Chapter VI: Part 6

"You went to the Merton House a little after six to-night," Lawrence went on, in the same low, even voice, "and got a letter there, which you took to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding on Fifth Avenue. Do you remember anything about the man who gave it to you?"

The boy squirmed a little, and seemed intent on poking a minute pebble into a crack in the floor.

"Nothin' special," he mumbled at last.

Barry laughed. "Oh, come now!" he returned. "You must remember what he looked like."

The youngster thrust both chapped and freckled hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, and scowled.

"Well," he muttered slowly, his eyes still on the floor, "he was sort o' short, an' fat, an'--an' had a--a squint in one eye. His hair was--light. That's all I know about him."

For a moment Barry sat regarding the small face screwed up into a fearsome scowl, noted the twitching eyebrows, and the clenched fists visible through the cloth of the blue trousers. Then he shook his head.

"I'm afraid, Jimmy," he murmured, "that your bump of observation isn't very well developed. Are you sure the man wasn't tall and slim and dark, and rather good looking?"

The red-headed youngster gasped, and, flinging back his head, met Lawrence's eyes squarely for the first time.

"How in blazes did you----" he stammered; and then broke off abruptly, a vivid flush staining his freckled face.

"I guessed," Barry returned quietly. "Look here, Jimmy," he went on, in a low, vibrant tone. "I'm going to tell you something which I haven't spoken of to a soul to-night. I'm doing this because I need your help--badly. A young girl is in trouble. She's been carried off by some men whom she's never harmed in any way, and I've got to get her back--I've simply got to! That fellow who gave you the letter at the Merton House is one of the gang. That's why I want to know what he looks like. That's why I'm sure you're going to tell me everything you can, for he's a scoundrel, Jimmy, nothing less; and no decent man would try to shield him once he knew how bad he was."

For the second time the boy looked straight into Barry's eyes. His face was still flushed, but there was upon it an expression of intense, overpowering interest.

"Is that straight, mister?" he demanded excitedly. Jimmy had always pined to be mixed up in some really big crime, but this was the nearest he had come to realizing his dream. "You ain't stringin' me?"

"I'm telling you the solemn truth," Lawrence returned seriously. "If the reporters got on to it, there'd be the biggest kind of excitement in the newspapers. She's the niece of Mrs. Wilmerding; one of the richest women in New York, you know."

The youngster's eyes were popping out by this time, but he still seemed to hesitate.

"He gimme a dollar," he explained doubtfully, "an' I promised----"

"I wouldn't worry about that," Lawrence interposed. "He had no right to make you promise to keep still about a crime."

"Then I'll tell you," the boy burst out impulsively; and, with a long breath, he plunged into a recital which Barry had no doubt was the truth this time.

He had been called to the desk at six-five, and told to report to Mr. George Brown in the lobby of the Merton House. On arriving, he had not even had to inquire at the desk for that person. A man had hurried up to him as he entered the door, and, drawing him to one side, handed him a sealed letter addressed to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding on Fifth Avenue. It must be delivered at once, the stranger said; then, when he had paid the boy and Jimmy was turning to leave, he produced a dollar bill, and told the messenger that, if any inquiries were made, he was not to tell anything. The man was tall and slim, with dark hair and eyes, and wore a silk hat. Jimmy pronounced him altogether a decided swell.

"He told me it was a joke, an' he didn't want the parties to get wise to him," the boy concluded; "but I kinda thought it was something different from that."

"It was--very different," Barry said thoughtfully. He was searching his memory for any possible recollection of such an individual, but in vain. "You're all to the good, Jimmy, and I can't tell you how much obliged I am. I'd like to give you----"

"I don't want nothin'," the youngster broke in decidedly. "You jest give my name right to the reporters, that's all."

"I will," Lawrence returned seriously, "if they get on to the case. What is it?"

"Donovan--James F. Donovan."

Barry noted it on a bit of paper with the inward determination to reward the boy in some way; then, after another word of thanks and a quick handshake, he sprang to his feet and made his way hastily to the door.

Three minutes later he was interviewing the telephone girl at the Merton House concerning the tall, slim man with the top hat who had called a certain number earlier in the evening.

The young woman remembered the incident perfectly, and was able to add one or two particulars which had escaped the messenger boy, but which only made certain Barry's impression that he had never set eyes on the unknown.

On his way out he scrutinized the hotel stationery, but without any real hope that it would prove identical with that on which the letter, was written.

In the doorway he paused undecided. The fact that the man had sent his message from the Merton House showed absolutely nothing. He might have come from a totally different part of town in order to divert suspicion and throw possible pursuers off the track. That would be a natural move, anyway, and Lawrence hesitated a long time before an idea came to him.

