'll marry her, do you hear? I'll make her glad
to marry me! I'll make you sweat blood for that licking you gave me,
for every lying thing you've said about me--for--for----"

"Well, don't get hysterical, Frean. I quite understand your trying
to justify yourself. I dare say even the original Judas did. I
congratulate you on your acting, and never knew you had it in you. It
was simply a masterpiece. That part about the revolver was great, and
I fell for it like a child. Of course, I see now you would never have
run the risk of using it; that would take some courage and nerve. Now,
don't spoil such a fine bit of work by trying to explain it. Such gems
don't need explaining any more than a beautiful sunset. They're beyond
it."

"Yes, I know what you think of me," he said, plucking at a trembling
lip. "But you or any one would have done just the same in my position.
You would if--if you'd been taught to know what fear is. And I'm not
sorry!" he shouted in swift transition, working himself into a frenzy.
"I'd do it again! And so would you, if you hated any one as I hate you!"

Now I had no desire to prolong this edifying discourse; I knew it was
no use appealing to Frean, nor could I have brought myself to attempt
it. There are some things one can't do. They say there is some good
in the worst of us, and so I had always believed until I came to
know the real Frean. I realized now, when too late, the truth of what
Mr. Hannay and Ashton had said--that there was absolutely nothing to
appeal to in him. He was too utterly selfish, too utterly a coward;
too utterly weak, vicious, and depraved. A man who could act as he
had done was past understanding. While he stood chattering there, I
might be losing my one chance of escape. If I could get him out of
the room before Corby returned--granting that they thought I really
needed a jailer--then the little play of the Lion and the Mouse--though
indeed I felt anything but a lion--could begin all the sooner. So I
closed my eyes and paid no attention to Frean, no more than as if he
wasn't there. After yelling filth at me for a while and finding little
satisfaction in it, he suddenly lost his last vestige of self-control
and hit me a resounding blow in the face. Even that I accepted with
outward equanimity and, with a final barrage of abuse, he left me.

"You'll say something before we're done with you!" were his final
words. "You'll crawl for mercy. See if you don't!"

The mice came out, as though at a signal, the moment Frean closed the
door. Evidently the good news of the free lunch had been broadcasted,
for now the bread, or rather cheese line had increased most
gratifyingly. I am sure there were a dozen of them, of all ages and
sizes. I don't suppose they got much to eat in that house and hunger
had made them bold; for when I heaved over with my face to the wall,
thus exposing my wrists, they squeaked and scuttled, but promptly came
back.

I lay quiet, hardly daring to breathe, and they swarmed over me. I
thought of Bishop Hatto and was glad they weren't rats. Rats are
voracious creatures and might not have known or cared very much where
the cheese ended and I began. Or do rats like cheese at all? I don't
know much about them; no, nor mice either. They were never a hobby with
me; in fact I never cared to know them intimately. As a boy, I was
singularly lacking in the ambition to produce a white mouse or rat from
my coat sleeve or the back of my neck, and now these mice were gayly
cavorting over my face as they rushed to the feast. It was not pleasant.

As I had hoped, the warmth of my body had smeared the cheese thoroughly
over the ropes binding my wrists and I couldn't see how this army
could partake of one without the other. I felt them nibbling away, nor
should it take very long for those sharp little fangs to begin what my
strength could finish. I urged them on in silent and eloquent prayer.

"Go to it, you filthy little beggars. Little do you know what mighty
events may wait upon your beastly appetites. Eat hearty, you vermin!"

I have heard a great deal about the efficacy of prayer, but that one
of mine seemed to be a dismal failure; perhaps it wasn't eloquent
enough. At all events they suddenly squeaked in chorus, volplaned to
the floor, and disappeared as if by magic. The next moment I heard
heavy footsteps and, breathing a curse, I heaved over on my back.

The door opened and Roupell entered, Roupell and another man. They came
over to the couch. "Let me present you to His Majesty, the Black King,"
said Roupell with an extravagant flourish. "I think you've met before."

We had. It was Big Tim Scallon.

CHAPTER XXI

I INTERVIEW HIS MAJESTY

I was disappointed. In the head of this crime trust I had looked for
one who bore some outward and visible sign of that subtle and keen
intelligence which undoubtedly ruled the affairs of the Company; I
had expected a fine Toledo blade, as it were, and found only a crude
bludgeon.

Even before asking that question of Roupell, I had guessed that Varney
wasn't the Black King, that I had been correct in believing he had
no guilty connection with the Black Company. Yet a personality and
intelligence such as his would have fitted in more with my idea of what
the head of such an organization should be like. It is true, of course,
that some of the most effective weapons are not impressive to look
upon, and this man was effective in his own way.

I may state here what I learned subsequently, that rather than Scallon
being a victim of the "system," as I had always imagined, he had been
the fountain whence flowed all the corruption and iniquity that made
Philadelphia a byword ten years ago. He had all the vices and none of
the virtues of the old-time political boss; none of the qualities with
which I, in my ignorance, had credited him.

That genial smile of his was a mask, precisely like Roupell's; he
was spawn of the gutter, the bad "get" of a bad breed. Moreover, I
learned also why and how he had dropped out of the public eye, why I
had heard nothing about him for years; the crusade that broke up his
"ring" landed him in the penitentiary for three years, after a legal
battle that cost him most of his ill-gotten gains. It was said, too,
that he had more than one murder to his account, though he had escaped
conviction.

There was something ludicrous in the thought that, of all people, I
should have selected Tim Scallon as the one person able to tell me the
truth about Fremstad and Varney. I thought of Blunt's remark about my
being such an excellent judge of character. What irony! Conscious, of
course, on his part; for Blunt must have known Scallon's true record if
I did not. Yes, I was a superb judge of character; there was no getting
away from it. I had even believed in Arnold Frean. I looked at Scallon
now, a great lumbering hog of a man with sagging jowls, and marveled
at my obtuseness. How had I been able to conceive him as anything but
what he so obviously looked? He was overdressed as usual; there were
diamonds on his short, hairy fingers; and another big lump of ice on
his shirt front. A black cigar was tilted at an aggressive angle in a
corner of his loose mouth. He personified brute force. Yes, a crude
bludgeon.

But if Tim Scallon was a crude bludgeon, he was also an effective one,
and if he hadn't the subtlety to devise, say, that secret code, he was
precisely the sort to command the criminal intelligence that could. He
was the Black King, the Boss, the great Bull Elephant whose trumpet
made the lesser predatory animals tremble.

It was clear to me now that the nucleus of the Black Company was
composed evidently of former henchmen, who, perhaps, had shared his
disgrace and punishment. Perhaps, too, he was revenging himself now
on society, though, for that matter, he had always lived by theft and
violence pursued under the euphemistic name of politics. At any rate, I
couldn't have fallen into worse hands, for he symbolized the spirit of
the Black Company.

"Well, Mr. Nosey Parker, bong swor, as the French say. You ain't
lookin' like I last seen you. Pretty nice place this, ain't it?"

"Yes, not so bad; much better than the company."

