Chapter IV: Part 4

The adventurer looked down into the sharp little face, so smutted and old looking.

“He’s an old friend of mine, kidsy,” answered he. “Here’s a dime.”

A grimy little hand shot out for the coin. Then she said:

“He lives back there, in the last room. Knock hard on the door. Maybe he’s drunk.”

Kenyon picked his way along the dirty hall, and rapped at the door at the end.

“Who’s there?” growled a rough voice.

“How are you, Brady?” responded Kenyon. “Can I come in?”

XIII

KENYON MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

“The deeds of one’s youth are long remembered.”

--_The Strategy of Nunez._

THE voice growled something in an undertone that Kenyon could not understand. But he promptly took it as an invitation to enter, and so pushed open the door. A thick-shouldered man with a dark, bloated face was stretched upon a broken-springed sofa; and as Kenyon entered he lifted himself to a sitting position.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled.

Kenyon smiled.

“There was a time, Gypsy, when you prided yourself upon your memory. It must have gone back on you of late years, if you don’t recognize old friends.”

“Old friends!” The man glowered at the speaker. “I haven’t got any old friends. No man that is down and out has. When me coin run out, it was the side street and the far-away look for mine.”

Kenyon drew a stool toward him and sat down, first throwing his top-coat and crush-hat aside. The man regarded his immaculateness with frowning wonder.

“How long has it been, Brady,” inquired the caller, “since you saw my old acquaintance the ‘Steamhammer’?”

Brady stared for a moment, then a grin gradually stole over his face.

“Say,” said he. “I’ve got you now. You are that young guy from West Point.” He arose and shook hands with Kenyon. “I’m glad to see you. You were once the handy boy, all right,” admiringly. “You had a shot in either hand that would have made you champion of America if you had been in that line.”

“Thanks.”

“Just wait a minute,” continued the Gypsy, with a wink. “I’ve got a friend here that’s sort of backward-like, when people call.” He went to a closet at one side, pulled back the catch and threw open the door.

“All right, Slim,” said he. “You can come out. It’s a friend of mine.”

A tall, angular, huge-boned fellow stepped silently out of the closet. He had a hawk-like face and a pair of small, shifty green eyes.

“I’m glad to know the gent,” said he. He sat coolly down upon a trunk and began to roll a cigarette. His fingers were supple and discolored. “You see,” by way of explanation, “when a guy is in demand, why it’s him for the deep, dense shade. Do you get me? There is no sense in lingering around in places where you might get sunburned.”

“I think I understand,” said Kenyon.

The Gypsy waved the subject away, as being without special interest. He seemed in a reminiscent mood.

“The night that you came into the ‘Paradise Garden’ is one that will always stick to me,” said he, with a chuckle. “Ah, that was a time when I could rope up the yellowbacks in bundles thick enough to keep back the cops. But New York’s changed since then. It’s full of Chinks, Yiddishers, Guinnies, and people with money.”

“I’ve heard of that old place of yours, often,” spoke the shady one, lighting his cigarette. “But I never saw it.”

“You see,” said the Gypsy to Kenyon. “Big Slim here is from St. Louis. He only struck New York a few years back. They’d never mugged him here, and he was looking for a new field.”

“It should have been ’Frisco or old K. C. for me,” complained Big Slim. “The guns have gone all over this island and there’s not a thing on it, except in Wall Street, that’s not chained short.”

“Well, if you’d drifted in in the old days you’d have found it different. A guy could accumulate a pull then, if he had the change,” stated Brady. “And he could go as far as he liked.”

He paused a moment, then resumed:

“Now the ‘Paradise Garden’ was a mint; money came in by the ton, and I only had to stop this side of murder. And it was the place to go,” with great pride. “Anybody that blew into New York had to take a flyer at my place to be in the running. It cost them something; but it was worth the money. The show I gave them was the real goods; and the drinks were fine--if the buyer was sober. What’s the use of wasting good liquor on a guy that’s stewed to the eyes. He can’t appreciate it.”

“Your reasoning is highly modern,” said Kenyon, dryly.

“You managed mit-pushers then, didn’t you?” asked Big Slim, rolling a second cigarette.

“I did. Local champs, you know, with followings of friends. The friends were always good shots over a bar. They could hit the cash register with a silver dollar every time they’d try. It was a pleasing performance.”

The Gypsy had lost his scowl, and his eyes glistened at the thought of his more prosperous days.

“But,” he resumed, “of all the chamois artists I ever managed, the ‘Steamhammer’ was the biggest winner. You see, he worked in Washington Market, and all the marketmen and longshore people would be on hand whenever he’d engage. And they were a thirsty lot. I’d have to sit on the safe all night with a gun after they’d been on the job.