Then suddenly his eyes brightened and he glanced swiftly up Fourth Avenue. He knew the neighborhood very well, and could recall no stationery shop near it. Nevertheless, he told the chauffeur to drive slowly around the square, and to stop if he rapped on the glass.

The circuit was of no avail. The taxi reached the southwest corner without the signal having been made, and Barry told the man to proceed on down University Place at the same slow speed. A block passed, then another; but before the third corner had been reached Lawrence struck the glass with such force as nearly to shatter it, and, leaping out of the still-moving machine, darted into a narrow little shop bearing a sign above the door to the effect that stationery and cigars could be had within.

As the girl came forward, he fumbled in his pocket and produced the letter.

"Have you any writing paper like this?" he asked, extending it to her, but still retaining a hold upon one corner.

She bent forward to glance at the texture, and at that instant Barry realized with a start that he had handed her the letter which had come from the little man in black, inclosing the five one-hundred-dollar bills.

"I beg pardon," he said hastily. "I've made a mistake. This is the kind I want."

He drew forth the other letter; then, with a swift catching of the breath, stood staring stupidly from one to the other. For a second he did not move. He could not believe this odd coincidence. He held the two sheets to the light. The watermarks were identical. He lowered the sheets and examined them intently. In size, color, texture, quality they could not have been more alike had they come from the same box.

What did it mean?

*CHAPTER XXXVIII.*

*IN CAPITALS OF RED.*

In a moment Barry had recovered himself. After all, the sheets being identical did not prove that they had come from the same shop. No doubt there were hundreds of stores in New York which kept that kind of paper in stock. It was an odd coincidence, that was all.

"This is the sort I want," he said quietly, meeting the girl's curious glance with indifference. "About two quires will be enough--with one package of envelopes."

His perfect ease of manner seemed to reassure her, and she glanced at the paper he held out, then shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm afraid I can't give you even a quire," she said, reaching up to a shelf behind her and taking down a box. "I noticed when I sold a sheet and envelope this afternoon that there were only a few left."

"This afternoon!" Lawrence exclaimed, with well-simulated surprise. "I wonder if it could have been my friend Davis, who wrote this letter? Was he tall and slim and dark?"

"That's him," the girl answered. "He was dressed swell, too, and wore a high hat."

"Funny, isn't it?" Barry commented. "Well, give me what you have. I suppose you'll be getting in some more of the same kind soon."

"I'm afraid not," she returned, wrapping the few sheets with accustomed deftness. "The firm that supplied us with this has gone out of business. This box is three or four years old. It got lost in the stock, and I only ran across it about a week ago, and put it on sale. You'd have a hard job locating a bit of it anywhere in town. We've got some which is just as good, though."

It was with difficulty that Lawrence made an easy, casual answer, paid for the paper, and left the shop. The girl's explanation had left no doubt in his mind that the thing which had seemed so impossible was true. The man in black and the agent of those who had kidnaped Shirley Rives had both come to this obscure little shop to purchase writing paper.

It was incredible that there could be any connection between the two, yet Barry had seen so many apparently impossible things transpire within the past week that he began to doubt everything.

Out of the whole intricate medley of events, however, one fact stood clear and distinct: The men who had sent both letters must be living somewhere within a comparatively short distance of the little shop. University Place is not a main artery, like Broadway or Sixth Avenue; people do not pass through it, as a rule, unless they have business there or live in the neighborhood. There are no car lines on it--it is a sort of back eddy, away from the rush and turmoil and passing of great throngs.

But, now that he was sure Shirley's place of captivity was not so very far away, Barry could not make up his mind what to do. He could traverse the streets one by one, to be sure, but what would that accomplish? It was scarcely likely that chance would again direct his footsteps as it had done in sending him here from Union Square.

Puzzled and undecided, he told the chauffeur to follow him, then set out slowly toward Fourteenth Street. If he only had some one with whom to talk things over it would be much easier. Two heads are always better than one; and even Jock Hamersley might be able to suggest some feasible plan.

"I suppose there's nothing to prevent my hustling up and getting the old chap," he murmured as he reached the corner of the busy cross street. "It'll only take a few minutes. Hang it all! I believe I'll do it."

He turned toward the taxi, which had come to a stop beside the curb, and had almost reached the door when a newsboy darted toward him, waving a sheet with gaudy scareheads.

"Wuxtry!" he shrilled, thrusting the paper under Barry's nose. "All about banker's suicide! All about turrible shootin'! Wuxtry! Paper, mister?"

Lawrence shook his head impatiently, and was about to step into the taxi when his eyes fell upon the flaming headlines of the paper, and for a second his heart almost ceased to beat:

Trust Company Official Shoots Himself! Julian Farr, of the Beekman Trust, Blows His Brains Out. Defaulter in Many Thousands, He Leaves Behind a Confession Exonerating Former Employee.

Without a word, Barry snatched the sheet and thrust a coin into the boy's hand.