"How's that detective bureau you were workin' for gettin' on, not to
mention my old friend Bill Harrigan? Fancy Bill sendin' you to see me
about old Varney! Real thoughtful of Bill!" He laughed and thumped me
jovially on the shoulder. "Some little investigator, you are! Oh, I
should shay sho."

"My mistake, Scallon," I said. "I never thought you were half the
scoundrel you look. I'm learning."

"You are," he replied with sudden ferocity. "And take it from me,
you'll learn a lot more before you and me see the last of each other.
You ain't learned yet, you big tramp, to watch your own soup and leave
other folks' alone. But I'm gonna learn you. See?"

"Indeed."

"Yes, indeed and in fact. Guys like you gimme the royal pip. Livin' off
dough that some stiff swiped in his day, and then because you ain't
had the nerve to swipe it yourself, or the guts to work for it--yeah,
I know you silk-stockin' reformers and philanthropists like a book.
Vermin, that's what y'are; dirty, crawlin' vermin! There ain't one of
you fit to lick the boots of the good boys you've sent to the pen by
your love for buttin' in and free advertisin'; and there ain't a crook
in the pen who wouldn't be ashamed to be seen with you. Yah!"

"I'm pleased to be classed as a philanthropist and reformer, Scallon.
I've been called everything but that."

"You and your dirty money!" he bellowed. "Usin' it against me, ain't
you?"

"I've a right to protect myself. You started this show; for I'm sure I
can thank you for what happened to me in Philly."

"Yeah, and it ain't a marker to what's gonna happen to you. See? You
started this by buttin' in where you wasn't wanted; I'd have let you
alone if you'd let me alone. Now you've gone too far. You started it,
but I'm gonna finish it. See?"

He stopped trumpeting long enough to remove his cigar and level it at
me like a weapon. "I gotta bone to pick too with that comic-supplement,
gum-shoe boob you've hired to sew us up. There's been one standin'
on his plate for ten years, since the days when he was a bull at
headquarters here. He's gonna get what that boob you sent to Philly
got, and you're gonna help him get it, see?"

"Am I?"

"Yes, y'are. You're gonna bait the trap, Mr. Buttinsky. You're gonna
write the nice little letter that'll bring him here."

"Oh, no, I'm not, Mr. Scallon."

"And I say y'are! I come through on every play I make, and when I tell
you you're gonna do as I say, you're gonna do it. See? If you don't
see, I'll show you--just like this."

He sucked voraciously at the cigar until the white ash tumbled off and
the end glowed crimson, then calmly applied the hot end to my cheek.
"Next time I'll plunk it in your eye," he said, as I squirmed and bit
back a scream. "We'll spoil your beauty, son, all right--make you a
little more ugly than y'are. That's only a little taste of what's
comin', if you're minded to keep your tail up. Now I'll leave you to
mull it over; I got other fish to fry. Next time I come in here you
want to be in a responsive mood. See? I ain't gonna argue with you; you
do as I say or your lamps won't be fit for nothin else but ash trays.
Bong swor, as the French say, for the present."

To my infinite disgust, Corby came in as Scallon and Roupell went out,
and, to my further disgust, he showed no signs of turning out the light
and going to bed--there was a military cot by the window--like any
reasonable human being. Of course it was necessary for my scheme that
he should go to sleep, or at least that the room should be in darkness.
If he sat there quietly, with the room lighted, the mice themselves
would give the show away.

So much had happened since my leaving the Claremont, that perhaps
I thought the night more spent than it actually was; yet it could
not be far from midnight. I hoped that the eye strain produced by
reading--Corby had settled himself with a book--would make him sleepy,
and I began to help the good work along by yawning energetically. It is
well known that this is very infectious, but somehow it had no effect
on his perverse and abnormal nature.

"Can't you ease these ropes a bit and give me a chance to sleep?" I
complained at length, not daring to say anything about the light. "Or
is that part of the game?"

"No," he said, "I guess you may sleep all you want to--if you can. Go
ahead; don't mind me. I hope my reading isn't disturbing you. A very
pleasant book this, Mr. Lawton; 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue.' Have
you read it?"

"Oh, yes. A cheerful work, as you say. Have you ever read 'Forty
Buckets of Blood?' I'm sure you would enjoy that, too. Did you know
Poe?"

"He died long before my time. How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know. I thought Poe must have known you, for the principal
character in that book you're reading seems to have been drawn from
you."

"You mean the ape? Fie, Mr. Lawton; that's hardly complimentary."

"Well, if you're not an ape, Corby, show me. Now what's the use of all
this Bowery melodrama? What is it going to bring you? Let us have a
common-sense talk; you've only to name your price, and I give you my
word----"

"Oh, fie, sir! You are trying to corrupt me. But my virtue is laid up
in a place where moth and rust--you know the quotation. It's no use,
Mr. Lawton; there are some things your money can't buy and I happen to
be one of them. I won't talk to you any more; you're a bad man, sir."
And he resumed his reading. So I saw my beautiful scheme going all to
pot.

Presently I heard the throb of a motor which seemed to stop opposite
the house. The night being very warm, the window was open, and Corby,
switching off the light, stuck his head out--an excellent position if
only I had been foot-loose. Then a door banged downstairs, there came
the sound of voices, and finally silence. Evidently there was other
business afoot, which accounted for my comparative neglect. Perhaps the
other fish which Scallon had to fry had arrived.

Corby switched on the light and took up his infernal book. "I suppose
you are wondering who that is?" he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes, I'm sure you are. Well, I'll tell you; it's Mr. Varney. It would
be a pity not to satisfy your inveterate curiosity."

The knowledge that the Black King was Tim Scallon pointed a probable
solution to the mystery of Theodore Varney's connection with this
crime trust. Although at this time I knew nothing of the jail sentence
that Scallon had received, or how his ring had been broken up, his
words to me had shown obviously a bitter hatred of reformers and
philanthropists. It was quite possible that for some reason he had
become Varney's deadly enemy, just as he was Blunt's--something I had
never suspected. Perhaps Blunt and Varney had supplied evidence against
him.

I had to bear in mind that all Varney's work for the public good was
done clandestinely, and that therefore in any case his name would not
have figured in the case publicly. Yet the theory that Scallon was
out for revenge against him, while logical enough, did not explain
everything. I had yet to find where Joyce fitted in, and Frean too, for
that matter. If merely to decoy Varney into the hands of Scallon, they
could have accomplished it weeks ago. No, there was an important, an
all-important part of the puzzle which I had missed completely.

Even while I thus assured myself, there came from below the awful
tortured cry of a man goaded by pain to the point beyond human
endurance. It sent the echoes of the old house on the rampage, and then
died away as suddenly.

"Ah, Mr. Varney is tuning up his pipes. Must have slipped his gag,"
said Corby composedly, but with the voracious sparkle in his dead eye.
"Your turn next, Mr. Lawton. Get all the rest you can; you'll need it."

All my fear had returned, and with that dreadful cry ringing in my
ears, I was convinced that it was Varney. At the thought of that frail
old man being put to the torture by these ghouls, I went berserk. I
strained at my bonds in a sort of insane fury, putting forth all my
strength, and suddenly the ropes about my wrists snapped. The mice had
done their work.