“I had the Hammer for almost a year. Twice a week I’d advertise him as open to meet all comers at the middleweight limit; and he’d gone right along the line putting them away without missing once. At last the bugs began to whisper to me that I had the wonder of the age; and that it was my correct move to put him in front of the big mixer himself. But our friend here,” indicating Kenyon, “saved me the trouble.”

“Is that so?” inquired Big Slim, interestedly. “Tell us how.”

“He came into the Gardens one night with a lot of them West Point fellows. I think it had been a football day, and they were wild to pull something off. They had heard about the Hammer, and when I made the regular offer from the stage about him being willing to exchange wallops, one of them was on in a minute and the rest of them were howling with joy.”

“It’s that sort of thing that boys do,” apologized Kenyon. “And I was very young then, you know.”

“You were fifteen pounds lighter than the Hammer, I know that,” grinned Gypsy Brady. “And when you put up your guard I thought he had you sure.”

“But he didn’t?” interrogated Big Slim.

“He didn’t even come near doing it. You see the Hammer’s regular stunt was to rush his man up to the wall--I only had ropes on three sides--pin him against it with his left hand and pour it into him with his right. When he thought he’d handed over enough he’d pull out the pin, and the guy would generally drop. But this time the game didn’t work. The boy from the army school met the rush with a body stab that brought the Hammer up short; then he feinted him into a tangle and shot one over on his baggage truck that put him away.”

Big Slim nodded admiringly; he liked a neatly executed job.

“It was not nearly so difficult a proposition as you might think,” said Kenyon. “I’m not in good training for that sort of thing just now; but,” and he looked at the Gypsy attentively, “I’d rather tackle another job like it, than the one I have in mind.”

“I thought there was something that brought you here,” returned the ex-divekeeper. There was an eager look upon his dark, swollen face, at the prospect of profit of some sort. “Is it anything that you’d like to see me in private about?”

“I think not,” answered Kenyon. He turned and regarded Big Slim keenly. “I rather fancy that our friend here will be of assistance.”

“I’m only open for engagements of an indoor nature at the present time,” volunteered the man from St. Louis, seriously. “But if there is anything that I can do for a friend of the Gypsy’s, why, I’ll be glad to take it on.”

“I want a complete burglar’s outfit,” said Kenyon to Brady. “And I also want a full line of instructions as to how to break into a house, and how to force a safe when I get in.”

Big Slim cracked the joints of his huge fingers and only appeared mildly surprised.

“You’re not going to take up house-breaking, are you?” inquired the astonished Gypsy, when he had recovered his speech.

“Not as a regular thing,” answered Kenyon, easily. “But it happens that there is a house in town that I want to see the inside of, and don’t care to wait for an invitation. Now if you can put me in the way of getting what I want, I’ll pay you your own price.”

“As you have guessed,” said the Gypsy, “Slim is a cracksman; and if he has a mind he can fix you up.” He turned to the other, inquiringly, “What do you say?”

“I’ll do it,” answered Big Slim promptly. “But the stuff comes high,” to Kenyon. “I’ve got the finest kit in New York; it took me years to get it together. Every tool will do its work, and is strictly up to date.” He looked at the adventurer with calculating eye. “You could carry enough in your pockets to let you into anything but a money-fort. And I’ll hand it on to you, together with a full day’s instructions in the use of the stuff, at five hundred dollars.”

“Wrap them up,” replied Kenyon, quietly. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’ll have the lessons begin right now.”

XIV

THE UNINVITED GUEST

“’Twas in the garden of Beaucaire;
I met her on a secret stair.
The night was centuries ago.”

--_Old Ballad_

THE thick, sticky mist that sometimes blows uptown from the bay veiled Fifth Avenue; and a thin rain fell steadily. The lamps shot their pale rays mysteriously through the fog; cabs and busses rolled drippingly by; and soggy pedestrians hurried along under streaming umbrellas.

The theatre crowds were on their way home, after their hour in the White Light restaurants; but in a little while their time had passed, and the avenue was silent and deserted save for a policeman who would now and then appear, and almost as quickly vanish.

Most of the houses were gloom-fronted; a few scattering windows in the section just below the park showed night lights; but one house was brilliantly illuminated, and a long line of carriages was drawn up at the curb.

It was past midnight when Kenyon came along, enveloped in a rain-coat and with an umbrella held over his head.