"Never mind the change," he said hoarsely.

Eagerly, feverishly, his eyes raced over the lines of large print. It was the old, old story, sordid in detail, inevitable as to conclusion. Julian Farr, cashier of the Beekman Trust, had started in by living beyond his means, and, getting in a hole, used the funds of the bank to speculate with. Once, when exposure threatened, he had saved himself by the despicable device of throwing the blame upon another man. The second time such a thing was impossible, and so, penniless, desperate, with a bank examiner due the following day, he had solved the whole problem, after the fashion of many cowards, with a little piece of lead.

The one graceful, decent action, which stood out in vivid contrast to all the rest, was the full and complete confession he had left behind, taking the responsibility of that first defalcation and explaining in detail how entirely blameless Barry Lawrence was. And, as the latter read the last word of this printed document, his eyes sparkled and a great joy surged through him.

He was free again--free from the shackles of suspicion and accusation which had been fastened upon him so unjustly! His name was no longer tarnished. It had been cleared in a manner which could leave no doubt in the mind of a single soul concerning his absolute honesty.

Then, like a flash, he came back to the present. What did this matter--what did anything matter when Shirley Rives was still in the hands of this unknown gang? He was wasting precious time, and, thrusting the paper into his overcoat pocket, he jerked open the door of the taxi.

"The Yale Club--and hustle!" he said tersely as he stepped hastily into the car.

*CHAPTER XXXIX.*

*HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.*

Jock Hamersley, after leaving his friend, entered the club briskly, and, having freshened up a little, took the elevator to the dining room. It was early, but his appetite had been making itself felt for some time, so he did not wait for a congenial companion to sit at his table.

The result was that he finished the meal and descended again to the lower floor before seven. Here he strolled about a little, chatting briefly with one or two friends, but with his mind altogether on the problem which faced Barry Lawrence.

When Jock once got something well fixed in his mind it was extremely difficult to find room for anything else. The more he considered the scheme of tripping up the mysterious persons who had been following Lawrence, the more he liked it, and the more anxious he was to put it into operation. He knew that Barry would not be likely to show up much before eight, and consequently, after fretting and fuming impatiently for some ten or fifteen minutes, he decided to take a stroll to use up the intervening time, with the added hope that something more might occur to him.

Leaving word with the hall man that he would be back shortly, he slipped into his coat and sallied forth into the street. For a moment he hesitated; then, turning to the right, he walked briskly toward Fifth Avenue.

He had scarcely reached the corner, and had not even decided which way to turn, when suddenly a man, coming up behind, touched him lightly on the arm.

"Beg pardon, sir," said a voice in his ear, "but have you any idea where I can find Mr. Barry Lawrence?"

Whirling about in surprise, Hamersley saw, standing beside him, a slim, slight individual of medium height, smooth-shaven and dressed in an inconspicuous manner. He was holding an envelope in one hand; and Jock first sized him up as a clerk from some banking or brokerage house. He was about to answer freely, when he suddenly recalled the varied assortment of men who had been trailing Barry of late, and paused.

"What do you want him for?" he asked abruptly, at length.

"The chief wanted me to give him this," the stranger explained promptly, holding up the letter. "Said it was most important he should have it at once. He isn't at his hotel, and they don't know where he's gone."

"Humph!" grunted the big chap. "Who's your chief?"

"Mr. Marvin, of Kane & Marvin," was the swift response.

Hamersley knew the Wall Street firm very well, and, having no notion of Barry's affairs, it seemed quite possible that the latter might be doing business in that quarter. Nevertheless, a vague, intangible suspicion made him hesitate, and in that fortunate pause a conviction suddenly flashed into his mind which almost took his breath away.

The fellow beside him was none other than the detective who had inveigled Lawrence into the empty house on Twenty-fourth Street the very night before.

Jock remembered his friend's description perfectly, and, moreover, recalled Barry's having said that he was the identical man who had sat next to them at the Belmont cafe. There could be no mistake. This was, indeed, the man, and Hamersley's first feeling was one of infinite regret that the chance they had been seeking should come when Lawrence was not on hand to take advantage of it.

On the heels of that, however, came a swift determination to work the trick alone. He could do it if only he kept his head and handled the situation cleverly. He would do it, and give Barry the surprise of his life. With a tremendous effort to keep his voice casual and careless, he plunged into the game.

"I see," he said. "But what gave you the idea that I could tell you anything about him?"

"Mr. Marvin said he belonged to a college club on Forty-fourth Street," the unknown returned glibly. "When I asked for him back there, they said he wasn't a member, but that he sometimes came in with you. That's what made me hustle out after you. I want to get rid of the thing and beat it home to supper."