CHAPTER XXII

FOOL'S LUCK

Now it pains me even yet to write of what followed. Having conceived
and contrived such an ingenious method of escape--and I needn't pretend
that I don't think it pretty clever of me--why couldn't I have utilized
it to the full? Why was I not able to free my hands without Corby
knowing? Why couldn't I have suddenly sprung upon him, left him bound
and gagged, rushed to the rescue of Varney, and rounded up the whole
gang single-handed? It might easily have happened thus, but it didn't.
Why had that rope to snap at the moment it did, when Corby was wide
awake and even looking at me? I'm sure I don't know; things seem to
happen adversely like that to some people, and I suppose it was down
in the book of fate that I was never destined to play the hero. At any
rate the result was disastrous.

To properly understand what followed you must remember how I was
tied; my feet were bound behind me and fastened to my wrists so that
I was like a bent bow, and when, without warning, the rope snapped,
I was like that bow suddenly released. I was lying on my side at the
time, and a six-foot bow at full tension creates quite a disturbance
when that tension is suddenly released. The result was that my legs
flew down, my arms up, and I shot from the couch to the floor where I
skidded like a tin Lizzie on a slippery road. The next moment Corby had
taken a flying leap on my chassis.

Now my feet were still bound fast together, though my hands were
free, but even with this drawback, I think I could have accounted
satisfactorily for Corby--I had the makings of a good strangle hold
on him--if it had not been for the entrance of Frean and a man whom I
saw to be Joyce. Evidently they had heard the small riot. Frean danced
around and offered advice, but the intensely practical Joyce lost no
time in whipping a slung shot from his pocket and letting me have it,
a very scientific wallop that didn't even break my scalp, but which
caused me instantly to abandon the ambition to make Corby a corpse.

When I regained interest in the proceedings, I was back on the couch,
hog-tied anew, while Corby was examining the broken rope. "Cheese!" he
exclaimed. "For shame, Mr. Lawton," his dead eyes regarding me with
mild reproof. "And I believe I've seen mice about. Tut, tut, this will
never do. You're always trying to slip something under me, get me in
bed with the Company. It isn't fair, it isn't right. I could almost
believe you dislike me, Mr. Lawton."

"You shouldn't overexert yourself so unnecessarily on such a hot night,
Lawton," added Frean with a nervous giggle. "You know I've warned you
about apoplexy. Do be reasonable."

"Hope I didn't hurt you, sir," put in Joyce with mock concern. "You'll
be glad to hear, sir, that I got that Eyetalian who was gunning for me
the other night. Yes, sir, I had him arrested. And have you found out
yet, sir, what it means by 'Varney moves on second?' Oh, yes, I saw you
pick up the message that day; very thoughtful of you, sir."

I hardly heard their gibes for I was waiting to hear that awful cry
again. The fact that Joyce was here showed beyond all doubt that Corby
had told the truth and that Theodore Varney was indeed the victim of
these scoundrels. And if Varney, what about Miss Gelette? Was she
here, too? She went everywhere with her uncle, never let him out of
her sight; even with the help of that smug and smiling villain, Joyce,
I could hardly see how they had been able to decoy Varney without her
knowledge.

"Frean," I said, "what is this ghastly game you're trying to work on
poor Varney? What is it all about? Surely it won't do any harm to tell
me now. If it's money you want----"

Again there came that dreadful cry, against which I couldn't even stop
my ears. Frean paled and looked rather sick, but Joyce grinned and
said cheerfully "the old bird's got a fine register."

Corby nodded, head at a meditative angle, the voracious sparkle in
his eye. "I like that note. I wish I was down there. You're missing
something. Trade you jobs, if you like."

"Daren't," said Joyce and got up. "I'd better beat it."

"Frean," I cried, "for Heaven's sake stop that hellish business down
there! I can't appeal to these brutes, but surely I can to you! You
must have some decency left. You said I'd cry for mercy; well, I am.
You see me now, if that's any satisfaction. Tell Scallon I'll do
anything, pay anything----"

"You will in any case," he broke in with a white sneer, "and I've got
nothing to do with it."

"You have! You can't salve your conscience that way. You pretended to
be Varney's friend; you dined with him--why, man, you wouldn't torture
a dog like that! He's an old man, an incurable invalid. Can't they even
let him die in peace? Go down and tell Scallon he can have every penny
I own----"

"I've got nothing to do with it!" he almost screamed. "Do you think
they'd let me interfere? What do you take me for? Come along, Joyce."
And he almost ran from the room.

"A very tender fellow," commented Corby. "A little weak in the
stomach; but he's coming on finely. He'll make a good member when he's
had a little more experience. Quite a capable actor, too, don't you
think? We all have our talents." And picking up his book he sat down on
the foot of the cot and leaned against the window.

I found it impossible to keep my thoughts away from Corby's words about
it being my turn next, and Scallon's reference about my eyes and ash
trays. Apart from the smarting burn on my cheek--I carry the deep scar
to this day--there was ample evidence that Tim Scallon was a man of his
word, as he claimed.

Now, I'm no martyr--I think I've hinted at this before--and I knew it.
Frankly, I don't care for that sort of thing, especially if you have
to take it on an empty stomach and after a preliminary hammering. I've
always admired the early Christian martyrs immensely, but admiration
never went to the point of wanting to emulate them. I should like to
believe I had the nerve and stamina to suffer to the last gasp for the
sake of a principle, but at heart I knew quite well that Nero would
have missed making a night light of me, or a meal ticket for the lions,
if my tongue had known its business; so I contemplated with gloomy
misgiving my coming interview with the Black King.

I didn't want to betray Blunt, and I had made up my mind to suffer a
lot; I meant to stick it to the finish if I could, just as old Varney
was sticking it, but I wouldn't have taken any bets on my doing so. In
fact, I had a humiliating and sneaking conviction that I'd do about
anything before my eyes became ash trays, and this knowledge did not
increase my self-respect or my love for those who had placed me in such
a position.

All this time I was listening, and so was Corby, for another of those
awful cries from below stairs; but none came and Corby finally picked
up his book with a yawn.

"Must have lost consciousness," he said. "Stubborn old bird. It is
remarkable, Mr. Lawton, how much pain the human anatomy can stand.
History is replete with some very fine examples of fortitude. On the
face of it, you should be able to stand far more than old Varney; you
are a better physical machine. But then one has to consider the spirit
as well as flesh. I've known big, hulking brutes like you to faint if
they cut their own finger. I hope you aren't that kind; I hope you
won't disappoint me."

"You are too grisly, Corby. You're overdoing it. It doesn't frighten
me, I assure you. In fact, you're simply a bore."

He smiled pensively and resumed reading.

Now, as I looked at him, raging silently at my own utter helplessness,
a strange thing happened, so strange and startling, indeed, that I
wondered for a moment if I were dreaming. There was not a breath of
air in the humid night, and yet I saw the blind of the open window at
Corby's back move slightly. I must have dreamed it--but, no, there it
moved again. I was sure of it.

