Chapter V: Part 5

She laughed. "It was--it is yet. I'm really not quite certain that it isn't all a wonderfully vivid dream; though, as I wrote you, the clothes do seem awfully convincing. You know, a person never by any chance dreams the sort of dresses one would like to have. They're always utterly impossible."

She clasped one knee with both hands in a boyish way, and fixed her dancing eyes upon his face.

"I was a little frightened when I said good-by that night," she began. "So many horrid things had happened that I wasn't even sure of Mrs. Weston, or Sally, or anything. I rang the bell, and the door was opened so suddenly that I jumped."

"I wondered at the time how any one could get up from the basement so quickly," Lawrence commented interestedly.

"You waited?" she questioned. "That was good of you. Well, Mrs. Weston was already in the hall with a lady who seemed on the point of going out. I didn't pay much attention to her except to notice that she was beautifully gowned and had quantities of wonderful jewels. You see, I wanted to find out whether Sally was still in the house, so I turned directly to Mrs. Weston, and started to ask her. I'd spoken scarcely half a dozen words before the other woman caught me by the arm and drew me over to the light. If she hadn't stared at me so strangely, I suppose I'd have wondered what in the world she was doing in such a place; for her pearls were really extraordinary, and the house--well, you know there was nothing especially high class about it. But she just stared and stared in the oddest way imaginable; then suddenly she cried out: 'Who are you, child?'

"The queer way she snapped out the words--it reminded me of bullets shot out of a gun--almost took my breath away; but I managed to tell her my name. It was fortunate she still held my arm; otherwise I'm sure I should have collapsed in sheer astonishment.

"'I knew it!' she exclaimed, in that extraordinary choppy manner. 'I knew it the minute I set eyes on you. I'm your aunt.'"

"Your aunt!" gasped Barry.

"Yes, my aunt. Fancy! Whenever I think of it now I laugh. It was really screamingly funny, you know, to be told by a perfect stranger, who looks rather like a drum major, that she's an aunt you have never heard of. I didn't laugh then, though. I thought she was crazy, and was wondering how in the world I should get away from her, when all at once I remembered that mother did have a sister very much older than herself who had lived abroad almost all her life. She was eccentric to begin with, and married unhappily; and finally, when mother was engaged, she was terribly opposed to it; and the result was a quarrel which kept them apart all the rest of their lives. All this went through my mind like a flash; and I was so taken back that I could only stammer: 'You're--not--Aunt Beverly?'

"'Of course I am!' she snapped back. 'What other aunts have you got, I'd like to know?'

"And then she began to ask me questions as fast as she could talk. She wanted to know what I was doing in New York, why I was wearing such dreadful clothes, how I dared be out on the streets alone at such an hour, and a dozen other things. I suppose you'll think I'm hateful, Mr. Lawrence, but all at once I felt perfectly furious that she should have all those wonderful diamonds and pearls and lovely clothes, and probably quantities of money, while I hadn't even a coat to wear. And so I told her everything she wanted to know, without mincing matters in the least; and for once she had nothing to say.

"She dropped the gold bag she was carrying; and, though she was quick enough in bending over for it, she was a long time straightening up again; and, when at last she did speak, there was something in her voice which hadn't been there before.

"'Come, my dear,' she said quietly. 'It's time we were starting home.'

"The things which happened after that were much more like a dream than any real dream I ever had. She called Mrs. Weston Janet when she said good night; and, when we went out, there was a private brougham waiting in the street, exactly as if it had been conjured up by a magic wand. There was no carriage in sight when we came through the street, was there?"

Barry shook his head. "No, but one passed me near Eighth Avenue," he answered, struck by a sudden recollection.

"Really? That must have been it, then. Well, we came here, and I've been in this miraculous walking dream ever since. At breakfast next morning, Aunt Beverly announced, in that gruff way of hers, that she intended to adopt me. She said she was a sour old woman who for years had tried to be happy by spending her money on herself alone. She hadn't been happy, so now she was going to see if making other people happy would be any different. It seems that Mrs. Weston was an old friend whose husband died leaving her nothing but debts; and Aunt Beverly's visit there last night was to do something for her. That's all, I think. Of course, there are surprises every minute, for Aunt Beverly is incredibly wealthy, and seems to delight in making my eyes pop out. There doesn't seem to be anything one can wish for that she doesn't conjure up in a minute or two."

She paused, her deep, wonderful eyes fixed intently on Barry's face.

"Isn't it amazing?" she queried. "Have you ever known anything quite so strange in all your life?"

"Never!" agreed Lawrence. "It's simply corking! And I can't tell you, Miss Rives, how glad I am. Beside your experiences, my little strike of luck shrinks into nothingness."

"But yours was the first," the girl replied, with an odd earnestness. "Yours was the turn of destiny's wheel which started all the other mechanism into motion. But for you, I should be--well, I don't know where." She made an expressive gesture with her hands. "I shudder whenever I think of it."

"You mustn't think of it, then," said Barry. "The future holds too many pleasant things for you to waste time upon the past."

"Controlling one's thoughts is not so easy as you seem to imagine," Shirley retorted, glancing out of the window toward the snowy stretch of park across the avenue. "Besides, I am not at all sure that I wish to forget the past--at least, all of it."

Barry felt the blood rising into his face. What did she mean by that, or did she mean anything? His hands closed tightly over the arms of the carved chair, and, by a great effort, he restrained the impulse to speak.

