Chapter III: Part 3

"I'll talk it over with her to-night, and ask her if she won't let me find her a position," Barry decided, as he walked around to the hotel.

Having dressed with unusual care, he took a taxi to the Waldorf and dined there again in solitary state.

Though he kept his eyes open throughout the meal, he saw nothing of the blond fellow he had outwitted that morning, or of the bearded man. There was apparently no one in the dining room or about the hotel corridors who paid any more attention to him than would be accorded to any handsome, well-dressed, prosperous-looking chap. Instead of being relieved at this, Barry was affected in quite the opposite manner. The sudden cessation of interest struck him as being decidedly unnatural, and made him wonder whether it was not a bluff to hide the real intentions of the unknown spies.

After he had dined, he had a taxi summoned, and not until it was at the door did he leave the lighted corridor for the street.

Giving the Forty-eighth Street address, he stepped in and took up a position that would enable him easily to glance through the back window every now and then, and see whether he was being followed.

Until they turned out of Longacre Square it was impossible to tell this with any certainty. The streets were full of taxis and motor cars, carrying people to theaters or the opera or coming away empty. But, having turned into the comparatively deserted cross street, Barry kept an extra sharp lookout. Before the taxi reached Eighth Avenue he was rewarded by seeing another car skid around from Broadway in their wake.

With a slight frown of annoyance, he wondered how they had managed it. It is always more or less trying to miss a trick of any sort, and Lawrence rather prided himself on his keenness of observation.

The slowing down of his car as they approached the house made him thrust the matter from his mind in favor of more agreeable things. After all, his pursuer could accomplish nothing here.

Stepping out on the sidewalk, Barry told the chauffeur to wait, and ran up the steps. After a prolonged wait, a rather untidy-looking maid answered his ring, holding the door only partially open, and peering doubtfully through the crack.

"Is Miss Rives at home?" Lawrence inquired.

The girl stared. "Miss--who did you say?"

"Miss Rives--Miss Shirley Rives!" Barry's tone was slightly impatient. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the second taxi had crawled past, and come to a stop a few doors beyond. "She arrived last night, I believe."

The maid sniffed. "It's news to me," she remarked pertly. "Mebbe you've got the wrong house. There ain't no Miss Rives, nor anybody like it, stopping here just now."

Lawrence's eyes flashed, but he restrained his anger with an effort. He had never seen quite such a stupid creature in his life.

"I have made no mistake in the house," he retorted abruptly. "Kindly ask your mistress to see me for a moment."

"She ain't in." The girl's tone was plainly triumphant. Evidently she sensed the irritation in Barry's voice, and was glad of a chance to retaliate.

For an instant Lawrence was stumped. It was intolerable that he should be cheated out of something he had been looking forward to all day by the stupidity of a saucy maid. Whether it was anything more than stupidity he did not know, but he was determined not to give in yet.

"Then take my card to Miss Sally, the young lady who has your top floor front," he said tersely, slipping one hand into his pocket, and drawing forth a cardcase.

The maid hesitated, frowning. For an instant it seemed as if she meant to close the door in his face, and Barry was all ready to thrust a foot into the crack. Then something in his determined expression must have decided her, for she grudgingly stood aside for him to enter.

Taking out a gold pencil, Lawrence hastily scrawled a few words on his card, and handed it to her in silence.

The girl took it and glanced insolently at the hatrack. Finding that there was nothing there or anywhere else in the hall of an easily portable nature, she tossed her head and flounced to the stairs.

It seemed an eternity to the impatient Lawrence before a door closed hastily above, and he heard the sound of light footsteps hurrying down from the top floor. Presently a girl came in sight on the stairs, a rather nice-looking girl, with trim black hair and fresh coloring. As she saw Barry, she slackened her pace, and made the last few steps very slowly, indeed, pausing at the foot with one hand still resting on the balustrade.

"I'm very sorry, indeed, to have troubled you," Lawrence said, with a pleasant smile, "but I came to see Miss Rives, and the girl insists she isn't here."

The blank stare of amazement she gave him struck Barry with a chill sense of foreboding.

"Miss Rives!" the girl repeated slowly. "You can't be talking about Shirley Rives?"

"That's just who I mean. She came here last night. She had--er--left her boarding place rather suddenly, and when I--met her downtown she was on her way to see you."

For a second the girl looked keenly into his eyes, without speaking. Then she gave her head an odd shake.

"You don't look like a person who is joking," she said quietly, "so I s'pose you've made a mistake some way. I haven't seen Shirley Rives in two months, and more."

Barry's jaw dropped, and some of the ruddy glow left his cheeks. The thing was impossible. He had left Shirley on this very doorstep not twenty-four hours before--had even seen her enter the house on her way to this friend's room. And now they had the audacity to tell him that she had never been here. There was something queer about the whole matter, and he meant to find out what it was before he left the place.

"I haven't made a mistake," he said sternly. "I brought Miss Rives to this door myself a little before eleven last night. She looked up at your window, and when she saw it lighted she said it was all right; that Sally must still be here, because she used to read till all hours. She rang the bell, and I waited till the door opened and she went inside. And now you want me to believe that you never----"

He broke off abruptly, startled at the look on the girl's face. She had grown pale, and her eyes were dilated until they looked like holes burned in a white sheet. Her hands--slender, well-kept hands they were--were clenched tightly, and as Barry stopped she flung them up with an odd, eloquent gesture.