Corby looked at me over his book, as though attracted by my
concentrated stare. "You look interested, Mr. Lawton. What's up?"

"I was only wondering," I said, "why you didn't go into the moving
picture game. You're so beautiful. Your features should be perpetuated
on the screen." I had to say something like that, for the blind had
moved again, and I could hardly trust my voice.

"No more beautiful than you," he said. "We are a pair. But after
to-night, I should be the more beautiful of the two. Yes, indeed. It is
well, Mr. Lawton----" He suddenly gurgled and choked, for two hands had
shot from under the blind and got him fast by the throat.

I never saw a quicker, neater bit of work. Being a vindictive sort
where my enemies are concerned, I like to remember and ponder over that
picture. Corby's startled, helpless expression quickly changed to one
of rage and agony, as that viselike grip bit into his neck; he tried
to pull his knife, but he hadn't a chance in the world, seated as he
was below the window, and with those powerful hands gripping him from
behind.

In a trice he was choked half senseless, slammed back on the cot, and
then smothered as a wiry little figure followed the capable hands.
Then, to hurry matters, the newcomer whipped a billy from his hip
pocket, and tapped Mr. Corby scientifically on his bulging forehead;
whereupon the proceedings ended as suddenly as they had begun.

Jimmie Blunt, somehow looking as neat and well dressed as a theatrical
star, for all his bit of rough-and-tumble, and certainly as cool as the
proverbial cucumber, winked at me out of a blue eye that was no longer
suspiciously sleepy, but sparkling and alert.

"How'd that little act do for the movies?" he lisped, with his faint,
winning smile. "Couldn't have had it staged better to order. Thanks for
your help, Lawton. Hope they didn't maul you much."

"My help?" I exclaimed, as he slashed through my bonds with a six-inch
clasp knife. "A fat lot of help I've been! How in thunder did you----"

"Soft pedal," he warned, dropping his own voice still lower. "We
haven't time for post mortems now. Yes, I know Roupell, Frean, and
Scallon are here, also Joyce and Varney----"

"Then it _was_ Varney! They've been torturing him, Blunt----"

"Sorry. But I guess they didn't get very far----" He cocked an ear
like a listening terrier as a door slammed downstairs, and there came
Roupell's voice and the rumbling trumpet of the Black King.

"They're coming up!" I said.

"Good!" said Jimmie. "Quick!" he added. "Back as you were. Here, take
these nippers and keep them under you; snap 'em when I line 'em up.
That's it."

While I lay down on the couch in my old position, Blunt worked in the
swift, silent, effective fashion with which he had polished off Corby.
There wasn't a wasted motion.

With incredible speed and dexterity he bound and gagged Corby with the
cords that had lately decorated me, then unceremoniously shoved him out
of sight beneath the cot. After this he took up a position against the
wall beside the door, so that when the latter should open, it would
conceal him.

He had hardly done so when the stairs began to complain under
the weight of two such behemoths as the Black King and his chief
lieutenant. Evidently something had gone wrong, for the bull elephant
was angry and trumpeting loudly.

"Blast him!" we heard him say. "I'll sweat it out of th' old rip if it
takes a year! I'll keep touchin' him up till he comes through, or my
name ain't Scallon! He's gonna part, all right; you see if he don't.
Any guy can stand for one knock-out, but it's th' keepin' at it with no
let-up that get 'em."

He kicked the door open and lumbered into the room, followed by
Roupell; and evidently so secure did both feel that neither bothered to
close the door.

"Where th' blazes is Corby?" demanded Scallon, turning on his
lieutenant, after shooting me a scowling glance. "What kind of
discipline is this? Why ain't he here?"

"I don't know. I gave him his orders," faltered Roupell. "He should be
here." And his eyes began to rove as if he expected to discover Corby
on the walls or ceiling.

"Should be here! It's your business to see he is," rasped Scallon. He
removed his cigar and bellowed "Corby!" his mottled face growing purple.

Then the door slammed and showed Blunt with a leveled automatic resting
on his hip. "Put 'em up, Tim!" he said crisply. "You, too, Rose. Up
with 'em, quick! You know me, so none of your soapy work. I'll be glad
of an excuse to save the State the expense of another trial."

As the twin mountains of flesh were standing with their backs to me, I
couldn't observe, unfortunately, by their expressions what they felt at
receiving this startling surprise package. But whatever their emotions,
however desperate, courageous, and resourceful they evidently knew of
old this quiet, dapper little man, whose eyes were now hard and bright
as blue diamonds.

Reluctantly, very reluctantly but surely their hands were elevated,
and, keeping their persons between me and the watchful .38, I snapped
on the bracelets. Then Blunt frisked them.

The port-wine complexion of Roupell--or Rose, as Blunt had called
him--had become more the color of absinth. He sagged at the hinges,
and looked for once more than his age. But I must say Scallon took it
well; brute beast though he was, and foul with crime, he had the animal
courage which receives its due everywhere.

"Well, Jimmie, count one to you," he said casually, as if marking up a
billiard game. But his eyes were raging. "You always did play in fool's
luck."

"Yes," agreed Blunt, who never gloated, "I always did, Tim. If you
can't be clever, be lucky. It's just as good, or better."

"Butted in on a lone hand, eh? Well, whatja got on me?" demanded
Scallon, beginning to trumpet. His eyes were now shrewd and
speculating. "You got nothin' on me but th' kidnappin'--if you can
call it that--of this big tramp here. An' that'll take some provin'.
You can't hang nothin' on me, an' you know it. A private bull like you
ain't got no right to make an arrest, anyway. Flash your warrant. I
demand to see it. I know my rights, an' I got th' coin an' pull to see
I get 'em----"

"You'll get them, Tim; don't worry about that. Inspector Lannigan's
been playing in fool's luck, too, and so has Bright, of the secret
service. They should be here any minute now. The joint's been pinched
out, and there's a hurry-up wagon round the corner waiting for you.
They pulled your Philadelphia headquarters about an hour ago."

"Yah!" jeered Scallon. "Whatja take me for? That stuff has whiskers on
it. Think I'll fall for it?"

But his expression changed swiftly as there came from below, from all
sides of the house, in fact, the crash of splintered glass and rending
wood. There followed sounds of a small-sized riot, several pistol
shots, and then comparative silence.

"There's your answer, Tim," said Blunt laconically. "We've been lucky
again, and it's all over but the lining up. You and Roupell--as he
prefers to call himself--don't want to miss the roll call, so beat it."

As they were herded through the door, Scallon turned, his nonchalance
gone, and his mottled face now distorted with rage. "I'll get you for
this, Blunt!" he said thickly. "I'll get you some day if it takes a
lifetime! I'll get you if it's th' last thing I do. There ain't nothin'
in this world can keep me from settlin' with you!"

"Perhaps not," said Jimmie soberly. "Meanwhile----" And he prodded him
with the pistol.

