Chapter V: Part 5

“I will findt me oud.”

A colored boy was summoned.

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

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

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

“Police business?” inquired he.

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

The little pugilist’s eyes snapped.

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

“Your name is Kenyon, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kenyon glanced at Webster.

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

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

The little pugilist looked interested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kenyon looked at his watch.

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

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

“Get where?” asked the astonished Webster.

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

XVII

AT THE GIRLS’ CLUB IN MULBERRY STREET

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

--_A Maxim of Hong Yo._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The secretary, Miss Gilbert,” answered he.

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

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

“What is it, please?”

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

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

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

“I am the secretary,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

“Of course,” replied he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She raised her brows inquiringly, but said nothing.

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

“I do not think I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You talked with her--on the stairs!”

She half arose in her chair. But almost instantly she recovered her self-possession, though the wide-open eyes told plainly of the excitement that her words had betrayed.

“I--I had not heard of it,” she said, trying to smile. “It sounds interesting; pray tell me about it.”

“It’s no great story. Anna was frightened when she met me on the stairs leading to the second floor; she said some things that meant nothing, but her manner caused me to suspect much. Later I was convinced that I was right, by her stealing downstairs to assure herself that I was gone.”

“What did you suspect?”

“That there was another design upon the safe beside my own--that she had someone concealed in the house who was to help her.”

“No, no, that can’t be true. Anna knows nothing of the packet.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Then you and she were not partners, so to speak; you knew nothing of her movements?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was so impressed with the notion that she was about to attempt some secret design, that when you caught the glimmer of my torch in the dark hall and came to the office door, I felt sure that it was she.”

A startled look came upon the face of Dallas; her voice was low and frightened as she exclaimed:

“When was this?”

“Before I began operations upon the safe. Don’t you remember? You opened the office door and listened. You could see nothing, the darkness was so thick. You were frightened; and you whispered: ‘Who’s there?’ Then you went slowly down the hall.”

“You heard this?” she demanded, and her face was pale.

“I did.” He regarded her curiously; then a thought struck him. “By George, it was she after all. She must have stolen away to find Forrester.”

“Forrester!”

“Of course. He was there. I saw them together in the lower hall immediately after you snatched the packet and ran. And Farbush was standing before them wild with passion, and with a revolver in his hand.”

Without a word Dallas arose, went swiftly to a small bookcase at the farther side of the room, and opened a secret and cunningly contrived drawer at its base. Then she turned and he saw that her face was as white as death.

“It’s gone!” she said.

“Not--not--?” he could not finish.

“Yes, the packet.”

He stood for a moment overwhelmed.

“You are sure that it is gone?” he cried. “Look again!”

She shook her head.

“No use. I am quite sure.”

“And you are positive that you placed it there?”

She nodded.

“It was the safest place I knew of,” she answered.

“But the drawer is a secret one! Who knew of it beside yourself?”

“Anna, only.”

“Ah!” and a look of intelligence came into his face. “And when was she here last?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

XVIII

KENYON SHOWS HIS METAL

“He is a young man of quick observation and sure judgment. And once
he has made up his mind, he acts like lightning.”

--_Extract from a letter of Nunez._

FOR a moment Dallas Gilbert and Steele Kenyon stood looking into each other’s face in silence; each was reading a suspicion akin to their own.

“I’m inclined to think that Anna has the packet,” stated Kenyon, slowly.

“I am sure of it,” cried the girl. “Oh, I have always hated myself for not believing in her! She seemed so child-like in some things, and she is so clinging and pretty.”

“Ah! Then there has always been a sort of distrust of her?”

“Yes. I could not make up my mind, at times, that she was quite sincere; I often thought that I detected a hidden purpose in her apparently artless questions. Once or twice I have noticed--” But she paused, hesitatingly, then broke out: “But I must not talk this way to you. You do not understand the situation.”

Kenyon bowed.

“There are a great many things, as I have had occasion to remark upon one or two previous occasions, that I do not understand in this case,” said he, smiling.

Again he saw hesitancy in her eyes; then she suddenly held out her hand.

“I ask your pardon,” she said, simply.

Quickly he took the hand; but his manner told her that he did not understand.

“For things that I have said, and things that I have done. I did not believe in you--then.”

“And now?” eagerly.

“I know you to be a brave man.”

A slight shadow came upon his face.