“By George!” muttered he, “it is really at Farbush’s! What luck! To get inside now should be comparatively easy. What a fortunate thing it is that he should be giving this thing, whatever it is.”

He stood in the drip of a roof across the street and watched the gaily lighted house. At length a party came out, protected by umbrellas held by footmen; these latter immediately returned and several other parties came out at once and scurried for their vehicles.

“Now is my chance,” said Kenyon. He swiftly crossed the street, passed behind a carriage into which several exclaiming women were being helped, then up the wide steps and into the hall.

“Shall I return your things to the coat-room, sir?” asked a servant.

“Thanks--yes,” answered the adventurer, quietly.

He handed his coat, hat, and umbrella to the man, who received the latter surprisedly. Its folds streamed with water, and he was clearly wondering if the rain were not heavier than he had thought it. However, he took the things away without any comment, and Kenyon, with a light breath of relief, walked into a room in which he could see a number of men smoking.

His entrance being quiet and matter of fact, of course attracted no attention whatsoever. This was what he had calculated upon; he wore the conventional evening clothes; at a glance he looked exactly like the other males present, and no one could say that he was an intruder.

“That is, no one but Farbush,” mused Kenyon, as he took a cigarette from a box upon a stand. “And if he should happen upon me, no doubt I can find a few things to say to him that would sufficiently account for my presence.”

He was lounging calmly in a big chair when a voice at his side remarked:

“It’s a fair cigarette that Farbush keeps, isn’t it. If his champagne were as good I should have nothing to complain of.”

Kenyon turned. A pale-eyed young man with a budding mustache had drawn a chair up close to him, and was in the act of lighting a cigarette. There was a friendly, inconsequential look upon his chubby face, and the adventurer’s eyes snapped.

“Yes, they are rather a good sort,” replied Kenyon, inspecting his cigarette critically. “But I haven’t tried the champagne.”

The other made a wry face.

“Then you may consider yourself lucky,” said he. “These old fellows like Farbush should really leave their cellars for someone else to select. They do make a most dreadful mess of it sometimes. Now, Farbush possibly knows all about tea, and about ships and Chinese stuff and all that, but he’s a baby on the vintage subject. I had about fifteen dozen of that ’93 some time ago which I tried to induce him to buy; but he actually scoffed at it. And then he springs a thing like this to-night upon his unsuspecting friends.”

“Then you sell wines?” said Kenyon, with a show of interest.

“Not in the usual sense,” returned the young man, hastily. “No, no! I sometimes have a small quantity of a few select brands to dispose of to my friends--more to give them the benefit of my experience than anything else. That is all.”

Kenyon smiled. He had heard of the wine agent in society and had known the cigarette boomer at college.

“Our most philanthropic purposes are not always appreciated,” said he. The other shook his head in a way expressive of a wide and early acquaintance with that particular fact. “Now Farbush is a friend of mine,” proceeded Kenyon, “but I must admit that he’s rather shaky upon a good many things. Did he build this house, do you know?”

“I think he did.”

“That is what I thought. It’s about the sort of thing he _would_ have put up,” criticised Kenyon, with a severe expression, which said as plainly as words that architectural sins would only be properly dealt with if placed among the deadly kind. “It’s all out of reason, you know.”

“I couldn’t say, really,” returned the pale-eyed young man, hesitatingly. “Architecture is a bit out of my line, you see.”

Kenyon had been more or less confident of that; nevertheless he was pleased to hear the confession, and launched forth in a very caustic condemnation of Farbush’s mansion.

“But it’s the way the rooms are laid out that I particularly criticise,” declared he. “The whole thing is a jumble. Now, I have no doubt but that a man so inoculated with the poison of commercial life as Farbush would have his home office in the most conspicuous room in the house.”

“Oh, but he hasn’t, I assure you,” the other hastened to say. “His apartment for the transaction of his own private affairs is just at the head of the first flight of stairs--a large room, but quite out of the way.”

“Well, I should have thought differently,” replied Kenyon, grudgingly.

After a little more talk, largely upon the part of the wine agent, that person arose.

“I see most of them are going,” said he. “I suppose the rain must have let up.”

Then Kenyon noticed that Farbush had entered the room, and stood by the door leading to the hall, shaking hands with his departing guests.

“It would be preferable were he not to see me,” he thought. So now that his new acquaintance had left him, he arose, and quietly passed through a curtained doorway. The room was almost deserted; however, in one near at hand he could hear the laughing chatter of a great number of women.

“I’ve got but a very few minutes, perhaps,” he muttered. “So I’d better get to work.” He looked out into the hall, from still another doorway. The street doors were wide open and the footmen were calling the carriages in the impatient tone of men who were wet and uncomfortable.