The house was simply swarming with uniformed police and plain-clothes
men, among the latter being, as I learned later, a number of Federal
officers. We hadn't gone far along the corridor when we met a
grizzled, gold-laced official, whom I recognized, from pictures I'd
seen, as Inspector Lannigan, of the New York force.

I discovered afterward that the solemn, cherubic individual in
citizen's dress who accompanied him was the noted Chief Bright, of
the secret-service. He was famed for his silence, which he now bore
out, for I didn't hear him say a single word through the subsequent
proceedings.

"Good work, Jimmie!" said Lannigan familiarly, for Blunt had formerly
served under him. "It's a clean bag and only one casualty. What about
the man Corby?"

"Back in that room, all ready for shipping. You boys'll find him under
the bed. Where's Mr. Varney?"

"In there," said Lannigan, thumbing toward a door at the end of the
corridor. "They put him over the jumps, but he never blabbed. A
game old gentleman, Jimmie; as fine and game a one as I ever saw. I
only wish we could have got here before they hurted him, the dirty
blackguards!"

He whirled on Scallon, his eyes flaming like an old war eagle's, and
his Irish parentage more in evidence. "Ye white-livered swine!" he
said. "Them haythens in Beljum is Christian gentlemen to you! Get along
down there wid the rest of your scum!"

"Down there" was the lower hall, where I glimpsed Joyce and two
others--probably my assailants of the taxi--standing handcuffed, and
in charge of several officers; and Scallon, propelled by a hearty kick
from the irate Lannigan, joined them on all fours. Never was a king
dethroned so completely.

We entered the room pointed out by Inspector Lannigan, but I saw no
sign of Mr. Varney, its sole occupants being a couple of Federal
officers and a man whom I had never seen before. He was past middle
age, and very distinguished looking. He lay on a couch, his feet naked,
and the sole of one of them a mass of raw blisters. The sight was
horrible, and I wished I had helped to kick Scallon downstairs.

After a whispered word with one of the officers, Blunt beckoned me out
and the door was closed. "The ambulance will be here soon," he said.
"The best thing you and I can do is to beat it home. The show's over."

"But where's Mr. Varney?" I demanded. "I must see him. And who's that
poor fellow in there?"

"Why, that's Mr. Varney."

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "You've made a big mistake. I know Varney, and
that fellow----"

"Is his brother, and the only Varney that ever figured in this case,"
finished Blunt, the ghost of a twinkle in his blue eye.

CHAPTER XXIII

BLUNT EXPLAINS

For a time I was prevented from inquiring further into this amazing
matter of Varney's brother, a person, by the way, whose existence I had
forgotten. I learned later that he had been transferred to the room we
had just quitted, following his first ordeal by fire, which had taken
place in the kitchen.

As Blunt and I now passed downstairs to the lower hall, we saw in what
was evidently the dining room the body of a man stretched on the table,
a policeman standing guard over it. It was covered with a sheet, yet
something familiar in the outline, I cannot tell why or how, caused me
to pause.

"Is that the fellow who was killed?" I asked rather fatuously.

"Yes, sir," said the policeman.

I entered the room and lifted the sheet. Yes, I had been right; it was
Arnold Frean. What a strange working of chance that he should prove the
only one to be killed! No doubt but that there were others in the house
who deserved such a fate far more than he. I looked at him, his face
now ennobled by death, all the vice and meanness gone, and thought of
what might have been, had he only taken the right turning. How all too
easy it is to take the wrong! I wondered, thinking of those far-off
days in Princeton, had he ever had an inkling of such an end to the
hectic story he was even then writing in the book of life--to die here,
shot down like a dog, an associate of criminals. But who among us has
an inkling of his own fate?

"Well," said Blunt, baring his head, "he has settled all earthly debts.
Perhaps it's best that he went out when and as he did."

Perhaps; and yet, Heaven knows, I would it had been otherwise. My heart
was heavy, and I suddenly felt weary and old. "How did it happen?" I
asked the policeman.

"It wasn't none of our doin'," he replied, and then he added
ingenuously: "We didn't get a chanst."

"You mean he shot himself?" queried Blunt. "Suicide, eh?"

"No, sir," said the officer, "he shot himself all right, but the funny
part was he didn't mean to. It was like this, sir: He was here by his
lonely in this room when me and another of the boys come through the
windy on the signal. He pulled a gun, but instead of throwin' down on
us, he kept wavin' it around like a flag while he hollered blue murder
and jumped all over the shop like a crazy flea, us leppin' after him
same's a merry game of tag. Then he tripped and fell, and the gun went
off and killed him quicker'n winkin'. I never seen anythin' like it. He
must have been drunk or bughouse, mebbe both."

But I knew that Frean had only been drunk with fear; he had been scared
out of his wits. Yes, best perhaps that the end had come as it did,
best at least for his people. With the help of Blunt, I could hush it
up so far as the public was concerned. And, indeed, I may add here
that, with the exception of a small, and for the most part official
circle none has known the real Arnold Frean's connection with the
notorious Black Company, and the true incidents leading up to his
accidental death.

Owing to the obscure and isolated situation of the house, we weren't
troubled with the attentions of inquisitive neighbors or newspaper men,
and when the ambulance from Roosevelt had come and gone, and the patrol
wagon was loading up with the Black King and his courtiers, Blunt and I
left the house.

"I don't think I've thanked you yet for saving me from a very
unpleasant interview with Mr. Scallon," I said, as we headed for
Broadway and civilization. "I've been a fearful ass, Blunt, and
deserved the little I got."

He smiled. "Oh, we can all be wise after the event; and Frean's acting
would have fooled anybody."

"How did you know about that?" I demanded.

"Oh, a little bird told me, as Roupell would say. I agree with you that
he's an excellent mimic. He'll have time now to learn how to imitate
the voice of a hammer on stones. He's neither too old nor too fat for
the road gang. It should do him a world of good."

At the thought of the bogus Falstaff forced to such manual labor, I
felt considerably cheered. "He'll have a hard time getting a funny
story out of that," I said. "But what about this brother of Varney's?
What about everything, in fact? You've got to tell me a lot."

"Only on the condition that you keep it under your hat, Lawton."
Somehow we had forgotten each other's prefix. "I don't mean simply
about Frean. For certain adequate reasons this business about Silas
Varney won't be made public."

"Why?"

"Well, did you know he was a prominent member of the United States
embassy in Berlin?"

"Lord, no! You don't mean it? I remember hearing he held some
government job, but I'd forgotten all about him. I see now why Bright
and the Federal government had a hand in this. Then, after all, it had
something to do with this Prussian propaganda? Scallon was hired----"

"Not at all," said Blunt. "You're away off. I'm sure the Black Company
wouldn't have hesitated to hire itself out for any kind of dirty work,
providing it was profitable enough. But they aren't pikers, and had
a better graft than that. Scallon always had large ideas about other
people's money, and he was out to make a killing."

"In what way?" I asked, wondering what it could be.

"Well," said Blunt, "the idea was this: What do you think it would
be worth if you had private information--you alone, mind--that this
European war was going to end on a certain date? What would be the
effect on the stock market, even if there was only a good possibility?"