"It's the truth!" she gasped, in a frightened voice. "I haven't seen her--I swear it!" Her lips were trembling, and she caught them swiftly between her teeth. "Something's happened to her--it must have! Was she down in her luck? Had she lost her job?"

Barry nodded miserably. He was dazed--bewildered. But overtopping every other sensation was cold, deadly fear; fear for another one cares for, which is infinitely more gripping and powerful than an emotion involving self alone.

"Yes," he stammered. "She'd lost her job. She'd been turned out of her room--turned into the street last night. Do you know what that might have meant if I hadn't found her?"

The swift, horrified intake of her breath told him that she knew only too well. For a second she stood absolutely still, her mouth working. Then suddenly she put up both hands swiftly to her face, and began to sob. Almost as swiftly, she snatched them away again, and stared at him out of eyes filled with tears.

"What's come to her?" she demanded fiercely. "Why'd she leave this house without seeing me? What made her go, and where's she gone? Tell me that! She didn't vanish into air, did she? Where's she gone, and--where--is she--now?"

Lawrence did not answer her. For some seconds that same question had been pounding through his brain with the dull, rhythmical iteration of a hammer on an anvil.

Where was she now?

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*ANOTHER WOMAN.*

As Barry departed a little later he was conscious of a maddening sensation of helplessness. There seemed no question in his mind that Shirley Rives had left the house of her own accord. The fact that she had made not the slightest attempt to see her friend, Sally Barton, proved that conclusively. It was possible, of course, that the head of the establishment, a Mrs. Weston, could throw some light upon the mystery; but she had gone over to Long Island, and was not expected back until the following morning.

Barry's first impulse had been to go at once to the station house, make inquiries there, and possibly send out a general alarm; but he realized almost at once that such a step would be unwise. Miss Rives had given him no right to interfere in her affairs. She was a perfectly free agent to come and go as she liked, and where she chose; but the fact that she had disappeared in this utterly inexplicable manner drove Lawrence distracted.

Wild thoughts of suicide, under the burden of her troubles, flashed through his mind. Girls, even of her high mental caliber, had been driven to such desperate acts. Mrs. Weston's reception of her might have been the last straw to an already staggering load, and driven her impulsively forth into the street again. Worse yet, it might not have been Mrs. Weston at all who opened the door. There was quite as good a chance of its being some lodger on his way out. And Sally Barton's estimate of some of the lodgers was far from reassuring.

The maid had been summoned again, and interrogated sharply by the girl, but to no purpose. She had gone to bed about half past nine, leaving her mistress making up accounts in the back room. She knew nothing further, had heard nothing out of the way; and in the morning there had not been the slightest sign of any stranger having been in the house.

And there Lawrence was obliged to leave the matter. Think as he would, he could hit upon nothing else he might do. The stenographer promised to telephone him the instant she learned anything from Mrs. Weston; but Barry had already determined to call at the house directly after breakfast next morning. How he was going to remain in suspense for even that length of time he did not understand.

It was barely nine as he left the house, and for a moment or two he hesitated on the curb, wondering where he should go. Then a whimsical, absurd notion came to him, and, having ordered the chauffeur to drive to the northwest corner of Madison Square, he stepped into the taxi.

There was not the slightest hope in his mind of thus finding any clew. The vagaries of chance were strange and improbable enough, to be sure, but they could scarcely be expected to bring about such an utterly wild coincidence as that. He simply had a feeling that he wanted to return to that spot where he had first met her, and anything in the way of action was better than moping alone in his rooms.

As the car jerked forward and sped across town, Barry paid little attention to the second taxi, except to notice that it was following about half a block behind. At the corner of the square he got out, told the chauffeur to wait, and walked slowly down the winding walk.

As before, the place was deserted. The great, glittering tower still loomed high above the branches of the gaunt trees. The fountain had that same look of dreariness and desolation. The cold was as bitter; but the wind had died away, and everything was still.

As he rounded the ice-rimmed basin, Barry's heart leaped into his throat. Entering the square, just as she had entered it last night, was a slight, slim figure, who came toward him hurriedly, yet with that same odd sense of hesitation in her movements. As they approached each other, Lawrence's heart was thudding so loudly that he fancied he could hear the beats. It was impossible--utterly impossible; and yet he hoped.

She came on hurriedly, and his pace slackened the barest trifle as he tried to penetrate the shadow beneath the black hat brim. Then he saw that it was not Shirley Rives. It was a girl, pinched and worn with fatigue and hunger.

Half a dozen steps he took blindly, fairly sick with disappointment, before he stopped abruptly and turned around. The girl was hurrying on; she had almost reached the fountain.

"Stop!" Barry cried impulsively. "Wait a minute."

Instinctively she obeyed, twisting her head backward to watch his coming; and the thin, white wedge of face, ghastly in the pitiless electric light streaming down upon it, smote Lawrence with a new pang. By the time he reached her he held a thin leather case with gold corners in his hand.

"Here!" he said harshly, yet with a certain throbbing undercurrent of pity in his voice. "Take this and get something to eat. Do you understand?"

She stared at the bill he held out, then her fingers closed over it convulsively.

"Thanks," she said hoarsely. She stood for a second or two, gazing into his face. Then she shivered. "Thanks," she repeated, and this time it seemed as if a whole world of despair and misery was in that little word.