"Aunt Beverly is really splendid, and I'm becoming fonder of her every day," the girl went on, turning back. "At first I was a little afraid of her, until I found out that her brusque, snappy manner was only an affectation to hide what she really thinks and feels. I want you to know her, for I'm sure you'll like each other. You'll stay to luncheon, won't you?"

"I should be delighted," Barry returned impulsively, then bit his lips as he remembered. "But, unfortunately, I've an engagement," he went on after that momentary pause. "I hope you'll let me call soon again, though, when she is at home. I haven't heard what the rest of her name is yet."

"How stupid of me! She's Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding. Her husband has been dead about ten years, I believe, and this house and----"

But Lawrence heard no more. At the mention of that name, the smile seemed to freeze upon his lips, and something like a red-hot iron seared through his brain.

Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding! The eccentric widow of the traction magnate, who was said to be one of the five wealthiest women in New York! This accounted for the imposing house crammed with priceless works of art. This accounted for that sudden taking home of her niece and loading the girl with costly clothes and more costly jewels. It was more than likely that she would carry out her plan of adopting Shirley; it was just the sort of thing she would delight in doing. But stranger than anything else was the incredible fact that the girl should be ignorant of a name which was famous in New York.

With a tremendous effort Lawrence managed to pull himself together and nod understandingly as Miss Rives finished.

"That's very interesting," he said inanely. "But--er--had you never heard anything about this aunt before you saw her?"

"Almost nothing," she confessed. "She quarreled with father, you know, and he wouldn't allow her name to be mentioned in his presence. I suppose it got to be a sort of habit about the place; and, by the time I was old enough to take notice, the others had stopped talking about her, even when they were alone."

With a brain which seemed heavy and dead, Barry tried to carry on his part of the conversation naturally and lightly; but presently the effort became more than flesh and blood could stand, and he rose to take his leave.

"You'll come soon when Aunt Beverly is here?" Shirley questioned as she held out her hand. "I want very much to have you meet her."

Barry's fingers closed around hers, and he smiled naturally, heroically.

"Of course," he returned quickly. "I should be delighted to come any time you want me. You can call me at the St. Albans, and, if I'm not there, leave your number with the clerk, and I'll get your message when I come in."

"That's splendid," she said. "I'll call very soon. Good-by, and thank you for the flowers."

With head high, Lawrence stepped through the doorway and let the velvet hangings fall into place behind him. But in the tapestry-lined hall he stumbled blindly, then, spurred by the presence of the footman, pulled himself together, and entered the elevator.

When at last he had donned his things and issued forth into the street, he turned instinctively southward without the slightest idea where he was going, and without a single backward glance at the upper window where a graceful, girlish form stood half revealed against a background of old rose damask.

His face was set and rather pale; his gray eyes showed dumbly a little of the despair which filled his soul at the presence of this tremendous, insurmountable barrier which had suddenly reared itself between him and the girl--he loved.

*CHAPTER XXXI.*

*DESPAIR.*

As Barry walked down the avenue, aimless and unseeing, he thought of many things; but the one which loomed up biggest was the colossal fortune controlled by Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding. It seemed to hang over him like some awful monster, hovering in the air ready to fall and crush him. It filled Lawrence with despair. He disliked the woman he had never seen because of her money, because she was Shirley's aunt, and, lastly and most intensely, because she had taken it upon herself to cast the mantle of her wealth and position around the girl she had neglected and ignored for so many years.

Barry realized perfectly the selfishness of this point of view; but he could not help it. If only Mrs. Wilmerding had kept out of it things would have come right somehow. At least, there would have been left him the feeling that he and Shirley Rives were on equal terms. He would still have had the delight of knowing that there were many things he could do to help the girl, instead of having her transported to a plane so infinitely above him, and so inaccessible.

Bitterly he contrasted the untold millions belonging to this new-found relative of hers with his own miserable pittance. His very name was tarnished, though through no fault of his; and it would be utterly impossible for him ever to harbor again the thoughts and hopes which had possessed him during the early part of his call.

Barry's abstraction was so great that he quite failed to notice the taxi which moved slowly out of a side street and trailed along the avenue about half a block behind. He walked straight on until, at length, happening to glance up, the looming front of the St. Regis reminded him of the terms of his bargain; and he promptly entered, though he did not feel at all like eating.

He had scarcely disappeared before the taxi drew up beside the curb, and a slim, dark fellow, immaculately dressed, stepped out. He paused by the open door, talking in an undertone with a man who remained inside; a man with broad, thick shoulders, a round, full face, and a Vandyke beard slightly tinged with gray.

For perhaps a minute they conversed in low tones. Then the door was slammed, and the taxi whirled on down the avenue, while the slim, dapper individual made his way promptly into the St. Regis, languidly surveyed the dining room from the doorway, and presently took his seat at a table just back of Lawrence.

The latter finished a very simple luncheon without so much as turning round, then made his way to the telephone operator. There was some delay in getting Hamersley's office; but, when the connection was made at last, he stepped into the booth, quite oblivious to the fact that the tall, dark fellow occupied the next one.

As Barry had half expected, Jock was out, so he left word for the Yale man to meet him at the Knickerbocker at five if he possibly could, and sauntered out of the hotel.