Suddenly I understood. "What would it be worth? Why, I could sit into a
game of freeze-out with old John D.! Jerusalem! Do you mean to say----"

"Every word of it," nodded Blunt. "Pretty big, eh? You see the Central
Powers want peace if they can get it without paying too much. What
their offer is, what the chances of peace are, none knows but the
Wilhelmstrasse, the American ambassador in Berlin, and the man you saw
with the toasted foot--Silas Q. Varney."

"By George, Blunt, I never thought of anything like this. I'm beginning
to see the whole thing. I suppose President Wilson is to act as
intermediary? And they wouldn't trust it to the cables or in cipher
with one of their own men? No, of course they wouldn't; they were
afraid of a leak."

"That's the idea," said Blunt as we turned into the Avenue and headed
downtown. "No, they weren't taking any chances. It was to go by word of
mouth, through the American ambassador, and Varney was the one chosen
to convey it here."

"How did Scallon get wind of it?"

"I don't know; of course none knew of it here outside the President
himself. What I've told you I got from Bright who had it from Varney.
But the tentacles of this crime octopus reach far and deep. We've only
nabbed the head and part of the body, you might say. It's certain
they've agents on the Continent whom we've yet to discover and run
down. These agents cabled Scallon their inside information and the date
of Varney's sailing--and that's what was meant by that code message,
'Varney moves on second.' Scallon passed it on to Joyce."

"Joyce brought Silas Varney here? But how?"

"You'll see as I go on. Now I don't know whether Scallon simply meant
to sell this information he aimed to force from Varney, or whether he
meant to operate on the market himself through a snide brokerage house
that Roupell's interested in. He had the capital and organization, and
in either event, stood to make a killing."

"Then Theodore Varney never figured in the case at all?"

"Oh, he did," replied Blunt. "He was an innocent but important factor.
He knew his brother was coming over on a visit here, but of course,
he didn't know the true reason of that visit. Silas was to stay at
the house on the Rumson Road as his guest, a natural arrangement,
and one which suited Silas all around. For you remember that Shadow
Lawn, the summer home of the President this year, is in the immediate
neighborhood. Well, that's where Frean and Joyce came in. Theodore
Varney, seeing no reason why he shouldn't, naturally mentioned to an
old friend like Frean the coming visit of his brother; or if he didn't,
then Miss Gelette did. Anyway, Frean found out a whole lot that was
necessary."

"I'm sure he did. Even I heard from the servants some talk of the
expected visit, but I never thought twice about it. I thought Silas
Varney was coming on from Washington maybe, and that he probably held
a post-office job. Naturally, they didn't confide all their family
affairs to me. They're a close corporation."

"Yes, and you couldn't be expected to guess everything. You found out
an invaluable lot as it was. But it was reckoned by the Black Company
from the start that Theodore Varney would meet his brother at the
dock and bring him home in his car, and Joyce was to see that the car
went somewhere else. Of course it was expected that secret-service
men would be there to keep an eye on Silas, but as his mission wasn't
to be known, they couldn't guard him publicly. They wouldn't suspect
anything, either, Silas being with his brother, and his car run by a
chauffeur who had the best credentials. But if the secret-service men
tailed them, careful plans had been laid to deal with them. Everything
had been mapped out carefully beforehand, as carefully as the surprise
Germany sprung on Europe. They knew, from the time Silas' boat sailed,
that she couldn't pass quarantine before this evening, and therefore
they'd have a better chance at night. These irregular sailings, the
result of the war, suited them down to the ground.

"Well, Varney and his niece came up in the car yesterday----"

"Yes, I know." And I thought injuredly that Brenda Gelette might have
explained to me more fully the nature of the business that had brought
them to town. But then I remembered that she hadn't remained very long
in a confiding mood.

"Luck seemed to be playing into the Company's hands," continued Blunt.
"The boat was due at eight thirty, special customs arrangement having
been made, and Silas Varney----"

"Wait a minute," I said. "I understand everything so far, but let us
leave Silas Varney and work back to him. I want to know how you figured
this thing out. It's beyond me."

"Not when you understand it," he replied. "Tim Scallon calls it fool's
luck, but it was just plain hard work, Lawton. I've told you the
story so far just as if all along I was dead sure of what was going
to happen--but I wasn't; not by any means. I had only suspicions and
theories. I'd no more idea than the man in the moon, or you yourself,
what particular use Scallon meant to make of Silas Varney, though I was
sure he meant to kidnap him. When I was satisfied it wasn't Theodore
Varney the Company was after, then it followed logically it must be his
brother. That was obvious."

"Yes, now that you say so. But it didn't seem obvious to me."

"Because you didn't think of looking Silas Varney up. When I found that
he held that government job in Berlin, and had sailed on the second,
the whole thing looked pretty clear. It explained that code message,
why Joyce had been planted with Varney, why Frean had been snooping
around--everything. Knowing Scallon of old, as I did, it didn't take
any great intelligence to guess that he meant to make capital out of
some information Silas Varney was bringing over."

"Yes, but how did you know that Scallon was the Black King?"

"That's where the hard work came in--routine stuff, you know," said
Blunt with a shrug. "If I gave you the whole works piecemeal, all the
clews we ran down, all the bloomers we opened, I'd be talking for a
week. But I got my first line from this fellow, Howard Roupell, whom
you'd mentioned. He had changed a lot since I last saw him, put on
fat, and grown that beard, but I knew him for 'Andy' Rose, one of
Scallon's old henchmen. This fellow Corby--that isn't his real name,
of course--is another. That discovery sent us looking up Scallon, that
and the fact that you'd asked him about Fremstad and Varney. He was
supposed to be living in retirement, repenting of all his old sins. But
we found his humble home was only a stall, that he had half a dozen
big bank balances under various names, and that there was a swell
house in another part of Philly, with a fake entrance, where he spent
most of his time. It was clear he hadn't turned over any new leaf, and
was getting big graft from somewhere--and, by the way, running chinks
and smuggling hop was a side line of the company. That's evidently
what took your friend Ashton to the Chinese quarter. He may have been
decoyed, but I think he stumbled on some evidence connecting Joyce
or Scallon with this organized crime trust, struck a trail which,
properly followed up, might have led to anything. And they put him away
before he could use it."

"How did you know I was going to be jobbed by Frean to-night?"

"I suspected something of the sort, but didn't actually know until it
happened. You see, I heard every word that passed; there's a dictaphone
in your study, and it leads into the vacant apartment next door. I had
it installed one night when you and Watkins were out. The manager of
the Belvedere's an old friend of mine."

"Well, you're a fine, trusting bird! Did you suspect _me_?"

He laughed shamelessly. "No, but you must admit you hadn't shown
much enthusiasm about obeying orders--I know all the times you tried
to ditch Nast. Besides, your acting would be more convincing if you
weren't wise; this dictaphone stunt is pretty old stuff, but it still
makes good if the enemy doesn't suspect. It was put there to get
evidence, and for your own protection, for I knew that before Silas
Varney arrived the Company would make a stiff effort to put you away.
They were hard up, anyway, for accurate information, to find out just
how much you knew and what steps you'd taken. Frean spoke the truth
when he told you they weren't sure if you'd engaged me. We managed to
keep everything so quiet that we had 'em guessing."

