Chapter IV: Part 4

It was the carriage man who spoke, and with a start Barry realized that he must have spent more time than he supposed dawdling about the lobby.

Hurriedly slipping into his coat, which he had been carrying on his arm, he walked rapidly out across the sidewalk to where a handsome limousine stood by the curb.

"Mr. Jacob Hamersley's house on Fifth Avenue," he told the chauffeur.

"Yes, sir." The man saluted, without turning his head.

Lawrence leaped in, the porter slammed the door, and the car started off with a jerk.

The next instant Barry realized that he was not alone. A shadow in the farther corner of the wide seat had suddenly come to life.

But before the surprised Harvard man could so much as lift a finger, the cold barrel of an automatic revolver was pressed firmly against his temple, and a cool, steely voice said in his ear:

"Just sit tight, and don't let a yip out of you, my friend, if you want to keep your brains where they belong!"

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*BY FORCE OF ARMS.*

For a moment Lawrence sat rigid, stunned with surprise at the unexpected audacity of the thing. Then, as the car swung around the corner of Fifth Avenue, a bright glare of light streamed in through the front window, full upon the face of the individual beside him. To Barry's intense astonishment, and not a little to his chagrin, he recognized the supposed broker who had occupied the next compartment that afternoon in the Belmont cafe.

"So it's you!" he exclaimed aloud.

The man reached forward with his left hand, and jerked down the front curtain, plunging the interior of the limousine into almost utter darkness.

"It sure is," he returned coolly, but with an undercurrent of satisfaction in his voice.

The hand which held the automatic against Barry's head did not relax. Lawrence had an odd impression that, even through the length of immovable steel, he could feel the fellow's muscles tensed, and his whole being alert for the slightest stirring on the part of his prisoner. He did not really believe that the man would actually pull the trigger, no matter what happened, but under such circumstances one does not feel anxious to put beliefs like that to a test.

As the car whirled southward without a single pause or even slowing down--at that hour traffic regulations were very much relaxed--Lawrence strove desperately to bring some order to the chaos of his mind.

Who was the audacious unknown, and what could possibly be his purpose in acting in this high-handed manner? He recalled vividly the strange attack which had been made on him several nights before. Was this a natural sequence of that assault, and of the persistent shadowing which had been going on ever since? Was this fellow hand in glove with the bearded man and his gawky, foreign-looking confederate? Or was he acting in behalf of Tappin and the bank officials? Where was he himself being taken, and for what object?

The car jolted over cross tracks twice, with a very brief interval between, and Barry knew it was the Twenty-ninth and Twenty-eighth Street surface lines. In a few seconds they would reach Twenty-third, where a slowing down at least would be imperative. There were always policemen about that corner. Should he plunge forward at the right moment, smash the glass of the door near him, and risk a shot from the revolver, or should he quietly let things take their course, in the hope of finding out something which would help to clear the mystery?

He finally decided on the latter course, at least until he could have time to sound his captor, and, relaxing in his corner, he promptly proceeded to that end.

"I suppose you know what you're doing?" he remarked suddenly.

"I generally do," the unknown drawled.

"Really?" murmured Lawrence. "Then you must realize that you're running a considerable risk, taking the law into your own hands this way."

The other chuckled. "Law!" he exclaimed. "You're a great one to talk about the law, when you're----"

He broke off abruptly, much to Barry's disappointment, and the latter retorted swiftly:

"Nabbed, am I? Will you be good enough to tell me what crime I am charged with?"

"Ha! ha! That's good. As if you didn't know without any telling! You'll find out soon enough, my friend."

"You think so?" Barry retorted sharply. "I hope you're taking me to a station house or before a magistrate, where this matter can be straightened out at once."

"You want----" the man began incredulously, then paused.

"Of course that's what I want," Lawrence put in swiftly. "What's more, I demand it. I've done nothing to be ashamed of--nothing I'm afraid of having the whole world know. Just take me before a magistrate, and see how long your flimsy charges, whatever they may be, will hold me."

There was an instant's pause, then the man laughed. "Ha! ha! Sounds good, but you can't fool me that way. I've heard that line of talk before, many a time."

Superficially his tone was confidence itself, but Barry's alert senses caught a faint note of hesitancy in his voice which was at once puzzling and encouraging.

"Very likely," the Harvard chap retorted. "Perhaps you've also observed the consequences of holding up an innocent man at the point of a gun, and carrying him off against his will. I recall one instance where the judge was hard-hearted enough to define it as kidnaping. The perpetrator was sent up for six years, as I remember."

This time the stranger's laugh was decidedly forced.

"You're wasting your breath," he said, with some curtness. "You may be slick enough to put it over that foreign bunch across the pond, but, we ain't so easy over here."

Lawrence started ever so slightly, and drew a quick, noiseless breath. He had not the most remote idea what the man was talking about, but the fact was instantly apparent that it had nothing whatever to do with Tappin and the Beekman Trust Company.

In spite of his bewilderment at this discovery, Barry was decidedly relieved. He was not at all anxious for a revival of the old affair before he had taken the steps he planned in regard to Julian Farr's exposure. He was absolutely innocent, of course, and felt that it would be impossible for them to prove anything against him. Still, the bank people might make things annoying, and perhaps ruin the plans he had made about the cashier.