“There are many sorts of brave men,” he said. “Some of the greatest villains have been as courageous as lions.” She understood and hung her head. “Do you know,” he went on, “I think I have been much more generous than you in this matter. You have come upon some sort of evidence that has proven to you that I am not an out and out blackguard; and so, in part, you have repented your first opinion of me.”

She colored, but her beautiful eyes were lifted to meet his, inquiringly.

“I did not require any evidence to prove your worth to me,” Kenyon continued. “You suspected me because you were convinced that I was associated with Hong Yo and the others. I had every reason to believe the same of you--at first--but I did not.”

An impulsive answer seemed to tremble upon her lips; her eyes shone through the gathering tears. But she held herself in check.

“I can tell you nothing now,” she said, and her voice faltered a little. “Because it would seem so strange and unconvincing. I am but a girl, and for months have been circumstanced as a girl has never been before. When one is constantly surrounded by hidden dangers and secret foes, one fears to trust--anyone.”

“I wish I could do something to make you trust me,” he said. “It is not enough for a man to have a girl tell him that she thinks him brave. Mere courage is not an uncommon thing. I don’t know what this evidence is that you have discovered in my favor, but I do know that it must be incomplete. I do not ask to know the meaning of any of the strange things that I have encountered during the past week. All I know is that, somehow, and for some reason, you are engaged in a sort of warfare with a number of men. Let me complete the testimony. Let me fight upon your side and convince you that I am honest, as well as brave.”

For a long time--it seemed minutes to Kenyon--she searched his face. Then with sudden resolve she said:

“I will. I accept you as a recruit.”

“And I,” exclaimed Kenyon, “will serve you as I never served a leader before! Name the deeds that you desire done,” laughing, “and I shall do them.”

But her face was grave; indeed, discouragement was written heavily upon her.

“Oh, I am so helpless to deal with it all,” she almost sobbed, suddenly breaking down. “It is more than a girl’s work. At every turn I see things that appear beyond my strength to overcome. I cannot plan with these men; their cunning overmatches mine. Even at this moment everything seems black. If Anna took the packet from the secret drawer, she has turned it over to Griscom Forrester before this, and he--” She paused suddenly, drawing in her breath in short gasps, then she sprang toward Kenyon and grasped his arm. “Quick, quick!” she cried. “The _Wizard_.”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“It is Griscom Forrester’s yacht; she lies in the East River not far from Twenty-third Street. If she has given him the packet he will get up steam at once.”

Like lightning his mind grasped the situation. He stepped to the desk, took up the ’phone that stood there, and asked for the Waldorf-Astoria. With the receiver to his ear awaiting a reply he turned to her, calmly.

“What sized yacht is the _Wizard_?”

“About seventy tons.”

“And her crew?”

“I think, fifteen men.”

“Thank you.” Then he spoke into the ’phone: “Ah, is that the Waldorf? I’d like to speak to Mr. G. A. Webster, if you please.”

While the connection was being made with Webster’s apartments, Kenyon said to the girl, quietly:

“Take the ’phone book, and find me the name Schmelzer.”

She nervously took up the book and began to flutter the pages. Just then Webster called:

“Hello.”

“Hello, Garry. This is Kenyon.”

“Ah, still on the quest?”

“I want you to meet me at the foot of Twenty-third Street, East River, as soon as you can get there.”

There was a snort of astonishment at the Waldorf end of the wire. Then Webster demanded, excitedly:

“What’s doing, Ken?”

“There promises to be plenty.”

“All right,” exultantly. “I’m with you.”

“Good; ring off, and call an auto. You can’t get there too quick.”

Kenyon hung up and turned to Dallas.

“Well?” he inquired.

“Here they are.”

She laid the directory before him and indicated a list of names. He ran his finger along this, and then gave an exclamation of satisfaction. Schmelzer, who kept the pool-room in Pell Street, also possessed a telephone; so in a few moments he was talking to the ex-divekeeper, Gypsy Brady.

“What do you want the men for?” asked the latter, after some talk.

“A tough job, perhaps. And I want tough men. The pay will be large.”

“I’m your man,” answered Brady. “The large pay is the thing that counts. I’ll be at the place with the bunch as soon as you will.”

Calmly, and without the slightest indication of hurry, Kenyon called up a neighboring garage and ordered a motor-car; then he had himself connected with the information-desk of a popular newspaper, and received much concise information upon the subject of power-boats and where they were to be had. Person after person was summoned over the humming wire; then he hung up, finally, with a satisfied air.