His easy tone was most convincing, and, had he not been perfectly sure of his identification, Jock would never have dreamed that anything was out of the way. For a second he hesitated, digging into his brain for some plausible means of finding out more. Unfortunately Jock's brain was of the slow-moving variety which so often accompanies big, brawny bodies, and nothing occurred to him.

"Sorry I can't help you," he said at last; "but I haven't an idea where he is now. He's going to meet me at the Yale Club at half past eight or so. Why don't you come around then and see him?"

"Half past eight! I can't hang around till then. Still, I suppose I'll have time to get supper and come down afterward, won't I?"

"I should think so," Hamersley returned, with an affectation of indifference he was far from feeling.

"I'll do it," the stranger said decidedly, thrusting the letter into his pocket. "Half past eight, you say? Much obliged for the information."

With a quick nod, which Jock returned, he started briskly up the avenue, leaving the Yale man staring, helplessly after him in a perfect agony of indecision. He wanted to follow the fellow, and yet he realized how utterly futile such a thing would be. The man would be wise to the game before he had gone a block, and that would probably spoil everything.

What should he do? What could he do? The man was rapidly getting away from him, and Hamersley fairly danced on the pavement as he tried frantically to think.

It was at this moment that he caught sight of "Shrimp" Bradley briskly crossing the avenue.

*CHAPTER XL.*

*THE OPEN DOOR.*

As his cognomen indicated, Bradley was short and slim and boyish-looking. He had fresh, rosy cheeks and innocent, bland blue eyes, which reminded one vaguely of cherubs and better worlds than this. In reality he was as sophisticated a little chap as had ever made the lives of New Haven professors miserable; and he had a command of language which, during his two years of "coxing" on the varsity shell, had caused the hair of even those hardened athletes to stand on end. To the harassed Hamersley his appearance at that particular moment seemed like a direct dispensation of Providence.

"Shrimp!" he spluttered, clutching the diminutive chap by the shoulders, "there's a fellow going up the avenue there--short, slim, dark clothes and brown felt hat. He's a detective, after Barry Lawrence. I've got to know where he goes. For the love of Mike, follow him and tell me where he lands! I'll be at the club. Be quick, now, or you'll miss him!"

The single, searching glance Bradley cast at his friend's face convinced him that this was no joke, and without a question he snapped back: "Right. I'm on." And he hustled off up the street.

Jock watched him anxiously as he scurried away, and presently, when pursuer and pursued were lost to sight, the big chap sighed and turned back in the direction from which he had come.

"He'll catch the dope if it's a possible thing," he muttered. "Hang it all! I wish Barry were here."

He was puzzled to learn, on reaching the club, that Lawrence had phoned during his absence and left an urgent message that he was not to leave the building until he heard again from the Harvard man. Of what it could mean Hamersley had no idea, unless Barry had become wise to the situation in some way and was also following up a clew.

At all events, there seemed nothing else for him to do but wait; and for nearly an hour he performed that difficult and trying duty in a manner which nearly drove the other club members to murder.

Apparently unable to keep still, he tramped back and forth through the rooms on the lower floor with a frowning countenance. He was deaf to the gibes and jokes hurled after him, oblivious to remarks and questions from his friends, heedless to everything save the matter which filled his mind so exclusively. Had he not been so universally known and liked by almost all the members, there is no telling what might have happened. As it was, when Shrimp Bradley appeared about a quarter past eight, and Jock made a rush for him which compared favorably with some of his best efforts on the gridiron, there was a general sigh of thankfulness that something had at length arisen to break the spell.

"Let me get my breath!" panted Shrimp. "I never hustled so before. Yes, I got him! Did you take me for a piker? Sure, I want a drink. I've got a thirst a mile long. I want something to eat, too, and tell him to hustle. You and I have got our night's work cut out for us, old socks!"

While he was talking Jock had pushed him into the small room to the left of the door, which happened at the moment to be unoccupied. Placing one big thumb against the bell, he kept it there until the attendant appeared on the run and took their order.

"Now," exclaimed Hamersley, sinking into a chair, "where'd he go? Harlem?"

"Harlem? No. He went up three blocks and then hopped onto a stage going downtown. Luckily I was just about a block behind, so I sprinted and grabbed it. We rode down to Fourteenth, and then he got off. I stayed on half a block longer, then beat it. I was hustling back, keeping well in near the buildings, when I saw him coming down with another guy, and I slipped into a doorway. As luck would have it, they stopped a couple of feet past me for the stranger to light a cigarette, and I heard about all they said. They talked in riddles, of course, but I made out pretty clearly that they've got a girl locked up somewhere, and that they caught her by telling her some fellow was in trouble. I made out, too, that the girl put up something of a fight, but they told her if she didn't keep quiet 'twould be worse for the fellow, and she behaved after that. They said they'd have him by nine o'clock. Do you suppose they meant Barry Lawrence?"