Listlessly he turned downtown, wondering what under the sun men of leisure did with their time. Somehow, the glamour which had enveloped him for the past few days was beginning to wear away. Once more he was desperately tired of doing nothing but lunch and dine and evade detectives. He wondered pettishly whether the man in black had been captured yet and taken back to his asylum, for it seemed impossible that any sane person could have acted in such an extraordinary manner. There were the detectives, to be sure; but perhaps they were all of a piece with the rest of the bewildering jumble. There seemed to be no reason or sense to what anybody did. They were probably all mad.

Lawrence was, in short, at odds with himself and the world. He would have given a lot to come face to face with some one he could sail into and pummel with all his might. It would be such a relief now to run into that smart Alec who had decoyed him to the house on Twenty-fourth Street last night.

Happily the mood did not long continue. An hour's brisk, almost feverish, walking brought with it a more sane outlook on life. When Barry strayed into a cafe on Times Square about half past three, more for lack of any other method of passing the time than from any real desire for refreshment, he had quite recovered his poise.

He was making for a little table in the corner, when suddenly a hand clutched his coat and a vaguely familiar voice sounded in his ear.

"I say, Oscar, sit down here, unless you're too bally proud to be seen with me."

It was the Englishman who had puzzled him so at the dance at Sherry's, and for an instant Barry frowned. Then, struck by a sudden impulse, he smiled and dropped down in a chair opposite the other. The fellow didn't look like a bad sort, and he was sorely enough in need of diversion.

"Why should I be ashamed to be seen with you?" he asked lightly. "Where did you ever get that idea?"

The tall man's blue eyes widened. "Where'd I get it?" he echoed, in surprise. "Why, at that blooming dance, to be sure. You wouldn't speak to me then, old chap."

Lawrence tapped the bell.

"I beg your pardon, then," he said. "I was worried, and not really myself. What'll you have?"

When the waiter had taken their orders and departed, the Englishman screwed his monocle into his eye and sat regarding his companion for a minute in silence.

"Jolly glad of that," he said solemnly, at length. "Didn't seem like you to throw an old friend down. I couldn't understand it. Sure you weren't thinking of the bally rotten way I was forced to leave Cambridge, old chap?"

"Positive," Lawrence returned promptly. "I'd forgotten all about it." He hesitated an instant, and then went on at random: "Of course, that wasn't your fault, you know."

"Should say not!" The Englishman's tone was indignant; and Barry suddenly had a suspicion that, if the fellow had not taken too much already, the limit was not far off. While his enunciation was perfect, there was an expression about his eyes which was unmistakable.

"Should say not!" the other repeated. "You know jolly well John Brandon would never disgrace the old name. A plot against me--a beastly plot; that's what it was!"

He took a long drink, and sat staring oddly at Lawrence.

"Say, Oscar," he burst out abruptly, "you must have been in the States a bally while, by Jove!"

"I have," Barry smiled. "How did you guess it?"

"You talk just like these blooming Yankees; 'pon my soul, you do! I've been listening for that bit of an accent you used to have, old chap; and I give you my word, it's gone--you've lost it. Funny thing; eh, what?"

For a second Barry sat silent, his interest thoroughly aroused. Was it possible that he was on the point of finding the key to the enigma which had so puzzled him.

"Accent!" he repeated the next moment. "Did my accent used to be so bad?"

Brandon laughed.

"Not bad," he chuckled. "Just enough to notice now and then. By Jove! Have you forgotten how we always said you'd be taken for a foreigner sooner or later? You wouldn't now, old chap. Give you my word, I'd think you were a blooming Yankee if I didn't know you so well."

*CHAPTER XXXII.*

*AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW.*

It was at least three-quarters of an hour later when Lawrence left the hotel and walked slowly toward Forty-second Street. He was puzzled, perplexed, and rather piqued; for, in spite of all his efforts, he had been unable to extract from the Englishman a single additional fact which would help him solve the problem which vexed him.

Brandon evidently took him for some one else, and the resemblance must have been astonishingly great; for it was evident that the Briton had spent a year, if not more, with Barry's double at Cambridge.

It was the famous English university, of course, and not the equally well-known Massachusetts college. Lawrence had realized that very early in the talk; but, in spite of his repeated efforts, he had been unable to elicit a single additional particular concerning his double, save the fact that Oscar Nordstrom had evidently spent some years as a student in England. While Brandon had plainly been on the most friendly terms with Nordstrom, he seemed curiously ignorant regarding the man's antecedents.

"It's a queer thing from beginning to end," he murmured as he pushed through the whirling doors of the Knickerbocker. "I wish I could find out who I'm supposed to be. I'll wager anything that this would solve the whole mystery."

For a moment he stood in the lobby glancing mechanically around. It was much too early to expect Jock, and he had just made up his mind to pass the time comfortably in the smoking room, when suddenly his eyes strayed to the face of a woman moving slowly and gracefully toward him from the elevator. She was tall and slim and very blond; and there was something about her attractive face which touched a chord in Barry's memory. Somehow the sight of her seemed to bring with it visions of a smooth, sandy beach, with the ocean stretching out beyond it, of merry sailing parties and clambakes, of drives and automobile excursions, and a host of other summer pleasures.

"Southampton, of course," he muttered. "But what the mischief is her name?"