“I think I have done about all I can do in the way of precaution,” said he, smiling. “If the matter stands as you think, I will be ready to offer some sort of opposition to Mr. Forrester’s departure.”

“You are wonderful!” she said. And then she threw back her head and laughed.

It was as though all her anxiety and fear had been dissolved before the sudden rush of his thorough personality. In an instant he had assumed all her cares; she felt herself strangely at peace and weakly willing to allow him to bear the weight of everything. His masculine grasp and sharp military decisions had wonderfully comforted and soothed her.

Kenyon as he looked at her gathered some of this, and his heart beat swiftly. It was the sort of thing that tells heavily with a woman; and he had progressed.

“If I can succeed,” was his thrilling thought, “there will be no one stand higher than I! And I _will_ succeed!”

He heard the gruff grunting of the car’s signal outside; and he turned to Dallas, catching up his hat.

“I must go; the men whom I have engaged will be waiting for me; and then Forrester must not be given too much time.”

She pinned on her hat and took her long coat from a chair where it had been thrown.

“Good-bye,” said he.

“I’m going with you,” she told him, briefly.

“Impossible!” he cried.

“And why so?” She drew herself up in that proud fashion which he had come to know so well; the head lifted imperiously and the beautiful eyes flashed.

“There will be danger, perhaps.”

She laughed, scornfully.

“Danger! Am I not accustomed to danger? The past week has been crowded with perils that I could not see. This, to-night, will be at least visible.”

He looked at her with quick admiration. And at that moment he learned that it was her spirit and not her beauty alone that drew him to her.

“You are determined?” he asked, after a short pause.

“I am.”

“Very well.”

Without another word he led her out to the car which stood at the curb. The night had turned overcast, and a damp wind blew from the east.

“It will be a bad night upon the river,” commented Kenyon.

He assisted her into the huge car.

“Foot of Twenty-third Street, East,” he said to the driver. “And make good time.”

They spoke hardly a word all the way uptown; when the foot of Twenty-third Street was reached Kenyon noticed another car.

“That must be Webster,” he exclaimed. Sure enough, in the tonneau he espied Garry, enveloped in a huge overcoat and holding a cigar between his teeth.

“Hello, Kenyon,” cried that young gentleman, removing the cigar and waving his hand. “Here I am, on deck and waiting!”

“I knew you would be!” Kenyon’s car drew up beside the other. “Mr. Webster--Miss Gilbert.”

The girl inclined her head, but Webster, so great was his astonishment, blundered woefully.

“Great Cæsar!” was his mental exclamation. “Kenyon’s coming along, sure enough. And she _is_ a beauty. I never saw such eyes and such a great lot of dark hair.”

“Wait here for us,” said Kenyon to his driver. Then to Webster he added: “And you’d better have your fellow wait, also; we may need him.”

He helped Dallas out, and the three of them made their way to a pier close by. Webster never asked a question; he knew that something of great importance was expected to occur, or Kenyon would never have summoned him. And then the presence of Dallas Gilbert lent an air of suspense to the thing which he would not have broken for the world.

From a dusky spot along the pier a man arose and approached them.

“Mr. Kenyon?” he asked.

“That’s right. Are you the man I spoke to over the ’phone?”

Kenyon was brusque and direct; for in times of emergency the old military habit was difficult to shake off.

“Yes, sir. I keep the public boat-house down below here a piece.” Then he turned and pointed out into the stream. “I gave an eye to the yacht _Wizard_ as you told me. That’s her out there with all the lights going. Some people boarded her about a half hour ago; I had a night glass on her, and I think they are trying to get up steam in a hurry.”

“Have you the glass with you?”

“Yes, sir. Here it is.”

The east wind had driven the murk in masses above the city; and along the waters of the river a sort of thickening was noticeable in the darkness. But Kenyon’s keen eyes and the night glass managed to gather the salient features of the proceedings aboard the _Wizard_. Steam was up and the anchor was being weighed.

“Can you get us out to her before she starts?” asked Kenyon.

The boatman looked at the yacht through the glass.

“It’s too late,” said he, positively. “She’ll be off before I could get you to the launch.”

Kenyon handed the man a bill, the size of which made him stare; then with Dallas and Webster he hurried back to the place where they had left the cars. A group of men stood upon a corner not far from them.