Barry made no answer. There was nothing more to say, and he knew it. Still he lingered for a second before he uttered a brief good night, and turned toward his waiting taxi.

It was the old, old tragedy, but somehow the strange coincidence of time and place filled Lawrence with an awful, unreasoning dread, and made his ride back to the hotel a torture.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*BEYOND BELIEF.*

At first Barry was tempted to phone Hamersley, and tell him he could not come to the dance. He had never felt less like such a thing in his life, but, as he slowly approached the instrument, trying to think up a plausible excuse, he realized that anything would be better in his present state of mind than sitting alone in his room.

So he ordered a taxi to be ready for him at ten. When that time came he descended, and was driven to the Hamersley house, just off upper Fifth Avenue. He saw that the other car was still trailing him persistently, but somehow he did not care. That seemed no longer a very important matter.

There was a considerable delay in getting started, for Jock's mother and sister were going along, and, as the big chap expressed it: "To be ready in time for a dance, a woman ought to start dressing when she gets up in the morning."

They came down at length, however, and, after a little conversation, all four got into the limousine, which had been waiting nearly an hour, and were soon bowling down Fifth Avenue.

It was after eleven when they entered the great ballroom at Sherry's, and the dance was apparently in full swing. The glittering lights, the flowers, the wonderful, intoxicating music, the gleam of jewels and bright eyes, could not but arouse Barry from his abstraction and make him glad that he had come.

Large as the room was, it seemed crowded with dancers, while about the walls and in the anterooms sat patronesses, chaperons, and other non-participants, watching the brilliant scene, chatting among themselves, or here and there indulging in a rubber of the inevitable bridge.

"It's very mixed, of course," Miss Hamersley was saying, as they glided over the perfect floor. "That's always the way with a big affair like this. If there's any one you want to meet just make Jock introduce you. He knows everybody. Yes, surely, Peter. Thanks, very much, Mr. Lawrence."

Before the latter could collect his wits, she was whirled away on the arm of the young fellow who had cut in; and Barry backed up against the wall, diverted by the kaleidoscopic scene, his eyes roving about the room in search of possible acquaintances.

For a time he saw no one he knew. There were plenty of charming faces, beauties of every type, and not a few of whom glanced curiously in his direction. There were many girls whom he would have liked immensely to meet twenty-four hours before; but, somehow, now that he had seen Shirley Rives, he ceased to be enthusiastic over others.

The thought of her, leaping back into his mind after a brief distraction, brought a faint pucker into Barry's forehead. Presently, still thoughtful, he moved slowly from his place, drifting toward the end of the room where the line of ladies stood to receive the belated guests who still dribbled in at intervals.

Presently his eyes fell upon a group at some distance from him, and he gave a great start. The group consisted of a girl surrounded by five or six men. Her back was squarely toward Lawrence, but there was something about her slim, graceful figure, tiny but exquisitely proportioned, and the tilt of her head, with its wonderful crown of coppery hair, which was so like Shirley Rives that it almost hurt.

She wore a close-fitting gown of shimmering golden tissue, in which sequins gleamed and winked with every movement. A gorgeous string of pearls was wound twice about her neck. On her arms were several costly bracelets.

Apparently she had only just arrived. It would seem, also, that she was having some difficulty in choosing a partner from the number of men hovering about her. Barry, watching her with unconscious curiosity, could see her laugh and shake her head several times. Once, when a youth stepped forward with lifted arms, as if the matter were settled, she slipped away from him, holding up the big spray of orchids she carried with a gesture of admonition.

At length, with a sudden display of dignity, she lifted her head, and nodded to a tall, handsome fellow who stood, apparently unmoved, on the outer edge of the circle.

As he came swiftly forward, the others fell back with shrugs and disappointed looks. The girl caught up her skirts, and placed one tiny hand upon her partner's shoulder; and Lawrence, who had been watching the little comedy with more interest than he realized, decided that in a moment she would turn, and he would see her face.

An instant later she did turn--full upon him; and Barry's heart almost ceased to beat. In that brief second, before she was whirled away into the crowd, he saw the wonderful brown eyes, the tender, shapely mouth, the graceful curve of cheek and chin which had so fascinated him the night before, and which had scarcely left his mind for a moment since.

The girl was Shirley Rives!

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*CHAOS.*

Never in all his life had Barry Lawrence been so staggered. For a moment or two he refused to believe the evidence of his senses. The age of miracles was passed, and it was nothing less than a miracle to see this girl, who had been penniless, friendless, desperate the night before, now clad in silks, glittering with jewels, and apparently absolutely at home amid these luxurious surroundings.

It was more than absurd; it was utterly impossible. He had been deceived by some chance resemblance, coupled with the fact that her face remained so vividly and constantly in his mind, into fancying for a second that this stranger was Shirley Rives.

Recovering his composure with an effort, Barry moved swiftly along the wall until he reached a nook banked with palms and ferns. Slipping through them, he let the trailing green curtain fall into place behind him. Then he waited, his eyes, fixed upon the gliding throng, for the girl to reappear. He meant to satisfy himself that he had made no mistake.