The car bumped over the Twenty-third Street tracks, and went speeding on down Fifth Avenue. After a time another slight jolt told Lawrence that Fourteenth Street had been reached and put behind, but still the course was held straight southward.

Barry tried to sound his captor a little more, but the latter had grown taciturn, and shut him up without revealing another scrap of information.

Eighth Street was crossed, and, a moment or two later, the car swerved sharply to the right.

"Washington Square," Barry thought, with every sense alert. "Now, where the mischief are they taking me?"

The twists and turns which followed were so bewildering that Barry soon ceased trying to keep track of his whereabouts. The car sped on, whirling around corners, taking long, straight stretches with a rush, and darting back and forth, up and down, in such a manner that Lawrence finally lost even his sense of direction.

Evidently the detective--Barry was sure by this time of his captor's occupation--was headed for some rendezvous where possibly he would meet the persons who had employed him in this lawless undertaking. Between leaving the car and entering the building, wherever that might be, there would surely be some slight chance of breaking away, and Lawrence determined to be ready to take advantage of it the instant the car stopped.

Thus it was that, when the automobile began to slow down and swerve in toward the curb, Barry held himself tense, with feet braced in such a manner that he was ready to launch himself straight at his companion in the twinkling of an eye, snatch the automatic, and fling himself from the car to freedom.

"No monkeyshines, now!" admonished the unknown suddenly, as if reading Lawrence's very thoughts. "You try to make a get-away, and you'll wish you hadn't."

"Why should I?" Barry returned, with light indifference. "I'm too anxious to see you get yours, to leave just now."

The only answer was an inarticulate grunt. The car skidded a little, then stopped with a jerk. Lawrence was waiting breathlessly for the pressure of the revolver to be removed, when suddenly his heart sank into his boots.

From the sidewalk came the low murmur of voices, followed almost instantly by the jerking open of the door. In a single swift glance he took in the shadowy forms of three men grouped around the car--four, if he counted the chauffeur, who was slipping out of his seat to join them.

It would be folly to try to break away against such odds as this. He would do better to submit without resistance and bide his time.

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*THE EMPTY HOUSE.*

The instant Lawrence stepped out of the car he was surrounded by the four men, and hurried across the icy sidewalk. There was a brief glimpse of a row of squalid-looking buildings, unfamiliar in their monotonous regularity, then he was pushed into the shadowy doorway, through the door, which yielded to a touch, and thence to the pitchy blackness of a hall where the echo of their footsteps sounded hollow and ringing, as in an empty house.

A brief pause followed, broken only by low whispering. Then the door closed, and, as the purring of the motor car died away in the distance, a round, brilliant spot of light suddenly flashed out of the darkness, showing Barry the uncarpeted stairs near which he stood, the dingy railing, and, more dimly, the figures of the men grouped about him.

"Ed, you and Jim stay down here," the detective ordered tersely. "Beat it upstairs, Billy, and light the lamp. Now, Mr. Lawrence," he went on, with a sort of mocking politeness, after his man had disappeared into the darkness above, "I'll have to ask you to follow. Your room is all ready for you."

With a slight shrug of indifference, Barry obeyed. From his manner one would have supposed him quite resigned to the unpleasantness of the situation. He seemed to look neither to the right nor left, but, as he reached the second floor, with the detective close behind, he shot a swift, comprehensive glance around, without turning his head.

In that brief instant, aided by the feeble yellow light streaming out of the back room, he saw that there were but three doors opening on the narrow hall. One led into the lighted room; another, close beside it, and also standing partly open, seemed to give access to a small back bedroom or bathroom, while the third was at the other end of the hall, close to the shadowy outlines of the stairs leading up to the third floor.

Having taken in this, much without apparently noticing anything, Lawrence walked directly into the lighted room, and stood in the middle of it, staring around with a disgusted expression.

The place was absolutely bare, and filthy to a degree. Opposite the door was a rough wooden mantel above a boarded-up fireplace, on which stood a common glass lamp. Not another stick of furniture was visible. The paper hung in strips from the dingy walls, and the floor seemed covered with the dust of ages. There was a door which led apparently into the front room, and a single, uncurtained window, the panes of which were so incrusted with dirt as to make a shade unnecessary.

Barry's lips curled scornfully as he met the keen, dark eyes of the detective.

"A nice hole!" he commented disgustedly. "And how long do you propose keeping me here?"

The man whom he addressed shrugged his shoulders slightly, and glanced at his subordinate.

"That'll do, Billy," he said. "Just wait in the hall outside."

When the fellow had departed, he closed the door, and turned again to the Harvard man. He still held the automatic in his hand, but Barry observed that it was no longer covering him.

"Now, don't get in a stew," the detective said. "An hour or so of this ain't going to hurt you any."

"It's outrageous!" Lawrence exclaimed angrily. "Here I'm giving a theater party to-night, and have the tickets in my pocket. What do you suppose my friends will think when I don't show up? If you don't smart for this, it won't be my fault, I can tell you!"

"Keep your shirt on," drawled the detective. "Losing your temper won't help you."