"Sure!" said Hamersley hoarsely. "But how did you make out all of that, Shrimp? They must have been boobs to talk so much in the open street."

"Oh, they weren't so slow," protested Bradley; "but neither am I, Jock. I kept my ears open and read between the lines. What they said couldn't have meant much of anything else."

"Well, go on!" cried Jock impatiently.

"That's all I heard," said Bradley. "They were moving off by that time and the wind was blowing the other way. I let 'em get 'most to the next corner before I slipped out after them. They went down the avenue as far as Eleventh, and then turned west, with me following as close as I dared. I reckon they weren't thinking about any one being after 'em, though, because they never once looked back. They went down the street almost to the next corner, then walked up the steps of a brownstone front, opened the door with a latchkey, and stepped in. In a couple of minutes I pranced past to get the number, noticed the sign, 'Rooms to Let,' boarded a Sixth Avenue car, grabbed a taxi at Twenty-third Street, and hustled back."

Hamersley nodded, but remained silent.

"What's biting you, Jock?" inquired Bradley sharply. "Aren't you wise to what I'm telling you? Don't you catch on that there's a girl in trouble?"

"Sure!" gasped Hamersley. "But what girl?"

"What girl!" snapped Shrimp. "How do I know, when you didn't tell me anything? Don't you know?"

Jock shook his head dazedly. "First I've heard of any girl," he returned weakly. "I thought it was----"

"What girl are you talking about?" demanded a voice from the doorway, in a tone which made both men jump.

"Barry!" roared Hamersley, leaping at him. "For Pete's sake, come and put us wise! I put Shrimp on the trail of a man who was asking me all about you, and he comes back with a weird tale of a girl kidnaped by a bunch and kept a prisoner in a boarding house down on West Eleventh Street, near Sixth----"

"West Eleventh!" exclaimed Lawrence triumphantly. "By Jove! You've hit it right. Come on--both of you. There isn't a minute to lose. I'll tell you the rest in the taxi."

He turned and hurried out of the room, followed by Hamersley, and, more slowly, by Shrimp Bradley, who had paused to secure the remaining sandwiches. Issuing hastily from the club, Barry told the driver to take them to the corner of Sixth Avenue and Eleventh Street, and they all piled in and slammed the door behind them.

During the hurried ride downtown they exchanged stories briefly, so that when they reached their destination they were ready to act. In half a minute Bradley had led the way to the house, and Lawrence swiftly took in its salient features. It was an ordinary-looking, four-storied brownstone dwelling, a little gone to seed, perhaps, which accounted for the sign displayed in a lower window. The room on the second floor front was brightly lighted, but the shades were pulled down. All the other windows were dark. In that instant Barry had made up his mind.

"I'm going in if I can get in, fellows," he said abruptly.

"Hadn't you better wait----" began Bradley.

But Lawrence cut him short. "Not if I know it!" he exclaimed. "I've waited too long already. I'm going in! See if you can find a cop, Shrimp. Jock, will you watch the house?"

Before the others could realize what was happening, he had raced up the steps and grasped the doorknob firmly. To the intense surprise of his two companions, the door yielded to his touch, and a second later he had disappeared, leaving them staring dazedly at each other.

"There's something queer about this!" Hamersley burst out the next instant. "I don't like the looks of it a little bit."

Bounding up the steps, he seized the knob and twisted it, flinging his whole weight against the door. It held fast. He tried again with the same result, then turned a serious face toward Bradley.

"Beat it, Shrimp!" he said hurriedly. "Get a cop, quick! It's a trap, that's what it is!"

*CHAPTER XLI.*

*AT CROSS-PURPOSES.*

As the door swung into place behind him, with the unmistakable click of a spring lock, Lawrence stood there, every nerve tense, glancing swiftly around into the shadows, half expecting an attack of some sort.

The hall was lighted by a single gas jet turned down to the tiniest spark, and for a moment he thought himself alone. Then, with a suppressed start, he realized that a tall, slim, smooth-shaven man stood silently by the portieres of a double door, watching him with cool, level, dark eyes.

"Well?" snapped Barry, recovering his composure. "Where is she? Quick! What have you done with her?"

The stranger smiled. "One flight up, on your right," he drawled nonchalantly. "You can't miss it. The door's unlocked."

For a second Lawrence stared at him dazedly. With every nerve keyed to its highest tension, expecting, and ready to use force, and with visions of having to break down doors and overcome all sorts of obstacles to reach the girl he was seeking, the utter indifference and casual politeness were staggering. He scowled fiercely at the urbane stranger for an instant, the color rising to his face; then, whirling about, raced up the stairs without a word.

The upper hall was almost pitch dark, but he thrust out both hands and felt the panels of a door on his right. A second later his fingers closed over a knob, he pushed forward, then stopped still on the threshold, blinking in the bright light, with the echoes of a faint, suppressed cry of a woman ringing in his ears.