“I should think the excellent Mr. Farbush would have done well to have spread a canopy from his door,” thought Kenyon. His keen eyes took in the fact that no one was observing him; and in an instant he had gained the stairway and had begun to ascend. It was a solid, hard-wood staircase, very wide, with massive balustrades and newel posts. And there were many turns in it, and many landings. Kenyon had reached one of these and stood in the glare of a cluster of lights to look back. As he was so posed he heard the rustle of silken skirts above him; he turned swiftly. Around a bend in the stairway, leaning over the heavy rail and gazing down at him was a girl--a tall girl, with a great crown of blonde hair and delicately tinted face. It was Anna!

“Mr. Kenyon!” she whispered; and he saw the sudden fear in her blue eyes.

For a moment the adventurer was at loss. But as was usual with him the feeling was perfectly masked; to all appearances he was cool and entirely at his ease.

“Ah, how do you do?” smiled he. “I’m charmed, I’m sure.”

She looked at him fixedly; it was evident that she was struggling against her surprise; but her voice shook as she said:

“What--what are you doing here?”

“Social affairs always have an attraction for me,” replied Kenyon. “I like to meet people and exchange ideas with them. The general effect is freshening, I think.”

The girl had recovered somewhat from her first astonishment.

“How foolish of me to be surprised,” she smiled; “of course you were among those asked. I recall it distinctly now.”

Kenyon regarded her with fresh interest. There was the same appealing air about her that he had noticed in Selden’s Square; a girlish sweetness and helplessness that drew one powerfully. But he had noticed another thing. The sweetness and innocence, if anything, increased when she spoke of her recollection of his being asked there that night.

“It might be a hallucination of hers, of course,” thought Kenyon, as his keen eyes searched the girl’s face. “But I’m not sure of it.”

“Will you sit on the stairs with me?” asked Anna. Her teeth were of dazzling whiteness, and her manner full of sudden witchery. “I know it’s very silly and school-girlish, but I’ve always liked it.”

“A fascinating place,” said Kenyon, as he sat at her feet. “Unnoticed we can speed the parting guests through the rails. It’s one of the discoveries of college days that are really worth while.”

She laughed a little at this. The light in her eyes danced softly and girlishly. But for all her smiles Kenyon thought he saw a tightening at the corners of her mouth. It was as though she were possessed of a nervous dread of some sort.

“I fancy,” thought the ex-lieutenant of Nunez, “that I have been inopportune in some way.”

“You are not going to-night, then?” said Anna, eagerly.

“Oh, yes,” replied Kenyon. “In a very little while.”

There was an expression of relief in the girl’s eyes for an instant, and then she pouted.

“I fancied that uncle would have you with us while you are in town.” She hesitated and then laid her hand upon his shoulder. “And I’m sure that Dallas would be pleased.”

“Dallas?”

“Of course. You must not be guided altogether by appearances. Neither should you heed what others might say. She is an odd girl in some ways. And proud!” with a pretty gesture of dismay. “I never saw such pride before.”

It was _the_ girl that she referred to! Kenyon drew a long breath and then said:

“I agree with you as to the pride. Her attitude toward me, so far, has been rather--ah--distant to say the least.”

“Then she has not treated you well to-night?”

“Is she here?” exclaimed Kenyon, caught by surprise.

“To be sure. Mr. Farbush always insists upon our being present at affairs like this. He is a widower, you know, and he depends entirely upon us to entertain his guests. But is it possible that you have not spoken with her?”

She gave him a curious glance. He saw that it would not do to make admissions of any sort; they were inclined to be dangerous.

“I only ventured out of the smoking room upon one or two occasions,” remarked he. “And then the rooms were so crowded.”

“Oh, yes; that is true.”

But he could see that she was far from being satisfied, for she immediately came back to the subject.

“You are not a very ardent lover, it would seem,” she laughed. “I should think that a man would be breathless in his search for his lady-love, anywhere in which he had occasion to think she would be.”

“It is just possible,” answered Kenyon, slowly, “that I did not dream of finding her here.”

She looked at him quickly, and he felt her small hand tighten upon his arm.

“You are thinking of the affair of a few nights ago at Hong Yo’s,” she cried. “Oh, how dreadful, how horrible it must have been. And before her very eyes.”

“You have heard about it, then?”

“Griscom informed me. And then Dallas also told me, afterwards. But she was compelled to return here. No matter what has been done we cannot leave here, now.”