The next instant their eyes met, and he saw that the recognition was mutual. She gave a sudden start, and stood for a second staring incredulously at him, a wave of color flaming into her face. Then, as he moved forward, she seemed to recover herself, and came slowly to meet him.

"How do you do?" she said, in a low, soft voice, which had in it an odd note which Barry could not quite fathom. "This is a very, very great surprise."

Hat in hand, Lawrence clasped the slender fingers she extended to him, and smiled. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered her.

"Isn't it?" he agreed pleasantly. "But here in New York one is constantly having surprises like this."

She raised her eyebrows a trifle. "Surely not quite--like this," she murmured.

He laughed, racking his brain desperately for the forgotten name. "No, of course I didn't mean just that," he returned. "This is an exception."

He hesitated a second, wondering if she would help him out; but she made no effort to speak. Leaning against the back of one of the crimson velvet chairs, she seemed content simply to look at him.

"Do you know," Lawrence exclaimed, forced to say something, "that when I saw you, my mind went back instantly to that wonderful, smooth beach, with the cloudless blue sky above and the waves dashing up almost to where we sat on the sand."

She smiled faintly. "I thought of that, too," she murmured; "but I saw it all in the moonlight. With that flood of silver dancing on the water, making everything almost as bright as day, except where the shadows of the trees behind were denser than ever."

Lawrence did not remember any trees near the Southampton beach; but, supposing this to be a sort of poetic license, he nodded agreement.

"It was a wonderful summer," he added. "Somehow it doesn't seem possible that three years have passed since then."

A low, silvery laugh issued from her lips, and she tapped him lightly on the arm.

"Always the same flatterer," she said softly. Suddenly her face grew pensive. "Does it really seem that long to you? I've often wondered. Men have so many things to occupy them--especially such men as you. A woman has only her remembrances to treasure zealously, and bring out now and then to gloat over. And memories are rather barren things sometimes."

For an instant Lawrence stood aghast. What did she mean? Certainly he could recall nothing of a tender nature having passed between them, and her words were decidedly significant. He pulled himself together with an effort; but, before he could speak, she broke the silence.

"Your voice puzzles me," she said abruptly. "It doesn't seem possible that you can have been long enough in America to have lost every trace of accent. Of course, it was never very noticeable; but one who knew you well could always tell."

Barry's jaw dropped, and his face took on an expression of utter astonishment. His accent--again! What in the world did it mean? Was it possible that she was taking him for----

"You were talking about that summer at Southampton, of course?" he managed to ask in an odd voice.

"Southampton?" she exclaimed, her eyes fixed intently on his face. "I don't understand. You don't mean that you've forgotten--Cannes?"

Lawrence stood as one in a trance. "Cannes!" he muttered hoarsely, wondering whether his brain was giving way. "I have never been in Cannes in all my life." Then, as the belated memory came to him at last, he gasped out: "Aren't you Miss Vera Pell?"

The woman's face turned white, and one slim, gloved hand stole upward to her lips. Her eyes, wide, almost black with the emotion which was rending her, were fixed on his face with a look of absolute bewilderment.

"Are you jesting?" she managed to gasp at last. "You know that I am Mrs. Walbridge Gordon. You could never forget--it is impossible."

As Barry did not answer, a look of utter horror flashed into her face. She swayed a little, and put out one hand to steady herself.

"Who--are--you?" she asked, in a low, trembling voice. Then swiftly she laughed an uneven, hysterical sort of laugh. "You are jesting with me. It is impossible that there should be two men so absolutely alike on earth. You must be----"

She broke off abruptly, and her eyes flashed past Barry's shoulder to the door. The next instant a spasm of fear ripped swiftly across her face, and her white teeth came together over her lips with a cruel force which brought forth a tiny fleck of blood to glisten there.

"Go!" she whispered in a harsh voice. "My husband is coming. He must not see you here."

"But--who?" Lawrence managed to mutter.

"Go, I tell you--quickly!" she repeated. She was trembling violently; and that look of fear had come back into her face to stay. "You must--for my sake."

Without a moment's hesitation Barry obeyed, slipping around a big pillar. With his back squarely toward the entrance, he passed quietly and easily through the crowd toward the telephones in the narrow passage behind the desk.

His brain was in a seething turmoil; but overtopping every other emotion was anger at the man who had arrived so inopportunely. If he could only have delayed a single, brief minute longer, the name trembling on the woman's lips would have been uttered, and Lawrence would have possessed at last the key to the mystery which was driving him almost frantic.

Who was he supposed to be? Who was the man he so resembled? Why had he been given a thousand dollars to pass himself off for this unknown for a single week?

These and a dozen other questions passed swiftly through Barry's brain as he perfunctorily fumbled the leaves of the telephone book to give some excuse for lingering there.

What did it all mean? Was he ever to know?

*CHAPTER XXXIII.*

*GONE!*

Lawrence presently closed the book and ventured back into the lobby. A swift survey of the place told him that Mrs. Walbridge Gordon was no longer there; so he made his way to the cafe and settled down in one corner to wait for Hamersley.

He rather wished he did not have to talk to Jock just then. It would be a difficult matter at any time to explain what had happened to him the night before without breaking the pledge of secrecy he had made to the little man in black. Besides, at the present moment his mind was so full of the extraordinary experience he had just been through, and its probable relation to the mystery which surrounded him, that there was little room for anything else.