Subtle, seductive, almost intoxicating in its rhythmic sweetness, the wonderful waltz music, while it fell upon unheeding ears, seemed, nevertheless, to stir his being with vague unrest. Couples flashed swiftly by his corner or glided past more slowly. Some were the epitome of graceful motion; others romped about the hall in modifications of the uncouth turkey trot and other dances of the same sort which had, of late, been attracting so much unfavorable comment. There were tall girls and short, beautiful and plain; but Barry's eyes passed over their faces with the utmost indifference. Not one of them was the girl he sought.

Suddenly his heart began to thud, and his figure stiffened as he bent forward and parted the leaves a little more. She was coming toward him down the polished floor, moving with that inimitable grace which seems born in most Southern girls.

There was a gleam of jewels on her corsage and in her hair. The diamond buckles on her absurdly tiny satin slippers winked and sparkled as her feet kept perfect time with the music. The swish of her gown sounded clearly to the strained senses of the man behind the palms.

Just as the couple glided so close that he could almost have touched them, the girl looked up into her partner's face, and laughed, a low, soft, bewitching laugh, which sent the blood boiling into Barry's face, and brought his teeth together on his under lip.

He had not made any mistake. She was Shirley Rives beyond any question or doubt. She was the girl whom he had found half frozen, perishing from cold and hunger, without a roof to cover her--without a single friend, apparently, in that whole vast city, save a stenographer in a cheap West Side lodging house.

The look in her eyes, the curve of her half-smiling lips as she glanced up into the face of her tall partner, the very sound of her laugh, drove Lawrence almost mad. He hated the fellow with every atom of hatred in his being; hated his graceful dancing, his polished manner, his air of proprietorship; detested, above all, his dark, handsome face with its expression of captivating melancholy. It was only a pose, he told himself bitterly, to gain attention and sympathy.

But swiftly that feeling was displaced in the realization that his idol had been shattered. The girl had deliberately deceived him from the very first. She had never been friendless and homeless and desperate at all. As to what reason she could have had for playing with him as she did he had not the remotest conception, but the bitter, intolerable, fact remained that she had made a fool of him.

How she must have laughed to herself when he fell into the trap, like a great booby! How entertained she must have been in the restaurant, and later, when he practically forced the money upon her. No doubt it had been a merry play to her, over which she would probably laugh herself weary whenever it came back into her mind. Very likely she had already amused her friends by telling them of her little adventure, and what an easy mark she had found.

Barry shivered at the thought. Then he laughed mirthlessly. The trouble with him was that he had taken the jest with deadly seriousness. It was up to him to think of some way to play up to her. She must never know how much the thing had hurt him. He must make her think that he, too, had been playing a part all the time, instead of being the goat.

Unfortunately such a thing was much more easily thought of than put into execution. Barry was sore and hurt beyond measure, and not at all in condition for playing a game of that sort. The lights and music, the laughter and gayety, suddenly palled. He felt as if he wanted to get away from it all, yet he did not want to go as long as she was here.

The result was that he kept his place behind the palms for fifteen or twenty minutes, during which Miss Rives circled past him time after time. The handsome, melancholy youth had disappeared, and given place to a tawny-haired giant with a strong, pleasant face and infectious laugh which Lawrence disliked unreasoningly. Then followed a slim, graceful chap with a delicately penciled mustache, who showed an inclination for the most sensational dances, and was evidently restrained only by his partner's preference for the more sedate Boston.

To one and all of them Shirley Rives seemed equally pleasant and equally fascinating. Instead of relieving Lawrence, as this should have done, it simply aggravated him the more; and presently, unable longer to contain himself, he left his corner, and made his way straight to the retirement of the smoking room.

He had scarcely entered it, and was taking out his cigarette case, when a tall, smooth-shaven fellow, very ruddy and very blond, sprang from a chair in which he had been lounging, and, rushing forward, gripped Barry's hand.

"By Jove, Oscar, old chap!" he exclaimed heartily. "Why, this is ripping, don't you know! To think of seeing you in this bally place!"

Lawrence frowned, and withdrew his hand as soon as the other's fingers relaxed their pressure. He was in no mood for talking to strangers, even if they did labor under an innocent case of mistaken identity.

"I think you must have made a mistake," he returned coldly. "I don't remember ever having seen you before."

The Englishman's face took on an expression of incredulous astonishment, and he fumbled for the monocle depending from his neck by a broad black ribbon.

"But, I say!" he objected, in a plaintive tone. He had screwed the glass into his left eye, and was regarding Barry inquiringly. "You don't mean you've really forgotten the ripping times we had at Cambridge? You're just chaffing, old chap! You couldn't forget the bloomin' rackets we used to pull off in your rooms--eh, what?"

"I really have," Barry retorted shortly. "You are evidently taking me for some one else."

The other's jaw dropped, but the monocle remained firmly in its place.

"Fancy, now!" he gasped helplessly. "Extraordinary lapse of memory!" He shrugged his shoulders, and went on, with heavy sarcasm: "I dare say, then, you don't even remember Cambridge?"

"I remember Cambridge perfectly," Lawrence retorted sharply, goaded beyond endurance; "but I have no recollection of you whatever."

Turning on his heel, he flung away his unlighted cigarette, and left the room without giving the other a chance to speak.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*PROTECTIVE MEASURES.*

"Fool!" muttered Lawrence, as he passed down the corridor toward the ballroom. "If that was meant as a joke, it was a poor one."