“I suppose not,” answered Kenyon, in a thoughtful way. “There is much more than personal feeling to be considered.”

“That is what we both think. Otherwise we would not have remained an instant after the night in--in Selden’s Square.”

By this time the last carriage had departed, and they heard the front door slam. Then the harsh voice of Farbush was heard.

“Now, then, come in here, Shallcross; I’ll go over that matter with you in detail.”

They heard footsteps in the hall below; and a door opened and shut.

“There, now!” exclaimed Anna. “You’ll not have a chance to say good-bye to him as you go. That is Mr. Shallcross, the ship-builder from Seattle. They will be deep in tonnages and such stupid things for the next hour.”

“At least,” said Kenyon, as he arose. “You can say good-night for me--in the morning. I’ll get my coat and other things”--as though about to pass her on the stairway.

“But the coat-room is below,” she informed him, hastily. And it also seemed to him that she instinctively barred his way.

“Oh, how stupid of me,” he exclaimed. “I fancied it was on this floor. That is why I was coming up in the first place.”

“Good-night,” she said, holding out her hand, with an eagerness that was a trifle feverish.

“Good-night,” he replied.

There was no one below that he could see. The empty coat-room was only dimly lighted. He entered and drew on his long rain-coat and took up his hat.

“I suppose there is no hope for it,” he muttered, half angrily. “I’ll have to go after all. I had hoped that I wouldn’t be compelled to--”

A murmur of voices outside the partly-opened coat-room door caught his ears.

“Billings, get that rug in off the steps. Mr. Farbush will raise the devil if he hears about it being wet. Old Potter threw it out there because he thought that fat wife of his would slip.”

A moment later the street door opened and then shut heavily. A man passed on his way to the rear of the house. Kenyon opened the coat-room door wide. All the lights, save one, in the lower hall were turned out; and that one only dimly illuminated the place.

“She’ll think I’ve gone, if she’s listening,” muttered he.

With his hand upon the stair rail once more in the act of ascending, Kenyon caught a familiar sound. It was the rich rustle of silken draperies; and through the shadows he made out a figure in white, bending forward upon the last stretch of the staircase. He crouched close to the wall, and held his breath.

“He has gone,” he heard the voice of Anna murmur. “Oh, how I fear that man!”

Then, softly, she stole up the staircase once more, and Kenyon was left alone. He cautiously made his way into one of the great rooms at the front of the house. It was dark, save for what light entered at the windows, from the street. Settling himself in as comfortable a chair as he could find he lay back and began to go over the situation.

“So Anna is afraid of me,” he thought. “Well, that is not altogether a pleasant thing to hear. If I were younger I would be inclined to doubt my personal fascinations. And, while I think she meant it in a general way, I’m pretty sure that there is some reason to think that she had a special fear of me to-night.”

He crossed one leg over the other and placed his clasped hands behind his head.

“If I could have a cigarette, just now,” his thoughts went on, leaping from one thing to another, “I think it would help me. But I suppose it is too risky. Somehow that girl gave me an odd impression. I can’t get rid of the notion that there is another enterprise beside my own afoot here to-night. Take her fright at sight of me. Her relief when she found that I had not been asked to stay over night. Her anxiety that I should go. Her placing herself before me when I made as though to pass her. Her stealing down the staircase to make sure that I had taken my departure.

“Another enterprise would mean what?” He smiled at this. “Heavens, how is it possible to form any sort of a judgment in this business. It gets more snarled every minute. I never did know just what my position was in it; and now I’m beginning to get tangled as to the relative positions and attitudes of the others concerned. But, pshaw! What’s the use. No amount of reasoning will do any good, when one hasn’t anything to use as a base.”

Patiently he waited. An hour went by; then he heard the sound of chairs being drawn back. The ship-builder, Shallcross, took his departure, saying good-night to Farbush, who let him out. Then Farbush closed the door and came back through the hall. From the position which he had now taken behind a portière, Kenyon saw the man stop under the single light for a moment, his head bent as though in deep thought. Then with a gesture and a muttered oath he turned off the light; and the intruder listened to his slow, careful steps down the hall and up the stairway. Then there was silence.

Once more Kenyon resumed the easy chair, leaning back with closed eyes, patiently waiting. Almost an hour went by. Then he arose to his feet and stretched himself, luxuriously.

“It seems to me,” he mused, “as though I had been in this line of business for some time. Perhaps in a former state I was a famous cracksman. What an alarming idea! However, if it be true, I only hope that some of my one-time skill still lingers. I’ll have use for it to-night.”