Nevertheless, when the big bulk of the Yale man loomed up before him, and that booming voice resounded in his ears, Barry was glad, after all, that he had come. When one is perplexed and muddled and utterly at sea, there is nothing like a good friend whose discretion can be trusted and whose interest and sympathy is assured, even if he lacks the cleverness to suggest a solution of the difficulty.

The result was that Lawrence hailed Hamersley with pleasure, silenced the upbraiding tirade Jock started, and began to pour into his ears an account of the extraordinary things which had been happening for the past few days. He made no mention of Shirley Rives, and he refrained from saying anything about the man in black, the conditions the latter had imposed, or the money which had changed hands. He simply told his friend that he had undertaken certain trivial matters concerning which he was sworn to secrecy. What had occurred after that strange interview in the Pennsylvania Station, including mention of the Englishman and an account of his interview with Mrs. Walbridge Gordon, he had no hesitation in narrating; and, when the story was finished, the big fellow's eyes were starting out of his head.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, leaning back in his chair and staring at Lawrence. "If I didn't know you better, old boy, I'd say you'd been hitting the pipe. Shadowed, kidnaped, mistaken for another man, and---- Say! Did you find out what that woman's name was?"

"I did; but it wouldn't be quite right to mention it, would it? I only brought her in because it bore on the case."

"Hum! I suppose you're right. Awkward fix for a woman to be in, ain't it? I reckon she and this double of yours must have known each other pretty well."

"I judged so," Barry returned grimly. "Do you know, Jock, I made the mistake of my life in giving that detective the slip. If I'd only stayed quietly there in that empty house until his employers showed up, there isn't a doubt in my mind that by this time I'd be wise to the whole shooting match."

Hamersley nodded. "No doubt," he agreed. "Still, a fellow can't always plan so far ahead. When a thug holds you up with a gun and carries you off that way, the natural thing is to go him one better, and make a sneak. Jove! I wish I'd been along. That chase over the roofs must have been some time, all right."

"It wasn't quite so entertaining while it was happening," Barry said. "You could have taken my place, and welcome, if you'd been around."

"Why don't you turn the tables on this gang of snoopers?" inquired Hamersley suddenly.

Barry started slightly. "You mean that----"

"Turn around and follow them. Get after that duck with the beard. Strikes me he's the head one of the push. Get him in a corner and make him come over with the information. Two can play at the game, can't they?"

"By Jove!" Lawrence exclaimed jubilantly. "I believe you're right, Jock. That's a whopping good idea of yours, old fellow!"

"Didn't expect anything but good ones from me, I hope?" Hamersley returned. "That's my specialty, you know."

Filled with enthusiasm over the notion, they made haste to leave the hotel. There seemed no time like the present for starting in, so they leisurely paused on the sidewalk to give any spies who were about ample opportunity to get on the job; then, turning eastward, sauntered along the south side of Forty-second Street.

Unfortunately, the scheme did not seem to pan out as they expected. Though they kept the sharpest sort of a lookout around them, suddenly turning to glance into shop windows, whirling about as if to retrace their steps, and taking the most roundabout route possible to the Yale Club, not a suspicious pedestrian or taxi did they see.

"Too big a crowd, I reckon," Hamersley sighed as they paused before the building on Forty-fourth Street. "We'd better take dinner here and start out afterward when the streets aren't so full."

"I can't dine with you, Jock," Barry said regretfully. "I've got a date."

"Part of the game you couldn't tell me about, I'll bet," the Yale man returned shrewdly. "Well, meet me here at eight, then."

Having left his friend, Lawrence returned at once to the St. Albans. As he took his key, the clerk handed him a letter, the precise, old-fashioned handwriting of which he recognized with a quick thrill.

"Wonder what the old geezer has to say now," he said to himself as he sailed up in the elevator. "If he's thought up any more conditions, I'll balk, hanged if I won't."

There were none, however. The letter contained five one-hundred-dollar bills and a few lines of symmetrical writing on a single sheet of note paper:

You are doing admirably. Keep on as you have begun, and use the inclosed in case your expense money does not hold out.

Barry scratched his head, and sat staring at the note.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. "Don't want me to do anything but spend money. It's the weirdest thing I ever ran across, sure. What in creation does it mean? What does he get out of it? If I only----"

The room telephone tinkled imperatively; and, cramming money and letter into his pocket, Lawrence sprang up and took down the receiver.

"Hello!" came in a woman's voice. "Is this Mr. Lawrence--Mr. Barry Lawrence?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Hold the wire, please. Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding wishes to speak to you."

In the brief pause which followed, Barry stood there the picture of amazement. What in the world could Mrs. Wilmerding want with him? He did not know her--had never seen her. She was not the sort of woman to give her personal attention to such trivial matters as an invitation to call or to take dinner, anyway. Was it possible that anything had happened to----

"Mr. Lawrence!"

The name came snapping over the wires with the force of a pistol shot, and made Barry jump.

"Yes!" he gasped. "This is Mr. Lawrence."

"Get a taxi and come to my house at once. Do you understand?"

Barry flushed a little at the peremptory tone, coming as it did from a woman he fancied he disliked so greatly.

"But I am just dressing for dinner," he expostulated, trying with not much success to make his tone cool and dignified.

"Dinner!" snapped the voice. "What's that to me? Go without your dinner, as I shall. My niece is gone!"