He strolled over to the wooden mantelshelf, and leaned one elbow negligently on it, idly snapping the switch of the pocket flash light on and off.

"So you really don't know what you're wanted for?" he went on, in a semijocose tone.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Barry answered.

"That's rich," chuckled the other, laying the pocket battery on the mantel. "Not a thing lying heavy on your conscience, I s'pose?"

"There is not!" Lawrence retorted sharply. "And I'll tell you this: You've made one big mistake, and I should hate awfully to be in your shoes when I tell my story in a station house or courtroom. If you're on the regular force--which I doubt very much--you'll be broken into little bits. If you're just a private citizen from one of these bureaus, you'd better make plans for skipping the country, for I give you my word I mean to push this to the limit."

The flash of worried doubt which swept across the detective's face, and was gone in an instant, was all Barry needed to confirm the suspicion which had been growing in his mind for the past few minutes. The fellow did not know what his prisoner was wanted for. That was one of the reasons why he had remained in the room. What was the motive of these apparently casual hints and questions. He did not know, and he was beginning to be very anxious to find out.

Probably he had been hired to kidnap Lawrence, and bring him to this house without being told anything definite as to Barry's supposed misdoings, beyond a vague tale of some lawlessness said to have been committed abroad.

It would be simply a waste of valuable time to linger longer here trying to learn the impossible, and Lawrence had no wish to stay until the arrival of his real enemies. He was intensely curious to meet them face to face, and find out something of the cause of the extraordinary persecution, but he much preferred choosing his own time and place.

"I think before this time to-morrow," Barry went on swiftly, "that you'll be mighty sorry you ever undertook the case."

The detective shrugged his shoulders in an affectation of bravado, which did not deceive the captive for a second. The latter had not stirred from the middle of the room, but now his muscles were tense and ready for action, and every nerve quivered as he awaited the slightest opening.

"I ain't worrying a whole lot," the dark-haired man returned. "I reckon you're the one who'll be sorry you ever bumped up against me. There ain't a doubt in----"

In his attempt to show how little he was disturbed by his prisoner's threats, he had been swinging the automatic negligently back and forth on one crooked finger. Either his suppressed nervousness got the better of him, or his mind was so busy with other things that he did not realize how careless he had become. At all events, the weapon slipped off his finger and struck the floor with a thud.

Like a flash he stooped to snatch it up. But Barry was even quicker. With a single lithe spring he had leaped across the intervening space. One hand, the muscular fingers tightly clenched, caught the detective on the chin, and sent him backward with a crash which made the floor shake. The other arm, outstretched, swept the glass lamp from the mantel, and caught up the pocket flash light in one and the same motion.

There was a yell of fury from the man on the floor, a splintering of glass, then darkness--inky, pitchy, smothering darkness--dropped like a heavy pall over the room, and blotted everything.

*CHAPTER XXV.*

*THE FACE IN THE CANDLELIGHT.*

A second later the hall door was burst open, and a voice sounded from the opening: "What's up, Joyce? Has he got away?"

A flood of imprecations answered him as the detective scrambled painfully from his feet.

"You fool!" he roared. "Strike a light, quick! Don't stand there like a dummy. Strike a light! He's in this room--he can't get away! Where in blazes is that gun of mine? A-h!"

The tiny, wavering flame from a match clove the inky blackness, and showed Joyce crouching near the mantel, the recovered automatic ready in one hand, and his keen, dark eyes roving swiftly about the barren place.

For a moment he did not move a muscle; then, with an oath, he sprang to his feet. The flickering flame made odd, grotesquely dancing shadows in the corners of the room, but aside from the detective and his assistant by the door, there was no one else there. Lawrence had disappeared.

"He's slipped into the front room!" snapped Joyce. "He can't get out of the house--that's impossible! Where's my flash light? Yell down to the boys to be on the lookout. They mustn't stir from the foot of the stairs. You go down and get that lantern out of the kitchen. We've got to have light, and my blooming battery's gone."

He had scarcely spoken when the match burned out, and darkness infolded them again.

It was during this second period of eclipse that Barry softly pushed open the door of the front room, and emerged into the hall. He heard the detective's angry voice roaring out orders from the back room, and was conscious, also, of excited talking in the hall below. Escape that way was quite impossible, and, since there was no time to hunt up a convenient fire escape, the only thing left was the roof.

With nerves tingling, and a certain exhilaration possessing him at the thought of outwitting this fellow who had been so annoying, Barry slid over to the stairs, and began to feel his way up them with extreme caution. He was not more than halfway up before the fellow clattering down for the lantern gave him a chance to take the remainder of the flight in two jumps without risk of being overheard. The next instant, however, he was halted in his tracks by the appearance of Joyce at the foot of the stairs.

As long as the fellow stood there it was impossible to move without being discovered, so Barry possessed his soul with patience, trusting that, when the light arrived, they would enter the front room first, and give him a chance to find a way to the roof.

Meanwhile, he stretched out one hand, and began to explore with his fingers everything within reach. The stairs curved sharply about three steps from the top, and just around the corner Lawrence touched the handle of a door. From its position he knew that it could lead into nothing more than a shallow closet. On the other side of the narrow hall was nothing but smooth wall, with here and there a sagging strip of moldy paper. Underfoot the floor was as bare, carpetless as the rest of the house.