"Then, if you were virtually in the next room, heard all that Frean
said, and took it down, why did you let him work his game? Why didn't
you step in and collar him?"

"Why is a crook given enough rope to hang himself?" countered Jimmie,
with a grin. "That was the whole point of the game--to let them nab you
and Silas Varney. We needed this red-hot evidence, and we got it----"

"So did Silas Varney, and I guess he knows just how red-hot it was."

"Yes, that was a slip-up we couldn't help--not getting to the house
quite soon enough. But you can't bank on everything. I followed your
taxi, but, as luck would have it, our engine stalled and held us up.
Bright and Lannigan should have got there on time, only they had
unexpected troubles of their own, Joyce and his pals ditching 'em a bit
better than we had planned. So we all got there together. There was
a risk of their killing Varney and you if we didn't get the jump on
them----"

"Hold on; we've worked back to Varney but you've skipped a lot. I want
to know what happened at the dock."

CHAPTER XXIV

I WIN THE QUEEN

"Well," resumed Blunt, "I told you the boat docked at eight thirty,
special customs arrangements having been made, and when Miss Gelette
got back to the Waldorf--I believe she had been in the company of an
ancient female friend whom she met by chance, and who carried her off
and simply forced her to remain for dinner----"

"I've been called everything in my day but an ancient female," I
interrupted. "As it seems there isn't much you don't know, I take
it that you're fully aware that Miss Gelette dined with me at the
Claremont?"

"Oh, sure," said my companion blithely. "I'm only relating the story
that an ingenuous and repentant niece told to a certain sick and irate
uncle. I've no use for a woman who can't tell a well-constructed lie on
occasion," he added parenthetically. "When Miss Gelette got back, she
found her uncle down with an attack of acute indigestion, and hopping
mad at having been left alone so long. The house physician was in
attendance and Mr. Varney felt so ill that he couldn't go to the dock.
Therefore, Miss Gelette went alone----"

"Alone! Great Scott, Blunt! Why didn't you tell me----"

"Hold on; you needn't break my arm, old man. Don't excite yourself.
She's quite all right, and safe as a church. Well, to proceed, she went
alone in the car, having no suspicion of Joyce, even if he was being
stalked by a jealous Italian. Yes, I know about that little affair of
the blow-out. The idea was for Silas Varney to put up at the Waldorf
for the night, owing to his brother's illness. Now Bright had been
tipped off, but Joyce and his pals were too slick for him; they ditched
him and his men, chucked Miss Gelette out in a side street, and made
off with the bound and gagged Silas--same trick they worked on you.
Everything worked just as they had planned, and this business of yours
helped them; at least it kept me from being on hand. Well, as I say,
there was a risk of their killing Varney and you if we didn't get the
jump on them, and so when I got to the house it was arranged for me to
first sneak in and short circuit any such plan. There was a ladder with
the crowbars and axes in the patrol wagon, and so I skinned up and the
rest was easy."

"Yes, when you say it like that. There's an apology due you by me,
Blunt. For all your reputation, I was beginning to think you'd been
over-rated, and that you were asleep on the job. I take it all back.
You've simply done wonders----"

"Not I," he laughed. "It wasn't any one-man job, as I warned you.
Lannigan, Bright, the boys in blue of Philadelphia and Boston--all had
as much to do with it as I. It was simply organization and hard work,
and we'd have been nowhere but for you. It was you who started the
whole business, and only for you, Scallon would have got away with his
game, and the Black Company would have been more flourishing than ever.
A whole lot of good certainly came from that wild jag of yours; but I'm
not saying the moral of the tale is, 'Go thou and do likewise.'"

"What about Theodore Varney and his niece?" I asked. "How much do they
know? And where is Miss Gelette now?"

"At her hotel. That's what helped to delay Bright and Lannigan--the
old gag of throwing food to the pursuing wolves. They happened upon
her after Joyce had doubled on them--I believe that's some car of
Varney's, and that Joyce must have been born with a steering wheel in
his fist--and they detailed a couple of men to see her home. Yes, of
course she knows her uncle's been kidnaped, and I'll stop in and tell
the sequel. There's no harm in her knowing the inside of it. Of course,
Scallon and his crowd will have to stand their trial on the Varney
charge; it's only the inside stuff about his mission here that won't be
made public."

He glanced at his watch as we reached Thirty-fourth Street. "Close on
twelve. Do you think it's too late for an ancient female friend to tell
the sequel to Miss Gelette instead of me?"

"You bet it is," I said. "No, it wouldn't do at all. I had no idea we
were so near the Waldorf; I should have been walking the other way.
I've got to beat it."

"I've got work to do, Lawton, and you haven't. Go in and tell her----"

"Far be it from me, Blunt; she wouldn't see me no matter what time it
was. You see, there was--er--a sort of misunderstanding at the dinner.
When you're at the explaining business, you might put in a good word
for me--in fact, several words, a whole poem. I need it. If you can
manage to represent me as outclassing Sherlock Holmes, Sir Galahad, and
General Joffre, so much the better."

"I'll do more--I'll tell the truth about you."

"For Heaven's sake, don't! I can't afford it, Blunt. She knows me a bit
too well as it is. I tell you I'm in wrong----" I stopped; a taxi had
drawn in to the curb opposite where we stood, and a woman had alighted.
It was Brenda Gelette.

"Good evening--I mean good morning," I said, raising my hat.

"I wish to speak with Mr. Blunt," she said, ignoring my dignified
salute.

"Certainly," I said. "Blunt----" I turned, but the perfidious Blunt had
vanished.

"I'm sure I saw him," said Miss Gelette.

"I'm sure, too," I agreed. "He was here--and now he isn't."

"So I see. You told him to go."

"_I?_ Indeed no. Why should I?"

She blushed profusely under the electrics. "Because you did! It would
be just like you. You knew I wanted to see him. Of course you did!"

She backed toward the taxi, I followed. "Where are you going?" I asked.
"I thought you were arriving home. But now it seems you're going."

"How intelligent you are," she murmured.

I peered into the taxi; it was empty. "Do you know what time it is?" I
demanded. "You're not going gallivanting about the streets at this hour
alone. It is my duty to go with you."

"But it is not my pleasure, Mr. Lawton."

"I can't help that, Miss Gelette. Either I march you back to the
Waldorf, or I accompany you on this errand. Take your choice."

"Oh, very well," she shrugged. "Of course, if you're going to be
perfectly brutal again, I am quite defenseless, and I must go to
Roosevelt Hospital. I've not time to argue----"

We entered the taxi and sat in formidable silence.

"Well?" said Miss Gelette at length, her foot tapping. "Why don't you
demand why I'm going to the hospital at this hour? I suppose you are
going to force me to tell you, but I won't."

"Really, I'm not at all inquisitive."

"Then you've changed greatly. But, of course, the real fact is that you
know already. Mr. Blunt told you; I'm positive he did."