The room was long and spacious, that effect being heightened by several full-length mirrors, with massive, old-fashioned frames of black walnut, set into the walls at different points. The furniture was mostly of that same mid-Victorian period, ponderous, ugly, and uncomfortable, with a good deal of fringe and furbelows and gimcrack ornament. It was only in contrast to the hall that the place seemed brightly lighted. In reality, the only source of illumination was a nickel lamp with a dark-green china shade, which stood on a marble table at the farther end.

Most of this Barry perceived in that curious, instinctive, intuitive manner with which one observes a thing without really looking at it. His whole mind was taken up with the girl who had started from her chair and was staring at him, a half-frightened, half-puzzled, wholly incomprehensible expression on her lovely face.

"Shirley!" he cried, springing forward impulsively. "You're all right? They haven't--hurt you in any way?"

To his amazement, she did not show the slightest sign of being glad to see him. On the contrary, she seemed almost frightened; and the quick backward step she took to place the table between them, no less than the look in her dark eyes, halted Lawrence in his tracks as effectually as a bullet might have done.

For a second he stood there staring at her, the color swiftly ebbing from his face.

"I don't--understand," he said at length, in a low, bewildered tone. "What is the matter? It isn't possible that you're--afraid of me?"

She moistened her lips and, putting out one hand, let the tips of her gloved fingers rest lightly on the table top. From the moment of his entrance her eyes had never left Barry's face, and now, as he saw them clearly in the lamplight, the look there was like the stab of a knife.

"I don't know," she said quietly; and Lawrence saw that it was the calmness of deliberate effort. "I don't think it's quite--that."

"But what is the matter? What has happened?" He flung out both hands in an eloquent gesture. "Why are you acting so strangely?" After all he had been through, after the strain and stress and mental suffering he had been laboring under, this frigid reception, so different from the one he had imagined when he dared to picture their meeting at all, was almost unnerving. "You must tell me what it means!" he cried.

Her lips quivered, but she caught them between her teeth and tilted her chin a little more. She still wore her hat--a wide one of black velvet, with curving brim and soft black plumes. Her sable coat was flung over the back of a nearby chair; and as she faced him--slim, erect, palpitating with life and charm and fascination, Lawrence realized that she had never seemed so beautiful--or so utterly beyond his reach.

"I think," she returned steadily, "that you are the one to tell me that."

The man turned suddenly white and drew his breath sharply. In a second every feature seemed to have become tense and hard and clean-cut as if fashioned from marble. When he spoke his voice was low and clear, but there was a faint, throbbing undercurrent which showed plainly how difficult it was for him to keep it so.

"It isn't possible that you believe me responsible for this?" he said.

For an instant the girl did not answer. Her lips were quivering unmistakably now; her self-control was plainly strained almost to the breaking point.

"How do I know what to believe?" she cried suddenly. "How do I know whom to trust?" A sob arose in her throat, and she fumbled in her sleeve for a tiny handkerchief. "Oh, why did you try to keep it from me?" she went on despairingly. "Why didn't you tell me at first, and then we should never have----"

She could not finish, and the swift glimpse Barry had of those dark eyes, swimming with tears, before she hid them with her handkerchief, almost drove him mad.

"Tell you what?" he demanded dazedly. "For Heaven's sake what is it you think I've kept from you? Surely you don't mean that trouble at the bank? You must have known that I never----"

She silenced him with a gesture and dropped both hands straight by her sides. There was a glint of tears still in her dark eyes, but she had recovered her composure with remarkable rapidity.

"It isn't that," she said wearily. "It's far more important than any bank. I know--everything. You understand? And it--hurts desperately to think that I had to hear from---a stranger--that you----"

She stopped abruptly as a brisk knock sounded at the door. Before either of them could speak it swung open, and two men entered quietly, closing it behind them.

*CHAPTER XLII.*

*THE MAN IN THE MIRROR.*

The foremost of the intruders was the dapper detective, Brennen, and, as he recognized him, Barry scowled.

"So it's you, is it?" he said shortly.

The fellow grinned. "It sure is!" he chuckled. "Mighty nice of you to trot down here and save me the trouble of hunting you up."

Lawrence stared at him blankly. "What the mischief do you mean?" he demanded. "You don't mean to say you wanted me here?"

Brennen nodded blithely. "Of course. Aren't you on yet? That's what we've been after right along. That's why we had to put the lady here to a little inconvenience. Hated to do it, of course, but were afraid you----"

His companion, the tall, dark, urbane person Barry had passed in the hall below, plucked Brennen by the arm and whispered a few words in his ear.