Presently the sound of thudding footsteps came to Barry's ears again, and a moment later the fitful, dancing gleams of light below told him that the man was hurrying back with the lantern.

"Hustle up, Billy!" Joyce cried impatiently. "You come along, too, Jim. Don't need more than one to stay by the door. He can't get past us."

Under cover of the noise below, Lawrence gripped the knob of the closet door, and wrenched it open. It came with a reluctant screech of rusty hinges which sent his heart into his throat, but apparently the sound passed unnoticed. Joyce was giving rapid directions to his men, and, when one of them finally had been stationed at the door of the back room, the other two advanced to the front of the lower hall.

"Better come out peaceable, Lawrence," Barry heard him say. "You're cornered, and can't possibly get away."

There was no answer, of course. With a muttered exclamation, the detective thrust open the lower door, calling to his men to look sharp, and leaped into the room, followed closely by his companion with the light.

Instantly Barry pressed the switch of the pocket light, and flashed it swiftly around the hall. There was no sign of any ladder, or even a skylight. Was it possible there was no way to the roof? Desperate, he whirled around, and turned the shaft of light into the closet. His eyes fell on the lower rungs of a ladder, and he gave a sigh of relief.

There was not an instant to lose, for they would soon find that he had left the second floor. He meant to be more cautious than ever, but, supposing the closet to be as empty as the rest of the house, he gave no thought to the possible presence of obstacles. The result was that he struck an unseen shelf with his head and shoulders, and the next moment an empty can of some sort clattered down, and rolled out into the hall with noise enough to wake the dead.

There was a shout of surprise and triumph from below, followed by the sound of running feet, but Barry waited to hear no more. Slamming the door behind him, he darted up the ladder, one hand outstretched before him. When the fingers encountered a rusty bolt, he struck it out of the socket with one blow of his clenched fist. Then, with lowered head, he brought his powerful shoulders against the skylight with all the force of his trained muscles.

Bang! bang! bang! Three times he flung himself against something as immovable as rock. Bang! bang! The wooden covering creaked ominously, but scarcely gave at all, and Barry groaned inwardly at the sudden recollection of the ice and snow which must be spread over it, sealing it most effectually.

Scrambling up another step, he placed his shoulders against the boards and heaved strenuously. As he struggled in desperation he heard his pursuers reach the hall below, and a hand rattled the knob of the closet door.

"He's in here, fellows," came in a muffled voice, then, just as the door was jerked open, admitting a stream of light to the dark hole, Lawrence gave a final heave, and tumbled his way out on the flat, snowy roof, white and gleaming in the brilliant starlight of the cloudless night.

Like a flash he had whirled around and slammed the cover back on the skylight. In another second he was running with long, lithe, silent strides across the roof.

Recklessly he leaped a low parapet to the next roof, raced across its narrow, white expanse, cleared the second parapet, and had almost reached the third when the lifting of the skylight behind him made him stop like a flash and huddle down behind a chimney.

For a second he crouched there, breathing hard. Barely six feet beyond was an abrupt descent to a lower roof. Just how much of a drop it was he could not tell, but it could scarcely be too great for him to make it. The houses all seemed much the same general height.

He wished that he had kept on to the parapet, and risked their seeing him. It would be much harder to do it now unobserved, yet he could not stay where he was. The minute they found his footprints in the snow they had only to follow the trail, and nab him by the chimney. What a fool he was not to have thought of that before!

A stealthy glance around the brick chimney showed him that two of the pursuers had emerged onto the roof, but were apparently waiting for the others. He had a moment more of grace, and instantly he began to back noiselessly toward the dividing wall.

He reached it safely; then, just as he was lowering himself over, some one sighted him, and sounded the alarm.

Barry dropped like a flash, and, landing, somewhat shaken, up, about six feet below, spun around, and started across the roof. Even in his haste he noticed that the snow here had been cleared away in a square space, about which were hung lines for drying clothes. There was no ice on the scuttle, either, and without a moment's hesitation he dropped on his knees and pulled hard at the wooden frame.

It was unlatched, and, with a gasp of joy, Lawrence jerked it up, and slid into the opening. In his haste his foot missed the ladder, and the scuttle, descending with cruel force on his fingers, very nearly sent him tumbling into the hall below.

He managed to keep his grip, however, till his feet were planted on the ladder. Then, with a grunt of pain, he released his hands, and fairly flung himself down the remaining rungs.

At the bottom he paused a second, fumbling for the flash light. He realized that he was not much better off than he had been on the roof. Joyce and his gang would certainly suspect where he had gone, and, ten to one, would follow. He could not linger, therefore, and the instant he found the location of the stairs he hurried down them, praying inwardly that he might meet no one before he reached the door.

The thought had scarcely passed through his mind before he realized that some one was coming up from the hall below. He stopped and listened. It was a slow, heavy tread, but the sound of skirts brushing against the wall told him that it was a woman. She held a candle in her hand, and the wavering light, flickering against the wall, kept pace with her slow ascent.