Reaching one of the entrances to the ballroom, he hesitated. He had not the faintest desire to return and take part in that scene of festivity. He was tired of being pestered and having to talk and make himself agreeable. He wanted to get away and be let alone, so very swiftly he resolved to hunt up Mrs. Hamersley, and take his leave as gracefully as he could.

He found the lady after some trouble, told her that he was not feeling very fit--which was quite true--and said good night. Securing his things in the coat room, he made haste to take the elevator downstairs.

But, once on the steps of the building, with the cold wind blowing against his heated face, he paused, irresolute.

Where should he go? What could he find to take his mind from the disappointment he seemed unable to shake off? It was scarcely half past twelve, and he had never felt less sleepy. The idea of going back to his rooms and tossing restlessly about for hours, with only his thoughts to keep him company, was intolerable.

As he waited, undecided, the doors behind him were thrust suddenly open, and two young fellows issued forth precipitately. One of them was singing a popular song, to which the other beat time on the marble pavement with his stick, laughing boisterously at frequent intervals.

As Lawrence drew aside to let them pass, the song ceased instantly, and a pair of arms were flung about his neck with an unexpectedness and force which made him stagger back a pace or two.

"Li'l' Barry!" exclaimed the youth, with maudlin joyousness. "M' long-los' college chum! Lemme give you good hug!"

The flash of annoyance which Lawrence had felt at first gave place instantly to a thrill of pleasure as he recognized Reggie Minturn, one of his classmates, whom he had not seen in months.

"Hel-lo, Reg!" he cried, removing the arms gently, but firmly, from his shoulders, and shaking the chap's hand heartily. "What in the world are you up to, leaving the dance so early?"

Minturn, still gripping his hand, teetered gently back and forth on his heels, regarding Lawrence with a wide stare of preternatural gravity.

"Child's play," he presently announced solemnly. "Jack 'n' I want some 'citement. You know Jack? No, course not. Jack, this's my frien'--very dear frien'. Wantche know--Mister--er--Barry. Shake han's."

The other individual, still chuckling inanely, took Barry's hand, and shook it until Minturn forcibly intervened.

"That's 'nough," he said, linking his arm with Lawrence's. "You're comin' with us, Barry. We goin' to have some 'citement. Dean's, you know."

Barry started slightly, and a faint frown furrowed his forehead. Dean's was one of the most select and high-class gambling houses in the city, and he pictured to himself the alacrity with which these two helpless chaps would be stripped of their last cent.

"What do you want to go there for?" he asked quietly. "Why don't you come around to my place and have a game of poker? It's much nearer."

Minturn shook his head stubbornly. "Do' want poker," he announced. "Wan' roulette. Come on!"

For a second Lawrence hesitated. Then, realizing his helplessness, he gave a resigned shrug, and allowed himself to be dragged out to where a taxi waited at the curb. If he could not keep the two away from the gambling joint, at least he might prevent their losing very much.

They piled into the car, with much laughter, and, when Minturn had given a certain address to the chauffeur, and settled down for a second, Barry proceeded to put his plan into operation.

"Look here, Reggie," he said suddenly, "I can't go into Dean's without any money."

"No money!" exclaimed the inebriated one jocosely. "Ha, ha! Tha'sh easy. We'll lend you some--eh, Jack? Show your roll."

Still chuckling, he reached his pocket with some difficulty, and produced a crumpled handful of yellowbacks which he thrust at Barry.

"Take all you want, ol' man," he announced. "Lot's more where that came from, eh, Jack?"

That Barry could readily believe. The elder Minturn was almost sinfully wealthy, and his only son had hitherto led an existence as carefree and lacking in responsibility as the proverbial lily of the field. A swift glance told Barry that there was close to seven hundred dollars in the roll, mostly in fifties and twenties, with the single exception of one five-hundred-dollar bill. Without hesitation Lawrence took the latter, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.

"This'll do for me," he said carelessly, handing the remainder back.

From the other youth's generously extended bill case he extracted two one-hundred-dollar yellowbacks, leaving less than half that amount. After that he settled back, much more relieved. Of course, it was really none of his business, but he hated to see them simply throwing all that money away, even if they could afford it.

On a cross street, not far from Park Avenue, the chauffeur drew up before an unpretentious-looking brownstone front, and the party rolled out of the taxi. While his two companions were fumbling in their pockets, Lawrence paid the man, who drove off at once.

There was an instant expostulation, which Barry silenced, good-naturedly, following with a last attempt to dissuade the other two from their purpose. As he expected, it was quite useless. Both were fixed in their resolve to have some excitement, and Minturn led the way up the steps with firm, but somewhat swaying, gravity.

After a considerable delay, and a very careful inspection of them by an attendant, they were admitted to the lower hallway, which differed not a whit from the hall of any ordinary private house. Here Minturn and his companion were recognized, and, both vouching for Lawrence, they were allowed to proceed upstairs.

The second floor consisted of two large rooms furnished with great taste and luxury, and provided with all sorts of gambling paraphernalia. They were both fairly well filled with men, mostly in evening clothes; and, as he followed his companions into the one containing the roulette wheels, Barry smiled a little at the realization of how completely his mind was being distracted.

In spite of Minturn's insistence that he chance his money with them, Lawrence managed to put it off by saying that he preferred _rouge et noir_. He waited until they were well started at the wheel, and quite oblivious to everything save the excitement of betting, then he strolled off into the other room.