“Ah, there are my fellows, now,” said Kenyon, in a tone of satisfaction. “Everything is moving on schedule. Take my car with Miss Gilbert, Webster, while I speak to them.”

He strode over to the group. There were seven altogether, and Gypsy Brady and Big Slim were among them.

“How are you, pal?” saluted the latter. “I’m taking a chance, being out, but I need the money.”

“What’s the game?” inquired the Gypsy.

“Jump into that car, there, the lot of you,” directed Kenyon, shortly, pointing to the machine that Webster had arrived in. As they scrambled in, hurriedly, he continued to the driver: “Follow the other car; keep close behind, or you might lose us in the darkness.”

Then he leaped into the car with Dallas and Webster.

“Morris Heights,” he ordered. “And let us see you break a record.”

“We’ll be pinched if we try that,” protested the driver.

“We must take the risk. It is late, and there are not many people upon the streets, so there is little danger of an accident. Open her up!”

“All right,” said the man, as the big car swept around. “The chances are all yours. I’m used to it.”

And he followed his instructions to the letter. The machine was a powerful one, as was the one behind; and stray pedestrians were startled to see the two big vehicles flash by and vanish amid a cloud of dust. Now and then a policeman waved a frantic club and shouted; but they never heeded him, burning the streets until they reached their destination.

“Now, then, all of you,” cried Kenyon to Gypsy Brady and his followers.

The men tumbled out, as Kenyon paid the drivers of the ears. Then they all made their way along the river front, until Kenyon halted them at a covered pier, the small, private door to which stood open.

A man with a big ship’s lantern stood there.

“Mr. Kenyon’s party?” inquired he.

“Yes. Is the _Vixen_ ready?”

“All but casting off.”

“Then let us get aboard.”

In a few minutes they were upon the tiny after-deck of a long, narrow power-boat of something less than fifteen tons. Brady and his men were gathered forward and upon the top of the low cabin. Kenyon saw the last one aboard; then he handed Dallas down into the cabin.

“Cast off,” said he to the men in charge. “And let us see what time you can make between here and North Brother Island.”

XIX

ON BOARD THE VIXEN

“Through the scud and fog, and the flying spray
We drove all night till the break of the day.
Yo ho, my lads, yo ho.”

--_An Improvisation of Garry Webster._

THE lines were let go and the boat shoved off; then the gasoline engine was started, and after a moment’s hesitancy in getting under way, the fleet craft buried its nose in the water and shot down the Harlem toward East River.

“Now,” said Garry Webster, in a low tone to Kenyon; “now that there seems to be a moment in which we can take breath, what in the name of the fire-eyed gods does all this mean?”

Kenyon laughed.

“If you will come down into the cabin,” said he, “I’ll try and tell you about it.”

Dallas sat there, still enveloped in her long coat; and Kenyon noticed, with a quick shock, that she was very pale.

“You should not have come,” said he, and Webster nodded significantly, aside, at the gentleness of the tone. “It has been too much for you.”

“Do I look bad?” she asked. “But perhaps it is the lantern light,” and she smiled bravely.

“I have calculated to catch the _Wizard_ about North Brother Island,” said Kenyon. “You see the stretch of water from the Twenty-third Street anchorage to the mouth of the Harlem is one of the most congested on earth. A craft is forced to proceed at low speed at any time, and more especially upon a dark night like this. The cars brought us up like hurricanes, and we’ll get into the big stream in good time, if nothing goes wrong.”

“Good work!” applauded Webster. “I tell you what, Miss Gilbert, it takes Kenyon to do this sort of thing properly. At college now, he was especially excellent in planning things. Do you notice the blush?” with a chuckle at his friend’s secret and impatient gestures. “I think modesty is so becoming in a man, don’t you?”

“I do, indeed,” smiled the girl.

“Now, Garry, before you relapse into a state of hopeless idiocy,” remarked Kenyon, “pay attention, and I’ll tell you what has happened.”

So while Webster listened Kenyon told him what the reader already knows. When he had finished Webster arose.

“Miss Gilbert,” said he, bowing as well as the swaying of the flying boat would permit, “I bend the knee before courage. Now, that little scene of yours with an apparently desperate cracksman,” and his blue eyes snapped with admiration, “was one that required doing, and I tell you what, Ken,” with a wise nod toward his friend, “you should be mighty glad that it happened. It has set you right, somehow.”