Lawrence felt an odd pounding in his head which made him certain that he could not have caught her meaning.

"Gone?" he repeated dazedly. "Where?"

"Don't be a fool! Should I be doing this if I knew? She went out after lunch and hasn't returned. A letter was just delivered which---- But we're wasting time. Are you coming?"

"Yes. At once. I'll be there in five minutes."

There was no response save a sharp click, and Barry turned from the instrument, his face ghastly. Shirley gone--disappeared! For a second he stood there, his lips moving. Then, with an exclamation of fury, he snatched hat and coat, tore open the door, and ran down the hall toward the elevator.

*CHAPTER XXXIV.*

*THE PUZZLE GROWS.*

It seemed an eternity to Barry Lawrence before the taxi finally swerved in toward the curb and stopped with a grinding jar before the marble-fronted house facing the park. He was on the sidewalk in an instant, and, telling the man to wait, ran up the curving steps to the ornate doorway.

Evidently the footman was on the watch, for the door swung open before Barry had even time to press the bell, and, without a word, the servant took the visitor's coat and hat and led the way at once toward the elevator.

The long drawing-room was filled with a soft radiance from shaded lamps and ornate electric globes cunningly hidden in the heavy, carved cornice; and the amazing richness of its furnishing showed now to even better advantage than it had that morning.

But Lawrence was not thinking of furnishings. As he stepped through the wide doorway his eyes sought at once the single figure the great room contained--the figure of a woman of middle age, richly dressed and wearing many jewels, who had been pacing back and forth the length of the apartment, but who stopped abruptly as the man entered, and turned swiftly toward him. She was tall, a bit angular, sharp in her movements, and the wildest stretching of the imagination could not have conceived her handsome. But there was something about the way she carried her head, and an expression in the rather rugged face, which gave one an impression of bigness, mental and moral. Such a woman might be brusque and sharp and domineering; she could never be unjust or petty.

Barry took a few quick steps forward, and paused, a little embarrassed by the way those keen, dark eyes were fixed upon his face, as if searching the very depths of his soul. A faint touch of color came into his cheeks; but his eyes never wavered, and he held his head high. Presently, as the odd silence began to seem intolerable, his lips parted, as if he meant to speak, only to close again without a sound issuing. When at last the silence was broken, it was the woman who spoke.

"So you are Barry Lawrence," she said abruptly, with an oddly puzzled undercurrent in her voice.

He bowed.

"Humph!" she commented. "Read that!"

As she thrust her hand toward him, Barry saw that a letter was crumpled between her fingers. Without a word, he took it eagerly and twitched it open. It was written in a simple, running hand without any special characteristics, and was unsigned:

DEAR MADAM: This is to let you know that your niece is all right as long as you keep quiet and don't interfere. Very likely you think that money and position can do everything, but in this case you're wrong.

Nothing is going to happen to the girl unless you go running to the police; but if you do, you won't be a bit better off, and there'll only be a big scandal raised which will do irreparable harm to her and her husband.

This is just a tip to keep quiet and let things run their natural course unless you want to do a lot of harm to all concerned.

Lawrence scarcely took in the meaning of the second paragraph. His brain was reeling. Her husband! He could not believe that he had read aright, and dazedly his eyes sought the paragraph and tried to focus themselves upon the amazing, impossible, dastardly words.

Before he could do so, however, an impatient movement came from the woman beside him, and her voice broke the stillness.

"Well?" she snapped. "Are you her husband?"

Barry flung back his head and stared at her with blazing eyes.

"No!" he replied sharply. "No, I'm not! I'd give anything under heaven if there could ever be a chance for me to be."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he realized, with a pang of dismay, that he had been stung into saying something he never meant to say. All day he had been telling himself over and over again that no word concerning his feelings for Shirley Rives should ever pass his lips, yet now he had blurted it out like a blundering fool. The color flamed into his face, and his lids drooped before the curious expression in Mrs. Wilmerding's eyes.

"Indeed!" she said tersely. "And may I ask why you think there isn't?"

Lawrence stared at her in astonishment. Then he pulled himself together and glanced again at the crumpled letter.

"If this is true----" he began.

But Mrs. Wilmerding cut him short with a most emphatic snort.

"Fiddlesticks!" she snapped. "You don't believe that, I hope? Haven't you any faith at all in Shirley? It's all a lie from beginning to end."

"But what----"

"I don't know," she broke in, frowning. "I don't understand it yet, but I know it's a lie."

Barry's spirits began to rise. There was something about her tone of positiveness which heartened him instinctively. He had not really doubted Shirley; but the statement of the unknown writer was so nonchalant and matter-of-fact that it bewildered him.

"Still," he remarked more calmly, "you asked me----"

"I had my reasons; but it wasn't because I thought it true." She stood leaning against the side of a heavy, carved table, both hands resting lightly on the dull, waxed surface, her shrewd, bright eyes holding his in thrall. "What stands between you and Shirley?" she questioned quietly.

Lawrence threw out his hands in an impatient gesture. "Everything!" he exclaimed. "Her money and my lack of it are enough, without wasting time to go into any others."

"Her money!" Mrs. Wilmerding repeated. Then, with a sudden frown, she went on swiftly: "You're right. We are wasting time. Let us get down to business at once. Shirley must be found to-night, and yet I don't feel like putting the matter into the hands of the police."