Here quite a crowd was gathered about the board. Evidently the playing was of a sort to attract unusual attention, and Barry made his way forward to a place from which he had a fair view of the table.

Half a dozen men were sitting there, betting at irregular intervals, but the attention of the onlookers seemed given entirely to one individual, whom Lawrence could not quite see from where he stood. A bit of smooth black hair, a portion of a low forehead, and now and again a hand stretching out to place his bets, was all that came within the Harvard fellow's vision.

It was enough, however, to show him very swiftly that the man, whoever he was, was plunging heavily. He was also having a spell of the most persistent ill luck, for in the few minutes that Barry stood there he saw something like six hundred dollars swept in by the expressionless dealer.

"Wonder who he is?" Lawrence thought. "Some millionaire, I suppose, throwing away his car fare."

Then, more because he had nothing else to do than from any real curiosity on the subject, he strolled around to the other side of the table, and glanced over another man's shoulder.

In a second he had stiffened slightly, and his features seemed suddenly to become tense and alert and eager. The individual who was betting as if a hundred-dollar bill was so much trash to be thrown away without a qualm, was no millionaire, or anything like it.

He was the man who, more than any other, had been active in bringing disgrace upon Barry Lawrence--Julian Farr, the cashier of the Beekman Trust Company.

*CHAPTER XX.*

*THE MAN WHO LOST.*

For a second Barry stood with eyes riveted on the florid face, with its blue-black shadow of heavy beard darkening the clean-shaven cheeks and chin. Then he stepped swiftly back out of sight, and, turning, pretended to examine a painting hanging on the wall near by.

He scarcely saw the wonderful Corot landscape, however, for his brain was fairly seething with the discovery he had just made, the significance of which he realized in a flash.

Julian Farr received, to his positive knowledge, a salary of ten thousand dollars a year, and the manner in which he lived must use up every penny of it. Yet here he was gambling recklessly in a place like Dean's.

In an instant Lawrence knew where those missing funds had gone as surely as if the proof in every smallest detail lay before him.

Farr had stolen them! He was the thief who had so cleverly foisted the blame upon an innocent man's shoulders.

For a moment Barry was furiously angry. He wanted to catch the fellow by the scruff of his neck and thrash him within an inch of his miserable life. It was impossible, of course, and Barry knew it; but he wanted terribly to do it, just the same.

A passing wonder came into his mind as to how Farr could have had the nerve to show himself in such a place. Of course, Dean's was patronized mostly by the very wealthy members of the younger sporting set, and the Beekman Trust Company had a clientele made up almost altogether of shopkeepers, proprietors of lofts and the like, on the lower East Side. Two such extremes were scarcely ever likely to come together, but there was always a chance of discovery, as had been proved in this very instance.

But Barry did not waste much thought on how his enemy happened to be here. His presence in the rouge et noir game was the important thing, and Lawrence instantly began to cudgel his brains as to how he might take advantage of this discovery.

His own unsupported word as to Farr's doings would not be enough to convince Tappin or any of the directors. He must have a witness wholly above the charge of bias.

Barry glanced swiftly around at the men near the table, and his heart sank. He did not know a single one of them, and without a previous acquaintance it would be time wasted to ask any of them to do such a favor.

His eyes ranged over the faces for the second time, and stopped at a tall, lean, slightly dissipated-looking chap who sat opposite Farr, watching him with a languid interest, between whiles placing a bet himself of no small amount.

"By Jove!" Lawrence said to himself. "I'll be hanged if that isn't Charlie Biddle. It is!" he went on positively, after a careful scrutiny. "I wonder if he wouldn't help me out?"

Biddle was a man of means, with extremely rapid tendencies, and a type of mind which caused his photograph to blaze forth frequently in the metropolitan papers, while columns were devoted to his divertingly eccentric escapades. He was a thoroughgoing, out-and-out sport, however, and it struck Barry that he might possibly consent to become the very desirable witness in the present case. At all events, he was the young man's only hope.

Having reached this conclusion, Lawrence went back to the other room, eager to get away. He did not wish to have Farr see him.

The matter proved easier than he expected. Minturn greeted him with a pathetic wail that he was busted, and so was Jack, and begged for a loan. Barry managed to put him off by intimating that he also had been cleaned out, and, after a somewhat prolonged argument, succeeded in persuading the two fellows to depart with him.

Suppressing their tendencies to play tricks with the officer on the corner, Lawrence managed at length to find a taxi, into which they piled, and started for the Minturn mansion. His companions pleaded for a "joy ride" through Central Park, and were moved to tears when he said it was too cold for an early-morning plunge in the reservoir. There was almost a fight at the Minturn house, but, with the unexpected and welcome assistance of a footman who had been waiting up, Barry managed to get them both inside, having first slipped the borrowed money into their waistcoat pockets.

It was just four o'clock when Barry reached the St. Albans, and he was feeling tired and sleepy. Reaching his rooms, he lost no time in flinging off his clothes and diving into bed.

In the interest and excitement of the past few days he had almost forgotten that in less than a week he would be free to live his own life as he chose. He had been going about in a sort of dream, but the sight of Julian Farr's face that night, bent over the gaming table, and the realization of everything it might mean to him, had awakened him effectually. To-morrow he would seek out Charlie Biddle, and enlist his cooeperation.

After that--well, he had an idea that things would be doing.