"What's the odds?" the detective returned briskly. "The big fellow's due any minute, and then it'll all come out. You see," he went on, turning again to Lawrence, "it looked to us like you'd get wise and might make a sneak any minute. We couldn't allow that, of course, so we took the only way which was left us, and, by a polite little fiction, induced your wife----"

"That'll do!" cried Barry, his eyes flashing. "I don't understand a word you're saying; but I know this much: if you can't keep this lady out of the conversation, I'll take great pleasure in silencing you. She is not my wife, and your behavior in dragging her into this affair has been simply despicable."

The detective shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "Suit yourself," he returned blandly. He hesitated a moment, and then went on, with twinkling eyes: "Hope your friend don't get tired hunting a cop."

Barry gasped, but recovered himself swiftly. "What do you know about my friends?" he demanded.

"Know!" Brennen repeated amusedly. "Say, that's good! Do I look like a boob? You don't suppose for a minute, do you, that I wasn't wise to that little pewee who trailed me down here from Forty-fourth Street? Ha, ha! Why, I wanted him to follow me, and made things so easy that he couldn't fall down. What's more, I turned about and went after him the minute he started back. Followed him to the club, and got after the three of you when you came this way again. I couldn't take any chances, you see, with his nibs due to-night and expecting to see you here."

If Lawrence had never felt chagrin before, he felt it now. The realization that they all simply had been playing into this fellow's hands was maddening, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he refrained from showing his feelings. To gain time, he slipped out of his overcoat, which had been decidedly too warm, and flung it over a chair. Then he turned back to the irritating detective.

"Since you're so clever," he remarked sarcastically, "I suppose you haven't lost sight of the fact that there's a station house within five minutes' walk, and that when I came in here my friend was headed straight in that direction."

Brennen laughed. "Bless you, no!" he exclaimed jovially. "That was one of the first things I took care of, and, short as the distance is, I shouldn't be at all surprised if he got sidetracked, somehow, on the way."

He paused a moment, his keen eyes fixed intently on Barry's face. "I s'pose you've sized me up from the muss I made of things the other night," he went on; "and I can't say I blame you much. That was one of the worst fall-downs I ever had; and the trouble was my hands were tied. Instead of putting the matter up to me and letting me work it my own way, they had to go and plan it all out, and then tell me to do thus and so, as if I was one of these cheap guys with solid-ivory domes. Why, hang it all! I didn't even know what you were then. I took you for some cheap sport who'd got into trouble on the other side and slipped over here to get away from it. If I'd had the least idea what was what, you can bet your last cent you wouldn't have made that get-away as easy as you did."

As he listened to the fellow's incomprehensible words, Lawrence felt as if his brain were whirling round and round. And then, like a flash, his self-control snapped.

"Who the mischief do you take me for?" he burst out frantically. "Tell me that! Tell me his name! Tell me what I'm supposed to have done. Out with it now, unless you're afraid."

An expression of admiration came into Brennen's face. "Clever!" he murmured to himself. "Mighty clever! I never saw anything better done on the stage. What a pity----"

He broke off abruptly as the purring of a motor car became audible in the room, and turned swiftly to his companion.

"That must be him, Jack," he said tersely. "He's overdue now. Listen!"

An instant later, as the car stopped outside, with a grinding of brakes, he went on swiftly: "Better slip down and make sure about it. Hager's there, but we don't want anything to go wrong. I'll take a peep out of the window."

The tall fellow hastily left the room, while Brennen stepped quickly to one of the windows and drew up a corner of the shade. Lawrence, his brain whirling and every nerve tense, stood dazedly for a second, then began to walk nervously up and down the floor. In a few moments he would know. Unless he was very much mistaken, the whole baffling mystery would swiftly be revealed to him, and he could scarcely restrain his impatience.

The closing of a door downstairs made him turn hastily in that direction; then his glance trailed back to the long mirror placed in the middle of the wall opposite the windows. Even in his perturbed state of mind, he noticed how like the black walnut frame was, in shape and size, to a doorway, and wondered why, with all the other looking-glasses about the room, another had been inserted here.

Of course it was a mirror, for, dim as the light was at this distance from the shaded lamp, he could see his own figure outlined in the glass, and even make out every detail of his face and clothes.

Then suddenly a puzzled wrinkle came into his forehead. There was something odd about the reflection. The background was dark, and showed no sign of the lamp on the marble-topped table. Curious, Barry took a single step forward to discover what was the matter, then stopped still as if turned to stone.

The reflection in the glass had smiled.

For the fraction of a second Lawrence felt that he was going mad. Then, in a flash, he realized the truth. It was not a mirror at all, but a doorway, in which stood a man who looked at him out of his own eyes, smiled at him with his own smile; whose face and figure, down to the smallest detail, could not have been more like Barry's if the two had been bronze statues cast from the same mold. Even their clothes were of strikingly similar style.

*CHAPTER XLIII.*

*HIS SECOND HALF.*

The rattle of the window shade and the tramping of a number of feet on the stairs brought Barry to himself with a start just as the unknown put his finger to his lips and stepped noiselessly back into the shadow.