"You don't believe there can be a particle of truth in this letter?" Barry questioned.

"Of course not. I told you it was a lie. At the same time, you must see that if the matter became public it might do my niece an irreparable amount of harm. No. We must work it out ourselves. To be strictly accurate, you must find her. Being a woman, I can't very well traipse around town without causing all sorts of talk. You won't fail me, I know."

"Fail you!" Lawrence cried. "I should say not! I won't rest or sleep until Miss Rives is found. I'll rake the city with a fine-tooth comb, and if any harm has come to her----"

He broke off abruptly, his face hard, almost cruel, his eyes narrowed. The momentary silence which followed was more expressive than many words.

*CHAPTER XXXV.*

*THE ASTONISHING MRS. WILMERDING.*

Mrs. Wilmerding looked at him with an odd touch of wistfulness in her gaze. Then she sighed a little. "Youth is a very wonderful thing," she murmured. "I shouldn't make such a vow as that, though. You might have to break it. Have you thought of any plan?"

"Not yet. I only know I'll find her in some way. You must tell me everything you know quickly. We haven't any time to lose. When did she go out?"

"A little after three. She said she was going to call on a girl friend she met at the dance--a Miss Jennings."

"And did she?"

"Yes. When I reached home, about half past five, and did not find her here, my secretary called up the Jennings house on Fifty-seventh Street, and found that Shirley had left there an hour before. Even then there was nothing to worry about. She might easily have gone shopping. But when another hour had passed I began to be troubled. At twenty minutes to seven this letter was delivered at the door."

"Delivered!" Barry exclaimed. "Did the man notice by whom?"

"An ordinary messenger boy in uniform."

Barry's eyes sparkled. "By Jove!" he burst out. "You're sure there isn't any mistake about that?"

"Perfectly. Naturally, I asked Pagdon about it instantly. Unfortunately, he did not notice the boy's number; but there was no mistaking the uniform."

"May I have a telephone book?" Lawrence asked abruptly. "It may take a little time, but there won't be any real difficulty in running the boy down."

Mrs. Wilmerding stepped over to the fireplace and pressed a button concealed in the carving. Almost instantly the velvet hangings were parted, and the footman stood in the doorway.

"Bring a New York telephone directory, Pagdon," Mrs. Wilmerding directed tersely; "and then tell Miss Winters I wish to see her at once. My secretary can do the telephoning as well as you," she went on, turning to Lawrence. "It will give you time for a bite of dinner, which you might not otherwise have."

Barry protested that he wanted nothing to eat; but his hostess insisted, and, to avoid actual rudeness, he was finally obliged to give in. The instant the directory was brought, he turned hastily to the list of American District Telegraph offices, and discovered that there were almost fifty in Manhattan and the Bronx alone. A number of them could be eliminated, however, and that he proceeded to do, jotting down the phone numbers of the most likely ones on a sheet of note paper. He had just finished the list, when the secretary, a trim, capable-looking girl of twenty-six or so, entered the room.

Having acknowledged the introduction, Lawrence explained what he wanted.

"We must find out which of these offices handled the letter that was delivered to Mrs. Wilmerding about half past six," he said hurriedly. "Will you please call them up, Miss Winters, beginning with the numbers I've jotted down here? If you fail to locate the right one, take the rest of the numbers from the book. The instant you succeed, tell the manager to hold the boy until I can get down, and kindly let me know at once."

The secretary nodded, and, gathering up list and book, was leaving the room when Barry had a sudden idea.

"Before you do anything else," he said quickly, "will you please call the Yale Club and get Mr. Jacob Hamersley, junior? Tell him that I'm delayed, but that it's most important he should wait at the club until I can get down there."

The girl nodded understandingly, and disappeared into the hall; while Lawrence followed his hostess through some wide doors at the farther end of the drawing-room into a library lined with books and as bewilderingly rich in its furnishings as the rest of the house.

At one end was a fireplace with a carved oak mantel and paneling black with age, which looked as if it had been transported from some old English country house--as it probably had. A fire of logs blazed and twinkled there; and drawn up before it was a small round table, set for two. Evidently Mrs. Wilmerding had not been idle while Barry was busy with the telephone book.

"I had it brought here because it is nearer the telephone," she explained as Lawrence drew out her chair. "It is only the simplest sort of a supper."

It proved to be extremely satisfactory, for all that. The butler and a footman who served the dishes seemed to realize the necessity for haste, and there was not a second's delay. Consequently, in an incredibly short space of time the meal was over, and they returned to the drawing-room a moment or two before Miss Winters reappeared.

"The office is on Broadway, between Thirteenth and Fourteenth," she said quietly. "The boy had not been sent out again, and the manager will hold him there until you get down."

Lawrence sprang to his feet. "Good!" he exclaimed. "And Hamersley?"

"He had left the club a moment or two before I called. He left word, however, that he would be back within half an hour."

Barry turned to Mrs. Wilmerding. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I thought my friend might help, but I can pick him up afterward if it's necessary."

"You might call the club again, Miss Winters," the older woman suggested, "and have them request Mr. Hamersley not to leave until he hears from Mr. Lawrence."

When the secretary had departed, she glanced swiftly back to Barry.

"You have enough money?" she asked.

"Plenty."

"Then hurry. Be sure and keep me informed of what you are doing when it's possible. I trust you to find her to-night."