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*IN THE NEXT COMPARTMENT.*

Lawrence intended to be up early, but it was late in the morning before he was awakened with a start by the tinkle of the room telephone. Leaping out of bed, he hastened into the sitting room, and, unhooking the receiver, recognized Jock Hamersley's booming voice at the other end of the wire.

"You're a deuce of a fellow, you are! What in thunder did you go and quit last night for?"

"I wasn't feeling a bit fit, Jock," Barry explained, "so I lit out before supper. I'll bet you didn't notice I was gone till it came time to go home. Say, can't you meet me in the Belmont cafe about five this afternoon? I want to talk to you about something."

"I'm going to be mighty busy. Why not lunch together?"

"Can't. I've got a date for luncheon."

Hamersley's snort made the wires buzz. "Hang you and your dates!" he exploded. "That's what you said yesterday. You're such a popular guy I s'pose you've got every lunch and dinner taken for a week ahead."

Lawrence's lips twitched at the unconscious closeness with which his friend came to the truth, but he only laughed.

"Sure, I have!" he returned lightly.

"Well," retorted Hamersley sarcastically, "seeing you're such an unaccommodating grouch, I'll meet you at the Belmont, only just blame yourself if you cool your heels for half an hour."

Barry hung up the receiver, chuckling. Then his face grew suddenly serious, and he reached for the telephone directory. Having found the number of Biddle's apartment, he called it without delay, and a man's voice answered.

"No, sir, this is not Mr. Biddle," came in response to Barry's swift question. "Mr. Biddle has gone to Baltimore, and will not be back till Sunday afternoon. Do you wish to leave any message, sir?"

"No; I'll call again."

Barry clicked the receiver into place with an impatient movement, and sat frowning for a moment on the arm of his chair. Presently his face relaxed. Sunday afternoon was not so very far away, and nothing changed the fact that he had Julian Farr in an exceedingly awkward position.

He dressed leisurely, and it was after twelve when he left his room. Breakfast and luncheon were combined that day in one, and he took the meal at the Ritz-Carlton, enjoying the music, entertained by the crowd, and altogether in a more peaceful mood than he had been for some time.

Now and again the thought of Shirley Rives--if that were really her name--returned to torment him and make him unhappy, but he did his best to thrust the recollection from his mind, and fancied he had succeeded. He could not help pondering, however, on the one apparently inexplicable feature of the affair. If she were not in the desperate straits she had pretended to be, how was it that she had known anything of Sally Barton?

It was possible, of course, that she had taken the name of another person with whom the black-haired stenographer had once been on friendly terms; but still the matter puzzled Barry until he finally gave up thinking of it, and turned his attention to the question of whether or not it would be wise to confide his affairs to Jock Hamersley.

He had reached a point where he longed desperately to talk things over with some one, and Jock had seemed, that morning, the only person available. But now, in the light of second thoughts, he began to have grave doubts as to the wisdom of such a step.

The Yale man was good nature personified, and had a heart as large as his big body. He had also a total absence of tact in his make-up, and the more Lawrence considered the matter, the more he became certain that he had better keep the nature of Julian Farr's behavior to himself.

This made it necessary, of course, to hit upon something else to take its place, but that was not difficult. After his friend's kindness of the night before, Barry felt that it was decidedly up to him to do something in return; and, with dinner out of the question, a theater party, with supper afterward, seemed the only alternative.

Having come to this decision, Lawrence finished his luncheon slowly, and left the restaurant. He had been too occupied the night before to notice whether the mysterious men had continued to trail him after he left Sherry's, but they were certainly on the job to-day, and the fact began presently to wear a little on his nerves. A person may be ever so innocent, and still become exasperated when a persistent taxi or an equally persistent man dogs his every movement.

Having nothing special to do between two and five, Barry decided to pit his wits against those of the two pursuers. The little game was interesting, not to say exciting, and consumed considerable time, the maneuvers taking Lawrence from the Battery to Fifty-ninth Street. It ended, however, with comparative satisfaction, and a few minutes before five Barry entered the Belmont on Forty-second Street with the pleasant conviction that he was unobserved for the first time in over twenty-four hours.

The cafe was rather full as he entered it, but one or two of the cushioned wall seats were empty, and Lawrence promptly settled down comfortably, and proceeded to take things easily until his friend's arrival.

Instinctively he noticed that on his left was a party of three men, talking over the cloak-and-suit industry with an interest which left no room for any other thought in their minds. The compartment on the other side was occupied by a typical broker, absorbed in the financial page of an evening paper.

Jock arrived about ten minutes late, and thumped down beside Lawrence with a force which shook the seat, and made the broker start nervously.

"Hope you've got something to talk about that'll pay for the way I tore over here," he grunted. "Never worked so hard in my life as I did this afternoon."

"You don't know what work is, you old bluffer," Barry laughed, as he tapped the bell. "What'll you take?"

Hamersley gave his order, and by the time it arrived Lawrence had broached the subject of the theater party.

"Suits me fine," the big chap returned. "Better get seats for 'The Blue Moon,' if you can. First night, you know, and that's always more fun."

"I'll phone for seats as soon as I get back to the hotel," Barry agreed. "Suppose I ask Reggie Minturn and that chap he had with him? That makes a good number."

"Good!", chuckled Hamersley. "Reckon Reg has sobered up by now. He was pie-eyed last night, though. See him?"