Would she stop at the second floor, or come on to where he stood in a curve of the next flight of stairs? That was the question which pounded monotonously through Barry's brain as he watched that spot of light creep higher and higher. If she did not have to pass him, there was a good chance of his escaping after she had gone into her room. If not--

As she climbed the last step and stood there, panting heavily, Lawrence scarcely dared take a breath. Then, with infinite thankfulness, he saw her step forward, and turn the knob of one of the doors opening off the passage. The latch clicked, and in a moment more she would have been out of the way, had not there come to her ears the unmistakable sound of the scuttle being raised.

With a sharp ejaculation of surprise and fear, she turned about, and took a quick step straight toward where Lawrence was crouching. For a second the latter stood as one paralyzed, staring at the face now plainly visible in the light of the candle.

It was the coarse, evil face of Mrs. Kerr, his old landlady. He had stumbled into that very house on Twenty-fourth Street which had been the scene of so much despair and misery, and which he had never expected to see again.

*CHAPTER XXVI.*

*THE HAND OF FATE.*

The woman did not come forward immediately, but stood staring upward, in the attitude of one listening. It was a very brief space of time, to be sure, but it gave Barry a chance to pull himself together and recover from the petrifying amazement that had stricken him at the discovery that he was actually in his old lodging house.

When at length another sound from above started her toward him again, Lawrence had recovered his wits, and seized upon the only possible chance which was left him.

"Good evening, Mrs. Kerr," he said blandly, leisurely descending the remaining few steps. "I left a few small personal belongings in my room, and----"

The expression on the woman's face as she staggered back against the railing was so extraordinary that it fairly took Barry's breath away. There was amazement, of course, and a quick gasp of fear escaped her lips, but in a second every other emotion was swallowed up in a kind of triumphant gloating which was horrible to see.

"So you're back," she said, in an odd, suppressed voice. "I begun to think I wasn't never goin' to see you, an' here you are of your own free will Luck, I calls it--nothin' but luck."

Lawrence's first thought was that she had been drinking, and a moment later he saw that she was creeping closer to him, with a crablike motion, at the same time maneuvering so as to block the narrow passage.

What her idea was he could not conceive, but he had no desire to be detained a second longer, especially as the sounds from above told him that Joyce and his men were already descending the ladder from the roof.

"Isn't it luck?" he agreed, smiling genially. "Of course, I never thought I'd find you up at this hour, but, since I have, I may as well give you what you want right now."

He thrust one hand into an inner pocket, as if to produce something, and the next instant had leaped forward, snatching the candle from her as he did so. As he darted past her in the darkness, he felt a futile clutch of hands on his coat, and then her voice was raised in a series of piercing shrieks: "Help! Murder! Jim! Jim!"

Taking the stairs in great leaps, Lawrence thought he had never heard such bedlam in his life. The woman continued to scream at the top of her voice. Somewhere a door was jerked open, and a man's harsh voice, adding to the tumult, accelerated Barry's flight.

He flung himself at the door, one hand instinctively touched the spring lock, while the other yanked it open. He had the wit to remember a second antiquated catch, seldom used, and ponderous to undo, and promptly snapped it down before slamming the door behind him.

Without an instant's hesitation, he ran straight toward Tenth Avenue. Fortunately the street was dark and deserted, and he reached the corner without encountering any one.

As he whirled around into the avenue, he looked swiftly backward, and saw the door of Mrs. Kerr's house burst open, throwing a shaft of light out across the icy sidewalk. Into that path of light two figures hurried--one tall, thin, and wearing a slouch hat; the other chunky and shapeless.

"My dear landlady and Jim, whoever he may be," Lawrence murmured, as he started briskly south on the avenue. "I wish 'em the joy of their hunt for me. What an old harridan that woman is! She positively made my flesh creep when she was coming at me in the hall. Wonder what she was after?"

He did not waste much thought on the matter, however. Very likely the woman was drunk, and it was rather startling for her to encounter a man who did not belong in the house. At all events, it was immaterial. He had managed to get out of the scrape successfully, so he devoted himself to brushing off his coat and hat, and putting on his gloves, while hastening toward the car line on Twenty-third Street.

He was more than thankful for the whim which had caused him to wear a soft hat of black velour. It had stayed with him through all the excitement of the evening, and now needed only a deft touch or two to make it quite presentable.

As the car bowled eastward at a good clip, Barry chuckled one or twice at the thought of Joyce's discomfiture when driven back to the roof by those piercing shrieks from Mrs. Kerr.

"He'll be mad as a wet hen," he thought amusedly. "Serves him right, though, for trying such a game."

Altogether, Barry was very much pleased with the way things had turned out. While he had come no nearer to solving the mystery which seemed to surround him, he had at least learned the lesson of caution, and it would be an extremely difficult matter to catch him unawares as he had been caught to-night.

He was very much annoyed, of course, at having been forced to break his engagement with Jock and the others, but that had not been his fault, and his explanation must appease them. It was only half past ten now, and perhaps he could get hold of the Yale man that night. Hamersley would certainly be entertained by a recital of the evening's experiences.

Entering the lobby of the St. Albans a little later, he was hurrying toward the telephones with that idea in mind, when one of the clerks stopped him.

"Just a moment, Mr. Lawrence," he called. "Here's a letter for you, which should have been delivered yesterday. It was sent to the St. Athol by mistake, and reached us after you went out this evening."