After some further discussion Webster went upon deck.

“I suppose I shall only be able to approach our conspirators as an open enemy now,” said Kenyon to the girl.

She looked at him inquiringly.

“If Forrester has the packet, he has learned what you learned, that I am not the sort of person I seemed to be. Though,” and he looked puzzled, “Farbush must have known its contents all along, now that I think of it.”

“There is nothing in the packet that would cause them to suspect you of being an honest man,” she assured him. “That is, not unless,” and her voice sank a little as she realized what she was saying, “they are inclined to believe it of you.”

His heart bounded madly and his blood went tingling through his veins. But he only said:

“Thank you. That is kind of you.”

Webster put his head into the cabin. “I say, Kenyon,” called he, “the captain would like to speak with you for a moment. It looks important.”

“Pardon me,” said the adventurer to the girl.

He went upon deck. The owner of the craft, a round-bodied, good-natured looking man, was at the wheel.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kenyon,” spoke he, “but your friend here tells me that it is the steam yacht _Wizard_ that you want to meet.”

“That’s her name.” Kenyon saw that the man had something to impart, and added: “Well?”

“It just happens, sir, that I lay alongside of the power-boat _Piedmont_ this evening. And just before I got your message to have my boat ready, a party comes on board of her; and from what I heard the engineer say before they started out, they, too, were going to meet a steam yacht. And it just happens that it, also, is the _Wizard_.”

Kenyon leaned back against the cabin and lit a cigarette; Webster shrugged his shoulders. The group of hard-faced men upon the top of the cabin listened intently, nodded to each other, and muttered their opinions of the cruise upon which they had volunteered. A clear voice spoke from the little companionway which caused them all to start and turn. It was Dallas who stood there, her long coat and the curling ends of her dark hair blowing in the wind.

“What sort of people were they who engaged this other boat?” she asked.

“A queer looking lot, miss,” and Kenyon smiled as he saw the speaker shoot a quick glance at the group forward. “About ten all told, I should think. One of them appeared to be pretty far gone; they had to carry him aboard. It was a Chinaman.”

She looked at Kenyon and he saw her face go whiter than ever.

“Hong Yo,” she whispered. “Oh, if we only knew what that means.”

“It means, I should think, that Forrester has summoned his friends,” said Webster. “From what Kenyon has told me, Forrester and Hong Yo seem to be particularly intimate.”

There was a curious expression upon the face of Dallas. Kenyon wondered when he had seen it before, and then suddenly remembered that it had stolen across her countenance that night in Selden’s Square, when she gazed at Anna at the old man’s bedside. And he now recognized it as a species of doubt.

“But, surely,” cried Kenyon, “you do not think that this move of Forrester’s is upon his own hook--that he is playing the Chinaman false!”

“I do not know what to think,” she replied, slowly; and though he could not see, because her head was turned from him, he felt sure that there were tears in her eyes. “I have seen so much treachery of late that my reason refuses to accept appearances. I have cause to thank Griscom Forrester, as you know; but I also have cause to fear him. He may be my friend, he may be a friend to Hong Yo, or he may be seeking to further his own personal ends. I cannot tell.”

Shortly after this she went down into the cabin once more; and Kenyon and Webster talked in low tones.

“It would seem,” remarked the young man from Chicago, “that she is not any more sure about Forrester than you were some days, or nights, ago. The fellow seems to be a puzzle.”

“It will not take a great while now to solve him,” answered Kenyon, grimly. “We are coming into the East River, and once on the _Wizard’s_ deck, I’ll not waste words.”

“Yes; I don’t think a little straight talk will do any harm; the time seems about ripe for it. But, I say, Ken, doesn’t she,” with a nod toward the cabin, “do any talking of an enlightening nature?”

Kenyon frowned and looked down into the ghost-like billows which the craft was throwing up upon either side. They frothed for a moment in the lantern light and then disappeared in the darkness.

“To speak the plain truth,” said he slowly, “I doubt if she knows a great deal more than I can guess.”

“But what little she might know,” persisted Webster, “she keeps pretty closely to herself.”

“Yes,” reluctantly.

“I wonder why. You are upon her side; you are helping her to win out.”

“Yes. But how can she be sure of that. You heard what she just said about Forrester? Yes? Well, consider and weigh it carefully. Do you suppose that she referred to him only?”