From his pocket he took a square of black silk with two round holes cut into it. This he snapped about his head with a rubber band, and pulled it down over his face. Then he buttoned his overcoat up to his chin.

“The front of a dress shirt has a certain amount of sheen,” he said. “And I’d better provide for meeting anyone in the halls.”

Upon his feet he drew a pair of soft felt creepers; then he stole noiselessly to the door and listened. All was still. Apparently the servants at the back of the house had also gone to bed. From his vest pocket he drew a tiny electric torch and, pressing the button, it shot its narrow shaft of light along the hall. Almost instantly, however, he shut it off, and began to ascend the stairs.

“At the head of the first flight of stairs, said my friend the wine agent,” thought Kenyon. “But I wonder upon which side.”

At the head of the stairs all was black; he paused and listened once more. Then the tiny beam of light flashed here and there. At the left was a door partly ajar. The light died, and he took a noiseless step forward. He could not see the door, now, but trusted to his judgment of distance to place his hand upon the knob. But his hand was yet reaching out, when the hinges of the door began to creak slowly in the silence. He grew as rigid as a statue, for every instinct told him that he was standing face to face with someone in the darkness.

XV

KENYON IN A NEW RÔLE

“Take plenty of time. Keep cool. Don’t make a sound.”

--_The Advice of Big Slim._

FOR a moment Kenyon literally held his breath. There was no movement, though his ears were strained to catch any sound.

“Whoever it is,” he thought, “they are standing, listening, the same as I am.”

With the greatest possible caution he drew back a step; the soft felt creepers prevented any noise and he exercised the greatest care that there should be no rustling of his clothing. He had retreated three or four steps when he touched the opposite wall; and as he stood listening he caught the creaking of the door once more, as though the unknown had opened it wider. Then there came a faint fall of footsteps, gentle and guarded; and through the thick darkness came the trembling whisper:

“Who’s there?”

Kenyon made no sound. There was a silence; then he heard a deep, long-drawn sigh--the sigh of one who has been waiting and listening. Then the whisper came once more--a woman’s voice.

“I’m sure I saw a light--just for an instant.”

Then something passed Kenyon. It was within a foot of him as it went by; but he could not detect even its lineaments, so impenetrable was the darkness. The footsteps were slow, cautious, and soft. His skin prickled for a moment as the nervous dread of the unknown was communicated to himself. Then the sounds died away at the other end of the hall.

“It is Anna!” Kenyon told himself this positively. “And when I suspected a rival enterprise I was correct.”

He slipped quietly within the room from which the unseen woman had just emerged. The curtains had been tightly drawn and the apartment was as inky as the hall. He feared to flash the torch, thinking that it might throw a reflection through the doorway.

“It might not be the office after all,” thought Kenyon. “If it is not I’ll have gotten myself into a devil of a mess.”

In taking the next step his hand touched a hard, polished surface; moving farther it came upon a clutter of papers, an ink-stand, pen-rack and other clerical requisites.

“A desk,” muttered the adventurer. “And a good sized, flat-top desk, at that. This is the apartment I’m after.”

Suddenly from the doorway came a sharp, crackling sound. Instantly Kenyon sank down behind the desk. Someone had scratched a match, but it had missed fire. At the second attempt it flared redly, however; Kenyon could not see who held it, for he feared to raise his head above the level of the desk. Then the nature of the flame changed and it grew steadier; footsteps sounded upon the thickly carpeted floor. They were gentle footsteps.

“Anna once more!” thought Kenyon.

He changed his position soundlessly, his ears telling upon what side of the desk the girl was about to pass. His situation was a most fortunate one. He was between the desk and the wall farthest from the door. The entire room was before him. Cautiously he lifted his head, as he felt sure, judging from the direction in which she was going, that she would not see him.

Over the flat top of the desk he caught sight of the cloaked figure of a girl. Her back was turned toward him, and a hood was drawn over her head. And she was bending over the combination lock of a gleaming safe of formidable appearance.

She had lighted a candle and this she now stood upon the top while she knelt before the safe. Round and round she turned the knob, pausing now and then to think. But each effort was without result; and finally she leaned her head forward upon her hands.

“Crying,” thought Kenyon. “Well, my dear Anna, that will not do any good. And if you have no better trick to play than trying to guess the combination, you might just as well go back to your little white bed.”

For a moment the girl remained in this position; then she arose and moved toward the door. As she reached it, she blew the candle out, and once more blackness hung over the office.

Kenyon remained as he was for some time. When he felt assured that the girl had gone for good, he arose, crossed the room and softly closed the door. Again the tiny torch flashed. Then he found the switch and turned on the lights. The key was fortunately in the door and this he turned, leaving it in the lock to fill up the hole.