Barry took the letter, and stared at the unfamiliar writing in a puzzled way. Then he tore open the envelope, and hastily took out the several sheets of closely written note paper it contained. The next instant, as he caught sight of the inclosure, his heart began to beat loudly and irregularly, flooding his face with flaming crimson.

It was a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, and, though he turned the pages with slightly trembling fingers to find the signature, it really was not necessary. Deep down in his heart he knew that it was from Shirley Rives.

*CHAPTER XXVII.*

*THE LETTER.*

For a moment or two Lawrence stood there staring at the name. Then, pulling himself together, he turned on his heel, and made for the elevator. Whatever the letter contained, it was impossible to read it down there.

Once in his sitting room, he switched on the lights, and, flinging himself into a chair without even taking time to remove his coat, plunged into a perusal of the letter:

MY DEAR MR. LAWRENCE: As I sit here in a perfectly charming boudoir, done in blue, with lovely old mahogany furniture, the things you said last night about the strangeness of chance come irresistibly back to me. I could not help but feel then that fate or destiny, or what you will, must have had something to do with bringing us together, and perhaps that was why I let myself drift with the current in a manner which was, to say the least, decidedly unconventional. Really, you know, I'm not in the habit of taking supper and favors from men I've never seen before!

The story you told of what had happened to you was unreal enough in all conscience, but never for an instant did I imagine when I left you that something infinitely more extraordinary, something a thousand times more impossible, was coming to me.

Lawrence started and frowned with perplexity; but he reflected that scarcely anything could be unbelievable after what had already transpired. He went on reading eagerly:

It is much too long to put into writing. Besides, I have a notion that I'd like to tell it to you, so I'll only give you enough to whet your appetite and stir your curiosity.

I went into that house on Forty-eighth Street despairing, hopeless--perhaps not quite so hopeless as I had been two hours before; but, still, I had little enough to hope for. I tried my best to keep you from seeing how utterly miserable I was and how completely at my wits' end, but I think you guessed something of it in spite of my efforts.

I was there for less than ten minutes, then I came away in a private brougham with a woman I had never seen before. There were two men on the box. Inside there were furs--soft, luxurious furs--into which one could snuggle down and be warm at last. There was some sort of electric heating apparatus, and I could smell the perfume of roses clustered in a hanging vase. Do you wonder that I thought of Cinderella and the pumpkin coach, and was afraid it would all vanish into nothing?

We drove to a splendid house on the avenue, and there I was made to go to bed at once in a wonderful, carved, four-poster, with silk hangings. This morning it was still there; it had not vanished in the night. I had not dreamed it, or, if I had, I am dreaming still.

Lawrence laughed aloud; but he wondered if he himself were not dreaming. But he finished the letter with no lessening of interest:

At first I went about in a sort of daze, but, little by little, I'm becoming convinced that it is real. We have been shopping all morning, and somehow the quantities of lovely clothes which are constantly arriving are not like dream clothes. There is a dance, to-night, too. Fancy going to a dance again! That's almost the most impossible thing of all. It isn't really so long since the last one, but I feel as if I had lived a thousand years since then.

Isn't it stranger than any fairy tale? Do you wonder that I feel as if this wasn't Shirley Rives at all, but some one else? And, stranger than anything else is the fact that I owe it all to you and your helping me through the "Gates of Chance" last night. If I had come straight to Sally's, as I meant to, nothing would have happened. If we had not met in the square, if we had not lingered at the restaurant, even, nothing would have happened. If one single thing had occurred to vary the time of my reaching the house by five short minutes, there would be nothing to tell you now.

I know I'm perfectly hateful not to give away the secret--you see, I'm taking it for granted that you are a little curious about it--but I have a selfish desire to tell it to you; to try and show you something of how strange and wonderful and utterly staggering it has all been to me. I'm sure you'll let me, won't you--soon? Sincerely yours, SHIRLEY RIVES.

Below the girl's signature was written the address of a house in the most exclusive section of Fifth Avenue, a section where dwelt only people of great wealth, and usually of equally great social position.

Lawrence stared at it, his face dazed and bewildered. Then he turned back to the first sheet, and read the letter slowly through to the very end again. It was utterly baffling and incomprehensible, yet through it all there ran a strain of perfect truth and high-minded sweetness which was unmistakable. The realization of this, coupled with a remembrance of what he had once tried to make himself believe about Shirley Rives, brought a rush of color to his cheeks, and an expression of shame into his pleasant face.

"She's true-blue to the very core," he murmured at length. "I can't imagine what sort of luck it is that's come to her; the whole business sounds like a tale from the 'Arabian Nights.' But I know one thing--I was the biggest fool in all creation ever to have doubted her for a second."

He glanced again at the end of the letter, and a swift smile curved his sensitive lips.

"Will I come and let her tell me all about it?" he said aloud. "Will I? And soon? Well, I guess yes!"