She held out her hand, and Lawrence took it quickly. For an instant they stood looking into one another's eyes; then the woman threw back her head.

"You love my niece," she said rapidly. "You think there are insurmountable barriers between you. I tell you this, Barry Lawrence: The moment you bring Shirley back to me those barriers shall cease to exist. You understand? It shall be as if they had never been."

A flood of bright crimson leaped into Barry's face, and he stared at her, unable to credit his senses.

"But that will be--impossible!" he gasped. "I'm almost a--pauper! I have no position; my very name is--tarnished."

"Humph!" she exclaimed incredulously. "Tarnished through some fault of yours?"

"N-o; but everybody thinks----"

Her teeth came together with a click; her eyes were flashing. "Bah!" she retorted impatiently. "Do you suppose for a minute that I care what everybody thinks? I trust my own judgment, and it has never failed. If a man is clean and straight and decent, money isn't worth that!" She snapped her fingers. "I have more of it than I know what to do with. You understand? Well, go, then--and remember what I've said."

*CHAPTER XXXVI.*

*TAKING UP THE TRAIL.*

Dazed, bewildered, his mind in a turmoil of mingled joy and acute anxiety, Lawrence hastened down the steps of Mrs. Wilmerding's house and across the sidewalk to the waiting taxi.

"No. 854 Broadway, and go like the deuce!" he cried out as he leaped inside.

The door slammed behind him and the machine leaped forward like a thing alive. Straight down the wide avenue it flew, past marble palaces gleaming with lights, past the park entrance with its guarding statue of golden bronze, past great hotels whose tiers of twinkling windows seemed almost to touch the stars, past shadowy churches, glittering shop windows, and looming skyscrapers stealing slowly northward in that inexorable march of progress.

Sitting stiffly upright on the seat within, Lawrence saw nothing save those twin lines of opalescent globes which seemed to converge with such intolerable slowness until at last they came together miles and miles beyond. He knew that they would have to go almost to that point before nearing their destination, and he chafed impatiently at the slightest delay made necessary by traffic regulations.

Now that he had commenced the quest, he seemed to feel, even more strongly than before, the necessity for haste. While he was searching blindly for a clew, Shirley might be suffering all sorts of annoyances, humiliations, and fears. He ground his teeth and swore softly under his breath at the thought of his helplessness. He had started out with the quixotic belief that earnest effort, coupled with money, could accomplish anything; but slowly, as the car flew southward, a doubt began to creep into his mind.

What was he going to do if the messenger boy could tell him nothing? He had talked bravely enough about raking the city with a fine-tooth comb, but he knew that was an impossibility. The vastness of New York defied him, and made him feel suddenly as small and insignificant as a tiny insect. Without a clew, what possible chance had he to find a trace of the girl, whose captors would naturally be doing their best to baffle pursuit?

By the time the taxi had whirled through Thirteenth Street, and halfway up the block, Barry was well-nigh despairing. He pulled himself together with an effort, however, and hurried into the telegraph office.

There were telephone booths in the front, but he passed them with unseeing eyes and made straight for the desk beyond a railing, above which was painted, on a tin sign, the word, "Manager." A young fellow of about his own age occupied the revolving chair, and glanced up inquiringly as Barry stopped in front of him.

"My name is Lawrence," the latter explained swiftly. "I phoned down some twenty minutes ago asking you to hold the boy who delivered a letter to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding about half past six this evening. He hasn't been sent out, I hope."

"Nope! I only came on ten minutes ago, but the boss told me to keep Jimmy till you showed up. He's over there."

Lawrence followed the direction of his thumb, and saw a very diminutive youngster, with a pert, freckled face and fiery red hair, sitting nonchalantly on the end of the bench and eying the newcomer with undisguised curiosity.

"Want me to call him over?" continued the temporary manager. "Maybe I can help you get what you want out of him."

Barry shook his head. "If you don't mind, I'll just talk to him over there." He hesitated an instant and then went on, in an attempt to assuage the other's very evident curiosity: "The letter was unsigned, and Mrs. Wilmerding is very anxious to have a description of the person who sent it."

"Well, go ahead and see what you can do," replied the man at the desk. "Jimmy's a sharp little cuss, though, and if he's been paid to hold his tongue, you'll have a job getting anything out of him."

"I can try, anyhow," smiled Lawrence. "By the way, you have a record of where the call came from, I suppose?"

"Sure!" The young man reached across the littered desk and drew a slip of paper toward him. "I thought you might want to know, so I looked it up when I first came in. It was phoned in from the Merton House at six-five. Party by the name of Brown."

"Much obliged," Barry remarked thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can get out of the boy."

As he turned toward the youngster, he saw the latter's eyes drop and his heels begin to kick automatically against the rungs of the wooden bench.

"Just a little too careless to be natural," Barry reflected. "Looks to me as if you'd been well coached, my son."

The boy did not look at him squarely as Lawrence took his seat on the bench beside him; but the man caught a flashing glint from the blue eyes which told him that his young neighbor was on the alert.

For a second Barry sat silent. Then, turning suddenly toward the youngster, he said quietly:

"I'm in trouble, Jimmy, and I want you to help me."

*CHAPTER XXXVII.*

*TWO SHEETS OF PAPER.*

There was no reply in words, but the boy moved uneasily and twisted one foot around the bench leg.