Barry nodded with twinkling eyes. He was wondering what Reggie's thoughts had been on discovering the five-hundred-dollar bill in his waistcoat pocket.

"Yes, I ran across them," he returned. "They'd had about all they could hold, sure enough. Well, I'll try and rope them in. I'll have a car meet me at the Waldorf at a quarter to eight. That'll give me time to pick you fellows up. Show doesn't begin till eight-fifteen, I suppose?"

"Nearer eight-thirty," Jock corrected, setting down his empty glass, and tapping the bell.

Lawrence declined further refreshment, however, and they presently arose and made for the door.

It would have been rather interesting for Barry to observe the behavior of the nervous broker after their departure. Their backs were no sooner turned than the financial page seemed to lose all interest for him. He leaned forward a bit, and peered after their retreating figures. Then, as they passed through the turnstile door, he sprang to his feet and hastened after them into the street.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*THE TOUCH Of COLD STEEL.*

The two friends made their way briskly up Madison Avenue to Forty-fifth Street, and thence turned to the left toward Fifth Avenue. At the entrance to the St. Albans they paused a minute, while Jock finished the diverting story he had commenced.

"Good, ain't it?" he chuckled. "Jimmie Toler has the greatest raft of 'em you ever heard. Well, see you around eight or after, I s'pose. S'long." He took a few long strides, and then wheeled around. "Say, you missed the time of your life cutting away early last night, Barry," he called back. "Greatest little queen you ever saw. Miss Rives was her name--Shirley Rives, from Virginia."

Lawrence caught his breath swiftly, and took a single, impulsive step toward his friend. But Hamersley had already resumed his chuckling way, and, with a sigh, Barry went into the hotel and up to his rooms.

"So that was really her name," he murmured, in a puzzled way, as he was dressing a little later. "I'll be hanged if I can understand it. The whole business is one too many for me."

The problem occupied his mind throughout his entire toilet; and afterward, as he bowled down to the Waldorf, he quite forgot to keep his eyes open for the persistent followers. So he failed to notice that the trailing taxi was conspicuous by its absence.

As he ate his oysters, the wonderful, deep eyes of the Southern girl looked at him in spirit from across the table. It seemed impossible that such eyes could be false, yet what else was there for him to believe? Again he saw, as clearly as if he had been gazing on it in the flesh, that bewitching mouth, with the tragic, little droop at the corners of the sensitive lips. How could such lips have voiced the things they had to him, if each word they uttered was a lie?

He could not believe it. Suddenly there came to him a conviction that he had been a fool to act as he had last night. There must be something about it all which he could not understand; some mystery which could be explained in a simple, logical way, if only he had the key. And, as he remembered the things he had thought of her, he became ashamed. A flood of crimson surged into his pleasant face at the realization of what a cad he had been. No one had known, to be sure. Happily he had voiced his feelings to no single soul, but he was a cad, nevertheless, unworthy of her friendship. From this moment things would be very different. He would have faith in her, no matter what happened, or how much appearances were against her. When he saw her again----

His heart suddenly sank within him. That was the question. Was he ever going to see her again? Would he ever be given a chance to show what he felt for her? Perhaps his new-found faith had come too late.

In this unenviable state of mind he finished his dinner, and left the table.

It was barely half past seven when he reached the corridor, and he realized, with some slight impatience that he had a wait of nearly fifteen minutes before the limousine he had ordered from the garage would put in an appearance.

Taking out his case, he extracted a thick Egyptian cigarette, and lighted it. As he tossed the match aside, and took a first deep whiff of smoke, he had the curious, instinctive feeling that some one was looking at him.

Slowly, leisurely, without any appearance of premeditation, he turned, as if to stroll down the corridor, and found that his intuition had not been at fault.

Standing perhaps twenty feet away, in an attitude which indicated he had been merely passing toward the elevator when something arrested his attention, was a tall, rather elderly man in faultless evening dress. He wore a top hat, and carried a heavy, fur-lined coat over one arm.

But Barry barely noticed those details. He was occupied with the handsome, distinguished face, smooth shaven, and with a subtle touch of intellectual power in the brilliant dark eyes. Those eyes were fixed upon the Harvard man with an expression at once so surprised and puzzled that, in a flash, Lawrence was reminded of the look on Mrs. Winslow Courtney's high-bred face the day before.

And then--the parallel was amazingly like--a quick, genial smile flashed into the stranger's face; he bowed pleasantly, hesitated a second, as if tempted to cross the intervening space to Barry's side, then resumed his progress across the corridor and disappeared.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" Lawrence muttered, in a tone of whimsical annoyance. Though taken by surprise, he had returned the older man's salutation promptly. "Reckon I must have a double floating around town, or else people like my looks a lot more than they used to."

After a moment's hesitation, he crossed to the desk, and, giving a brief description of the elderly gentleman, asked one of the clerks who he was.

"I think you must mean Mr. Grafton Fahnstock," the latter returned promptly. "He passed through the lobby a moment ago."

Barry thanked him, and walked away, puffing meditatively on his cigarette. Presently he smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. Grafton Fahnstock was the famous cabinet minister, who had just returned from a diplomatic conference at the Hague.

"Coming up in the world, my boy," he chuckled, as he strolled toward the door. "First Mrs. Winslow Courtney, now Fahnstock. Next thing you know you'll be chumming with his excellency at Wash----"

"Your car is here, Mr. Lawrence."