*CHAPTER XXVIII.*

*THE HOUSE ON THE AVENUE.*

Though he tried his house and one or two other places where Jock Hamersley was likely to be at this hour, Lawrence was unable to get his friend on the phone. Somehow, he was not altogether sorry. He certainly owed an apology and some sort of reparation to the men he had been forced to leave in the lurch in this abrupt, seemingly ill-mannered fashion, but he was just as well pleased to have it all put off until to-morrow. With a mind full of Shirley Rives and her extraordinary letter, he did not particularly fancy the idea of doing anything but just sit there in his room and think it all over.

Having taken off his things, and made himself comfortable, he read her letter over for the third time, gaining nothing from this perusal save an intense desire to see the girl as soon as he could, and hear from her own lips the details of the amazing good fortune which had come so opportunely.

Of course, it could not be stranger than his own experiences during the past three days; but the manner in which it had followed so close upon the heels of that, brought again to Barry that odd feeling of being in the grip of circumstance, the conviction that fate was molding her life as well as his, without consulting either of them even in the smallest detail.

"I suppose it wouldn't be at all the thing to call there in the morning," he thought impatiently, as he was getting into bed, long after midnight. "Hang it all! I don't see how I'm going to restrain myself until the conventional hour."

While he was breakfasting the next morning, however, he resolved to set convention at defiance for this once, at least. Almost as fervent as his desire to hear Miss Rives' story was his eagerness to set himself right with her. He did not wish her to labor an hour longer than was absolutely necessary under the impression that his failure to call in answer to her letter was due to any possible lack of interest on his part. He must see her this morning, and so he determined to send up some flowers with his card, and the intimation that he would follow himself in an hour or so.

On his way out he stopped at the desk to obtain some more money from the wallet he had left in the safe. He had done this every morning, but now, as he opened it, the realization came to him for the first time that his supply was growing low. The thousand dollars had been placed in one compartment, leaving his expense money in another, and, as he took out about a hundred dollars, he was astonished to find how comparatively little was left. He was not conscious of having been especially extravagant, but he had obeyed the unknown donor's injunctions to the letter, and had not spared expense.

"By Jove!" he muttered, as he left the hotel and walked toward Fifth Avenue. "I'll have to go slow, or I'll be dipping into my capital. It's astonishing how money melts away on comparatively little things. I must begin to economize."

Evidently he did not mean to begin quite at once, however. He made his way directly to an expensive flower shop on the avenue, where he selected a huge box of very costly roses, wrote a line on his card, and ordered them sent at once to Miss Rives. As he left the shop he consoled himself for the flatness of his bill case by the reflection that this was a private matter, which could be paid out of his own money.

The hour and a half which followed seemed to pass on leaden wings. Barry had never known a period of time to drag so boringly. He could not enjoy his morning walk, and, though he had several errands to do, which ordinarily would have consumed the better part of an hour, it seemed as if the salesmen were conspiring to attend to his wants with positively supernatural briskness.

"If I were in a hurry," he thought crossly, "I'd cool my heels in each store for fifteen or twenty minutes. That's always the way when you want to kill time."

At length, when the hands of his watch had crept around to eleven, Barry squared his shoulders with a determined gesture, and, making his way swiftly through from Broadway to the Waldorf cab stand, procured a taxi which deposited him less than ten minutes later before a very imposing residence up in the seventies, facing the park.

And, now that he was actually here, and the taxi dismissed, a sudden, curious timidity began to besiege Lawrence. The marble front, with its heavy, ornamental carvings, was almost oppressive in its atmosphere of wealth and exclusiveness. The wonderfully wrought bronze grille which guarded the imposing approach, even though one of the doors was flung back, revealing the elaborate mosaic of the square entrance, seemed fashioned for the sole purpose of excluding the presumptuous stranger who sought admission.

The amazing contrast between this palatial residence and the desperate, homeless girl he had encountered in Madison Square little more than forty-eight hours before, struck Barry anew with startling force, and made him hesitate at the foot of the broad, shallow sweep of marble steps.

A dozen doubts and questions flashed through his mind in that brief pause. Then, with a swift, characteristic flinging back of his head, he thrust them from him in a flash.

"What a fool I am!" he muttered angrily. "I swore I'd never doubt her again, and I won't."

A second later he reached the entrance, and firmly pressed the electric button.

*CHAPTER XXIX.*

*LAWRENCE PLEADS.*

Almost on the instant of Lawrence's ringing the bell, the door was swung open by a footman in rich, quiet livery, who stood aside while Barry entered, and, having closed the door, led the way down the paneled hall.

"Is Miss Rives at home?" Lawrence asked briefly.

"This way, if you please," said the footman noncommittally, indicating a tiny elevator hidden behind hangings of rich damask.

The car ascended noiselessly, and Lawrence stepped out into a wide hall, the walls of which were lined with tapestries, while underfoot were heavy Persian rugs, laid upon some sort of matting which made them thick and soft as velvet. The footman took Barry's card, and, crossing noiselessly to a doorway, drew aside the hangings.

"Will you wait in the drawing-room, sir?" he murmured.

The room which Barry entered was long and lofty, and almost oppressive in its wealth of furnishings. The richly carved mantel of mellow Caen marble looked as if it might have been transported entire from some French chateau. The walls were hung with tapestries, while here and there a wonderful painting gave relief with its gorgeous coloring and the richness of its carved frame. The chairs, tables, cabinets, and other pieces of furniture which filled the great room were antiques of rare beauty and value; while scattered everywhere were carved ivories, miniatures, exquisite old silver, and wonderful porcelain in such bewildering array that Barry decided it would take weeks properly to examine and appreciate each separate piece.