The whole appearance of Kenyon had changed; his movements were quick and pantherish, and not one of them was wasted; his eyes gleamed through the holes of his mask, as he swept the apartment. Then he laughed.

“How lucky! Farbush has been thoughtful enough to put in running water. Oh, after all, there is nothing like modern plumbing.”

From his pocket he produced a small generator of shining brass; this he placed upon a table. Then he drew out several sections of a tube of the same metal, which he joined snugly together. From a breast pocket he took a rubber bag partly filled with calcium carbide, which he poured into the generator.

This having been done, he threw off his overcoat and approached the safe.

“Newest pattern, as far as my information goes,” he said calmly. “But it’s all the same to the acetylene flame.”

He tried the knob in order to make sure that the safe was locked. He had once heard of the absurd oversight of a cracksman who had spent hours drilling into a safe that was open, and had no desire to repeat the performance.

“But this one is tight enough,” he declared.

He took a rug from the floor, folded it neatly, and placed it before the safe door. Then he carried the generator to a small washstand at one side of the office, and ran a quantity of water into it. Almost instantly the choking flames of the acetylene gas assailed his nostrils.

“Whew!” he ejaculated, turning his head away; “if there is a more awful stench in the world than this, I’ve never encountered it.”

Quickly he ignited the evil-smelling gas, and screwed the blowpipe to the generator. Then he knelt upon the rug, placed the pipe to his lips and blew through it steadily. A darting, intense flame leaped forth, like a finger of light; this Kenyon directed toward a point just above the combination knob. The varnish disappeared like magic, and the steel of the safe melted like solder before the fierce point of flame.

“It works well,” said Kenyon, pausing in his blowing to inspect critically the small hole burned through the massive door. “At this rate I won’t be long on the job.”

Once more he placed his lips to the blowpipe, and once more the needle of light bored its way into the steel. Larger and larger grew the hole in the safe; and at last Kenyon found it wide enough to insert his hand and arm. Placing the generator upon the floor he reached in and began manipulating the tumblers of the lock. Then he threw the door wide, and sat back upon his heels with an exclamation of satisfaction.

“The inner door is easy enough,” he said, as he extinguished the generator. “Big Slim’s master-key should have no trouble in opening it--but what’s this?” He bent forward. “Why, it’s the key itself, ready to my hand.”

He inserted the big key, turned it, and the inner door opened. Before him were a great number of pigeon-holes and small drawers, all filled with documents of various hues and sizes.

The adventurer gazed at these, appalled.

“And I don’t know what I’m looking for!” he thought. “This really promises to be a worse job than opening the safe.”

However, he resolutely set to work examining the contents. By good fortune, all the packets were labelled plainly, so that he was not forced to open any.

“It’s a saving of time and my feelings,” thought the cracksman. “I have no desire to investigate Mr. Farbush’s affairs any farther than they concern me.”

Paper after paper, packet after packet, passed through his hands, but still no sign of anything that had the slightest interest to him.

“And yet, how can I be sure of that?” he asked himself. “I never felt so helpless and incompetent to deal with a situation in my life. This,” and he turned a heavy envelope over in his hands, “might be exactly the thing I’m searching for; but how am I to know one way or the other?”

The envelope was large, made of stout manila paper and sealed with two huge splotches of black wax. Across the face of it was written in a large, running hand:

ESTATE OF STEPHEN AUSTIN.

“This might be it,” thought Kenyon; and he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “And when I come to think of it, somehow, it seems to me that this name is familiar to me. It is just as though--by George, yes! It is just as though I had heard it on the night of my adventure in Selden’s Square.”

He looked at the envelope, swift eagerness in his eyes.

“I’ll chance it,” he muttered. He was about to tear it open when suddenly a small white hand darted over his shoulder and snatched it from his grasp. He turned with a startled exclamation and caught a glimpse of a dark, cloaked figure; but at the same instant the lights were switched off. As he sprang up, he heard the door thrown open, and heedless of the darkness he darted toward it. Soft feet were running on the stairs.

Kenyon paused and leaned against the door frame.

“Gone,” said he, “and in another moment she’ll probably have the house in an uproar.”

The words had no sooner left his lips than there came a muffled scream from the hall below. Kenyon leaped to the stair rail and bent over, listening. Then the lights below were switched on, flooding the stairway and hall; to Kenyon’s amazement he saw Griscom Forrester and Anna standing pale-faced and startled at the foot of the stairs; while confronting them with blazing eyes and a revolver in his hand was Farbush.