Webster opened his eyes widely, and whistled.

“You mean to say that she does not altogether trust you. Why, I thought you had become pals.”

“I’m inclined to think,” said Kenyon, “that she, personally, would place confidence in me. But she has not, I know, herself, only, to think of. She seems to fear for others.”

“But whom?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the mysterious ‘he’ whom I have heard referred to now and then. But whatever it is, the girl fears treachery. And I suppose she has good cause to fear it. You heard her say that her reason refuses to accept appearances. I have only the appearance of aiding her, as yet. Another man has befriended her, but she has cause to suspect him, for all that. What assurance has she that it will be different in my case? She even doubts the faith of the conspirators to each other--as we have been inclined to do. How does she know but what I, too, in spite of all that she has lately learned, may be one of them, and willing, now, to throw them all overboard for a personal advantage. She told me once to-night that she was circumstanced strangely, and without a friend who could help her. So you can’t blame her for withholding her confidence; suspicion is her only defence.”

“But she trusts herself in your hands.”

“Did she not trust herself in the hands of the others? The girl has courage and is not afraid to venture anything that promises results.”

Webster bit the end off a cigar and stooped into the shelter of the cabin to light it. He drew at it steadily for a moment after he arose, then said:

“I think you’ve got the right idea, old chap. You’ve got to work for her good opinion. But in spite of all that you might say to the contrary, I rather fancy you’ve got a fair sort of a start. In other words, she’d rather see you win than not.”

Kenyon made no reply. However, her words of a very little while before came back to him, and his blood thrilled with the renewed realization of the fact that what Webster said was true. She had told him that she wished to believe in him. She had put it into words; and her manner spoke so plainly. The way to set every lingering doubt that she might have regarding him, at rest, was to win; and he set his teeth and narrowed his eyes as he looked into the darkness ahead.

“It’s somewhere out there,” he muttered. “We are coming nearer to it with every moment that goes by. I do not know whom I have to fight, or why. But I don’t care, either. It’s for her; and I’m going to do it.”

XX

BAFFLED

“This sort of fox is sometimes more than usually cunning.”

--_The Long Island Huntsman._

THE November mist had settled heavily upon the East River; and when they ran out into it, they could hear the foghorns and bells being tooted and rung all about them.

“A bad night for making out any craft,” remarked the owner of the power-boat. “We can’t see more than a dozen feet on any side of us.”

The man who attended to the engine suddenly lifted his head.

“There goes the _Piedmont_,” said he.

“Well, if you can see her, you’ve got mighty good sight,” laughed Webster.

“I sure would,” returned the man. “But I don’t see her. I hear her. Listen!”

There was a continuous, snuffling, gasping sound ahead, and the steady thump of an engine.

“I could tell that exhaust of hers anywhere,” explained the engineer. “It’s the worst on the river.”

For some time they listened to the coughing of the _Piedmont_. The _Vixen_ was barely creeping along, for it was impossible to make any speed; the danger of a collision was too great.

“She seems to be cruising up and down,” said Kenyon.

“Yes; her skipper knows that this is about the best place to meet any vessel making for the Sound. They come this way to avoid the currents around Hell Gate.”

Backward and forward cruised the _Vixen_ passing and repassing the _Piedmont_ in the darkness. Once those on board the latter seemed to become suspicious, and she crept forward, her port and starboard lights shining through the fog.

“Hello!” cried a voice. “Who is that?”

“Don’t come any nearer,” replied the skipper of the _Vixen_. “I know how that old box of yours steers, Morgan.”

“Oh, is that you, Phylen? All right.”

And then the _Piedmont_ crept away again, resuming her cruising up and down. At this point Dallas re-appeared upon deck.

“I thought I heard someone calling,” she said.

“You did,” answered Kenyon. “We’ve come up with the other boat that the captain was telling us of.”

She gave a little gasp and looked off in the direction of the now distant boat.

“Do you know,” she whispered in a frightened sort of way, “that sound out there reminds me of the cough of Hong Yo.” She had placed her hand upon his arm, and he could feel the shudder that ran through her. “Oh, how I fear that man.”

“You have excellent cause. The man from Butte was close to the truth when he called him a dying devil.”

She gave him a quick, surprised glance but said nothing.

“The murder of that man was one of the worst exhibitions of deadly ferocity that I ever saw--and my career in South America was not without its experiences.”