The room was filled with flowers in great bowls and vases, and the air was heavy with their fragrance. Lawrence was wondering whether his roses were among the masses of lilies and violets, when the soft swish of trailing garments brought him hurriedly to his feet just as the velvet hangings were parted and Shirley Rives stood on the threshold.

"It was very nice of you to come, Mr. Lawrence," she said as he sprang forward to greet her; "and your roses are charming."

"It's you who are nice to receive me at such an hour," Barry returned quickly. "I know I should have restrained my impatience until this afternoon, but your letter only came last night--it was sent first to the St. Athol--and I simply couldn't wait." He hesitated, looking down into her eyes, and a slow flush crept into his face. "You see," he went on bravely, "I was at Sherry's myself on Tuesday night."

For a second she stared at him in astonishment. "At the dance?" she exclaimed. "Why, I never----"

"Of course you didn't," Lawrence returned swiftly. "I came away very soon."

"But you saw me?"

Her tone was perplexed, and a tiny, puzzled wrinkle had leaped into her smooth, low forehead. Then, as Barry nodded, a sudden gleam of comprehension flashed into her dark eyes.

"You saw me!" she exclaimed, in an odd voice. "And my letter never reached you until last night! What must you have thought? But come; let's sit down and talk comfortably."

She moved gracefully across the room to a great carved chair near one of the windows. Lawrence drew up another chair and sat down. For a second or two neither of them spoke; then the girl bent forward a little, her chin resting on one hand.

"Well," she questioned, "tell me what you thought?"

The flush had deepened in his face, and his muscular, well-shaped fingers were lacing and interlacing, an unconscious key to the perturbation of his mind. Now that he had seen her again, his folly at having doubted her seemed more utterly absurd and idiotic than ever. He hated desperately to tell her the truth, yet he knew he must. The sooner it was over the better.

"I was a fool!" he said brusquely. "I thought you had been making sport of me. I thought you had made up that whole story for a lark. I realized long before your letter came that such a thing was impossible; but at the dance I was simply stunned. I had just come from the house on Forty-eighth Street, where they told me you had never been there. Your friend, Miss Barton, said she had not seen you in months, and, after what you----"

The girl started slightly. "Of course!" she murmured. "I forgot all about Sally. But surely Mrs. Weston must have----"

"She was away. I didn't see her. The maid said you weren't there, and certainly hadn't been there overnight. Miss Barton knew nothing whatever about you. It looked as if the earth had opened and swallowed you up, so you can imagine my feelings when I caught sight of you at the dance. When I left you the night before, you hadn't a friend in the city but this stenographer, or a cent----"

"You forget the ten dollars," she murmured demurely, her long lashes sweeping her cheeks as she played with a jeweled chain hanging from her neck.

"That didn't count," he retorted.

"Not in the way you mean, perhaps," she supplemented. "And so you went from Mrs. Weston's to the dance, and saw me there?"

"N-not directly. It was too early, and I was troubled and worried to know what had become of you. I drove around a little, and walked through the square----"

Her lids suddenly lifted, and she looked oddly at him.

"Madison Square?" she questioned swiftly.

He nodded. "Yes. I--er--just wanted to walk a little where it was quiet and I could think. Then I joined my friends, and drove with them to Sherry's. I hadn't been there half an hour before I saw you."

"I suppose it did seem a trifle odd," she remarked, glancing out of the window.

"Odd doesn't quite express it. There you were in a wonderful gown with pearls and things, and talking to three or four men at once as if you'd known them all your life. Of course, I couldn't believe my senses at first; and when at last I was sure, I--well, it was all so bewildering and impossible that I couldn't seem to stay there."

"You mean you couldn't stay because you thought I'd been deceiving you?" she said quietly.

"There didn't seem to be any other explanation," he pleaded. "Next day I came to my senses, and knew that there must be some other reason. Of what it could be I hadn't the most remote conception; but I knew that you weren't the sort to make believe to that extent; and it was a big relief, I can tell you."

He hesitated a second, and bent forward slightly, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes fixed intently on her lovely face.

"Please forgive me," he begged, "and admit that there were extenuating circumstances."

*CHAPTER XXX.*

*THE TANGLED WEB.*

The girl's lids had drooped again, hiding the expression in her eyes, while the rest of her face told Barry nothing. He was just beginning to wonder whether she was very angry, when suddenly she threw back her head, and her lips parted in a peal of low laughter.

"Of course there were!" she exclaimed. "How absurd you are to take it so seriously, Mr. Lawrence! If I'd been in your place, I should have hated a girl I thought had played me such a trick. I think you're very nice, indeed, not to have thought worse things about me than you did, and I really haven't anything to forgive."

"You're sure of that?" he asked eagerly, his face glowing.

"Perfectly! And now that's over," she went on briskly, "don't you want to hear my fairy tale?"

"You bet I do!" he asserted, with more force than elegance. "I've been eaten up with curiosity ever since your letter came. It sounded as wildly impossible as an Arabian Night."