"Well, that's true," I admitted. "I was taking a walk and happened to
meet him, and he told me about your Uncle Silas. I suppose they phoned
you from Roosevelt? Fancy all that has happened in a few hours; it
doesn't seem possible. You must have had a very exciting time, from all
accounts."

"I had," she said uncompromisingly. "What did Mr. Blunt tell you?"

"Oh, that Joyce is a rascal--which is no more than I suspected----"

"If you suspected that, then why didn't you tell us?"

"Well, I wasn't sure----"

"No, of course you weren't. You never suspected him at all. We might
all have had our throats cut and you'd never have known, or cared."

"Oh, but I would; I don't like my throat being cut--well, no matter
if you didn't mean me, too. Anyway, he's a rascal, it seems, and with
other rascals kidnaped your Uncle Silas and held him to ransom. They
took him to some lonely house and he wouldn't pay up. He was wounded
but managed to escape, and he's now at Roosevelt. It's all very
interesting, like something you'd read about."

"I didn't know you were acquainted with Mr. Blunt."

"Oh, in a sort of way. He tells me things."

She smiled with great superiority. "So I see. But a great deal happened
to-night that you'll never know."

"You might tell me."

"I might, but I won't. If ever I needed a friend--a _real_ friend who
could do things and not merely talk and act silly--it was to-night. I
had an awful time."

"I'm very sorry to hear it. If you had only phoned me----"

"Phoned _you_!"

"Well, I didn't even know you had an Uncle Silas; at least I'd
forgotten, and I didn't know he was coming----"

"No, of course, you didn't. You never know anything. But if you had
been there, what would you have done? Nothing. It was an occasion for
men, real men. If it hadn't been for Mr. Blunt and Mr. Bright----"

"Blunt never told me what he did."

"No he doesn't talk about himself, which must seem strange to you. But
Mr. Bright, who saved me from those wretches, told me all that Mr.
Blunt was doing."

"Well," I said as the taxi rattled under the L at Fifty-eighth Street,
"everybody can't be a hero, and you know I never pretended to be one.
One can't be everything. I hope that you really weren't in any danger."

"I was. I might have been killed; but I'm not going to tell you
anything about it. Here's the hospital. I suppose you'll insist upon
coming in?"

"No, I never liked the smell. I'll sit here and keep the car warm.
Don't be long."

"I'll be as long as I like. I don't want you to wait. I prefer to
return alone. I insist upon it."

"Very well. I shall be here."

"Oh, you--you----" Words failing her for once, she turned and entered
the hospital.

She kept me waiting a really scandalous time, simply out of spite.
It is remarkable how spiteful even the best women can be, and for
absolutely no reason at all. When at length she returned, she entered
the taxi without a word, seemingly too concerned about something even
to notice my continued presence.

"I hope your uncle is coming along all right," I ventured at length.

No answer.

"I hope your uncle----"

"Don't speak to me!"

"Very well; as you wish. As I was saying, I hope----"

Then she burst in on me in a muffled voice. "Of all the mean,
detestable, contemptible characters I ever met--yes, I mean _you_!
I--I hate you! That's right, sit there and laugh at me. You _are_
laughing! Oh, but you are _wicked_!"

"What have I done now, or failed to do?"

"Y-you know perfectly well! You knew all the time. You were there
at that house. It was you who really saved my uncle. And--and you
pretended. You let me talk. Oh, but you are _wicked_!"

"I didn't say anything that wasn't literally true either----"

"You did! You let me think--no, it's no use trying to explain. I've
learned everything--everything! Mr. Blunt told me the whole story
over the wire. He guessed that I was going to the hospital. I know
_everything_."

"But you don't want to believe a word that man says," I assured her
earnestly. "I've got to be honest about it. I asked him to put in
a good word for me when he saw you, to tell you a lot of glorified
nonsense." To my consternation I saw that she was crying. "My dear
little girl----"

"I--I'm not your dear little girl! You hate me. Y-you never tell me the
truth about anything. You're always making f-fun of me. You m-might
have been killed. They tortured you and--and you only laugh. We--we owe
you everything, and--and--oh, Peter----"

She finished it on my knee, arms about my unworthy neck and her snub
nose buried under my collar. I don't know how it happened, nor do I
care; some things are far too wonderful to be susceptible of analysis
or explanation. It just happened; one moment she was calling me some
of the names I deserved, the next she was perched there, pouring out
the most beautiful untruths imaginable. I'm ashamed to tell you all the
nice things she said about me; I was ashamed even to listen, and by and
by I told her so.

"The only two heroes who figure in this thing," I confessed, seeing
that she'd find it out, anyway, all in good time, "are Mr. Blunt and
that stoic uncle of yours, to whom I take off my hat." Of course, this
was merely a figure of speech, my arms being fully engaged with another
figure. "I hate to think what I would have done in Silas Varney's
place--or, rather, I know only too well. I wouldn't have dedicated a
perfectly good foot----"

"Yes, you would, and more! Oh, P-Peter, I can't say half what I feel!
But, Peter dear, do--do you really love me?"

"Why, bless your heart, don't you know I do, and did from the first
moment I saw you? Haven't I been telling you all along----"

"No, you haven't. But--but, Peter dear, please begin now."

Well, do you know, I'm inclined to agree with Tim Scallon that some
fools have all the luck. Certainly it was so in my case.

The abortive German peace offer has become a matter of history, and,
since the affair of the Black Company, even the Great War itself is
over and done with, if not forgotten. It is a matter of history also
how, in spite of Silas Varney's heroism and all he suffered, his
mission was betrayed. The Wall Street side of it is likewise a matter
of history, financial if not otherwise. There were those who made
fortunes, but Tim Scallon and his crowd were not among them. No, nor I
myself, nor any honest man I know.

The erstwhile Black King, with several of his court, including Roupell
or Rose, Corby, and Joyce, are the guests of the State at its famous
rest home on the banks of the Hudson, where they promise to remain for
a considerable period. For in no case was there found evidence capable
of convicting them of first-degree murder, and I dare say Scallon,
while making brushes, is comforting himself with the hope that some day
he will be free to pick that long-deferred bone with Lisping Jimmie.

I hear there is some talk about Silas Varney being our next
representative at the Court of St. James. He walks now with a slight
but permanent limp that rather adds to his distinguished appearance.

Theodore Varney is still alive and kicking. Indeed, his hold on life
seems to have increased, if anything, and he is looked on as a sort of
medical marvel, perversely defying all the accepted notions as to the
duration of his singular disease.

And so we still keep up the "tragic farce," but all his bitterness and
venom have gone. Perhaps this is due to his absorbing interest in the
antics of a small namesake. Oh, yes, I've forgotten about that sinister
Demon; it had no chance in the Argonne and was perhaps finally slain by
the bullet that invalided me out. Anyway, its final passing heralded
the coming of this delightful one. At least, the harried neighbors
call him a demon, and Brenda says he gets all his inquisitiveness,
impudence, and lack of reverence for the truth, from me. Also, by the
way, all his good looks. Of course, that goes without saying.

THE END.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK COMPANY ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.