“It was dreadful,” said the girl, shudderingly, and she covered her face with her hands.

Now and then a steam vessel would pass them in the darkness, and the skipper of the _Vixen_ would hail its deck and draw alongside. But they were mostly tugs and “truck” boats; as yet no yacht had split the murk.

“Do you feel quite sure that she has not yet gone by?” asked Webster at length.

“I’m positive of it,” replied Kenyon. “She had not the time. But she should be due at almost any minute now.”

“Hark, there!” cried the skipper; “do you hear that whistle?”

There came a low, mournful wailing from down river.

“It’s one of those toy sirens that some yachtsmen fit their crafts with,” the skipper informed them. “Like as not this is the vessel you want.”

“Yes; and there goes the _Piedmont_ for her,” said Webster. The coughing exhaust of the unseen power-boat gurgled and volleyed from ahead; and they could see her port light streaming dimly through the fog.

At Kenyon’s order the _Vixen_ swept around and followed the other boat like a beagle. Suddenly the lights of a large yacht stared down at them, from the distance of about twenty-five yards. Then they heard a shrill hail from the deck of the _Piedmont_.

“Ahoy! Is that the _Wizard_?”

No reply came from the yacht.

“Hello! is that the yacht _Wizard_?” came another voice.

“Farbush,” Kenyon told Webster.

Still there was no answer from the yacht.

“She’s increasing her speed,” spoke the skipper of the _Vixen_. “Her people don’t seem to want to be friendly.”

Bells could be heard jingling from the engine-room of the larger vessel; the rush of water around her bow grew greater; then she shot forward at a swifter rate. The _Piedmont’s_ lights were seen to swing in pursuit; and almost at the same moment the _Vixen_ performed a like manœuvre.

“She can’t outfoot us,” said Kenyon to Dallas, “but we may have some trouble stopping her, if they persist in going ahead.”

“We’ll have to do it before we pass City Island,” growled the _Vixen’s_ skipper. “This craft can’t ride the seas that’s piling into the Sound to-night. She’d swamp if we tried to shove her through.”

They rushed along until they were almost overlapping the _Wizard’s_ stern. However, they were some thirty or more yards to the starboard of her; the _Piedmont_ was upon the port side and apparently directly in her wash.

“It seems as though they were going to try to lay alongside and board her,” cried Webster, suddenly, as he peered through a night glass.

“They’ll go to the bottom if they make the attempt,” prophesied the engineman of the _Vixen_. “They must be damned fools.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Kenyon, quietly. “They are out here to board that yacht, and it’s up to them to do the best they can in the matter. If the people on board the _Wizard_ refuse to stop, they must take steps to accomplish their object, anyhow.”

“But it’s impossible to get to the deck of that vessel at her present speed,” protested the skipper.

“I’ll show you in a few minutes that it is not,” Kenyon assured him.

“What do you mean?” suspiciously.

“Just point her nose toward the yacht’s stern. I think I can get her rail in a jump from the cabin roof.”

“You could never do it. Another thing, I’m not going to give you a chance to try. If the _Vixen_ once got so far into the wash of that craft, she’d be swamped.”

Just then a high-pitched voice was heard crying from the _Wizard’s_ deck:

“Sheer off there, you fools, or I’ll run you down!”

There was silence for a moment, save for the beat of the engines and the dashing of the dark water; then a gunshot roared redly through the night, followed by a scream of pain.

“Head her over,” cried Kenyon, excitedly, to the skipper.

“I’m blessed if I do,” replied the man, stubbornly. “What the devil are you folks after, anyhow?”

“Head her over,” ordered Kenyon, sternly.

“I won’t,” replied the other. “And what’s more I’m going to run back to Morris Heights. There is something about this thing that don’t look right to me.”

“We will be responsible for any sort of damage,” Webster told him, encouragingly.

“I don’t care what you do,” returned Phylen, whose mind seemed to be made up. “Slow her down, Ned,” to the man at the engine, “we are going back.”

He was about to change the course of the boat when Kenyon’s powerful grip fell upon him, and he was dragged away from the wheel. At the same moment the long frame of Big Slim slid from the top of the cabin into the little companionway, blocking the entrance of the engineman.

“An engine was once my job,” he told Kenyon, coolly. “Say the word, pal, and I’m here to stay.”