XVI

KENYON CALLS ON THE MAN FROM SAGINAW

“And the brief news comes in the darkest night,
That leads us on and on.”

--_Doggerels of Balmacenso._

GARRY WEBSTER sat in his rooms, a high-ball before him, and a fat black cigar burning between his fingers, when Kenyon was announced early next evening. Webster demonstratively shook him by the hand.

“Sit down and drink something,” said he. “I’m about as glad to see you as I’ve ever been to seen anyone in my life. Why, it’s at least two nights since I dined with you.”

Kenyon waved away the Scotch, but lit a cigar.

“Why all the pleasure?” he inquired, calmly.

“Well, in view of your proceedings of late I think I was warranted in feeling slightly concerned about you. A fellow of your quality and disposition takes a fair chance of having someone run a knife into him. If I were you, Ken, I’d avoid dark and unfrequented spots, and I’d suspect people.”

“That would be an attractive arrangement for a maiden lady,” said Kenyon, dryly, “but I don’t think it quite fills the bill of requirements of a man engaged in a more or less desperate game.”

Webster looked at him observantly.

“It’s still going on, then?” said he.

Kenyon nodded.

“Well, just what phases have you lately passed through. I’m willing to admit that I am all of a-tremble; but at the same time I’m strong on curiosity. Your use of the word desperate seems advised; so if you have anything to tell, tell it quickly.”

“Last night,” spoke Kenyon, knocking the ash from his cigar, and inspecting a loose spot in the wrapper, “I made an attempt to get at the bottom of this case at one blow.”

“And did you?”

“Not quite.”

“Now, look here, Ken,” said Garry, and he looked aggrieved. “This is not the proper treatment for a friend. I would even be disposed to regard it as unnecessarily harsh to an enemy. It’s not charitable, and it’s not kind.”

Kenyon laughed.

“Now don’t rush me,” protested he. “The whole matter has my ideas in such a tangle that it will not require much more to have me completely off my nanny. Since seeing you last, I have had manifold adventures, and have added to my experience in life to an unexpected degree.”

“You go at it like a popular lecturer,” remarked Webster, patiently. He lit another cigar and sipped at the high-ball. “If I don’t do something to calm myself, I’ll be coming over there and doing you a mischief, as they say in the Drury Lane melodramas.”

For the third time within a week, Kenyon related his experiences to his attentive friend. He began with their talk at dinner some nights before and the idea that he had conceived from Webster’s laughing remark. Then he went on to his hunt for Gypsy Brady, his meeting with the cracksman, Big Slim, then until he reached the scene in the lower hall of Farbush’s mansion. Webster brought his fist down upon the table.

“That settles it!” exclaimed he. “This is the end of it. Never again will I permit you out of my sight. You are without mental poise or a shadow of forethought. And as for common sense, I don’t believe you ever had a shred of it in your life. Don’t sit there and laugh! I mean it. The other stuff that you have been meddling with was bad enough, Heaven knows; but this last business is the absolute limit. Think of it! Breaking and entering; masked burglary; safe cracking! Why, it’s unbelievable.”

“You’d better take another drink,” advised Kenyon, quietly. “Your nerves seem to be in a shocking bad way.”

Webster glared at him for a moment, and then burst into a perfect gale of laughter. His round face was scarlet and his eyes were filled with tears when he brought chokingly up and began to splutter and cough.

“Take it,” gasped he, waving his hands. “Take it.”

“Take what?”

“Anything that you see in the way of a reward. You are entitled to it. You win every prize in the show.”

“I have no doubt but that the affair is exceedingly humorous,” said Kenyon. He poured out some Scotch, added a little hot water and sugar, and stirred the mixture meditatively. “But, do you know, I can’t see it. I suppose our points of view are different.” He sipped the toddy, found it to his satisfaction, and then added: “However, I fancy that we have been over all that before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There was not.”

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

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

Webster looked at his friend inquiringly.

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

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

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

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

“I prefer the last,” stated Webster.

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

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

“It does seem rather provoking.”

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

“I shouldn’t wonder.”

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

“I suppose so.”

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

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

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

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

“But why? You might have been caught.”

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

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

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

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

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

“But she might have thrown the cloak off.”

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

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

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

Webster stared for a moment.

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

“Precisely.”

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

Kenyon shrugged his shoulders and took another cigar.

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

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

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

“Excellent.”

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

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

“He’s dead, is he not?”

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

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

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

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

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

They thanked the surgeon and departed.

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

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

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

“That’s the man. Can he be seen?”