"Face round, but stand where you are," breathed the unknown.

Lawrence obeyed instinctively, and the next instant the hall door opened to admit several men. The first was well on in years, with a tall, splendid figure and a noble, distinguished face. He seemed in the grip of some great, though partially suppressed, emotion; and, as he caught sight of Barry, he sprang hastily toward him, both hands outstretched.

"Oscar!" he cried, in a deep, vibrating voice which held a distinctly foreign intonation. "My dear boy! I----"

The words died in a queer, gurgling sound. One of the men by the door cried out sharply; another drew his breath through his teeth with an odd, whistling noise. Then silence--tense, vibrating silence--fell upon the room as out of the shadows appeared the other man and moved noiselessly forward to Barry's side.

He did not speak or stir after he had taken up his position there. The two men, so absolutely, unbelievably alike, stood shoulder to shoulder, motionless as statues, while the seconds ticked away and those who witnessed the amazing spectacle stared and stared with dazed faces, unable to credit the evidence of their senses.

Once only did Barry's gaze waver from the stunned countenance of the older man to the other end of the room, where Shirley Rives stood bending far over the table, her face absolutely white, and her wide, dark eyes staring at him as if she were looking at a ghost.

At last a laugh, clear, hearty, and full of mirth, came from the man at his side, and broke the spell.

"Rather good, don't you think, uncle?" the newcomer chuckled, stepping forward a little.

"_Gott in Himmel!_" breathed the older man. "You are----"

"Of course. Don't you know me? I never supposed that you would be deceived."

With a swift motion, the other caught his hands and drew him over to the light.

"Let me look at you!" he exclaimed, speaking German in his agitation. "I cannot tell! I do not know! I feel as if the whole world had been turned topsy-turvy."

For a long minute he gazed searchingly into the young man's face, while the others moved unconsciously closer to the two, Barry quite as dazed and bewildered as any of them. Suddenly he threw back his gray head and flung one arm impulsively around the young fellow's shoulder.

"You _are_ Oscar!" he exclaimed. "I know it!"

For a second he was silent. Then he turned swiftly toward the group of men who had entered with him, and singled out one with his flashing eyes.

"What does this mean, Baron Hager?" he demanded imperiously. "How dare you play such a trick upon me? It is infamous!"

It was the man with the beard who stepped forward; and Barry saw that he was trembling in every limb, while beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"Your highness!" he gasped. "I--I---- It is not a trick. I--have never seen--this man before."

"Never seen him! Nonsense! I'm not a child. How did he get here? What is he doing in this house? Who is he?"

Hager stared helplessly at Lawrence, and then his bewildered eyes wandered dazedly to the smiling double. His emotion was so great, however, that he did not speak, and it was Brennen who answered.

"I can tell you that," he said shortly. "He's the man we've been trailing all over New York, thinking he was your nephew. He's the man we decoyed here to-night for you to meet. If he ain't the right one, we're a lot of suckers, that's all."

"He's my second half, uncle," interposed the young man, smiling. "It isn't everybody who can have such a good time, you know."

"Is that the truth, Oscar?" demanded the older man. "Has he been passing himself off for you all this time?"

"Exactly, and he did it wonderfully well, too. I owe him an everlasting debt----"

The sentence was never finished. As he stood there, unable to make head or tail of what was being said, Barry had a horrible conviction that somehow his curiosity was never going to be gratified. He had come as close as this several times before to learning the name of the man he so resembled, and he was determined to take no more chances.

"My dear fellow," he burst out, unable longer to contain himself, "if you owe me anything at all, for Heaven's sake pay me now by telling me who on earth you are."

"You mean to say you do not know!" exclaimed the older man incredulously. "Why, such a thing is preposterous."

The laughter vanished suddenly from the nephew's face, and, stepping swiftly forward, he caught Barry's hand in a firm grip.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Lawrence," he said contritely. "I've been fearfully discourteous. Please forgive me, and do not think me ungrateful for what you have done. I am Prince Oscar, of Ostrau, and this is my uncle, the Grand Duke Frederick."

*CHAPTER XLIV.*

*THE RIDDLE SOLVED.*

In the brief silence which followed there came to Barry's ears the sound of a quick gasp, followed by a strangled sob, from the girl at the table. And in that second, as he stood holding his own hand, as it were, and gazing into his own eyes, he realized with a rush of joy that this was what had troubled Shirley. They had told her that he was the crown prince of an Old World kingdom, and it was small wonder she had been dismayed.

"I am more than happy at meeting your highness at last," he went on the next instant, gazing into the pleasant face of the young foreigner. Then his lips twitched and curved into an involuntary smile. "It seems as if I had known you all my life instead of a scant ten minutes."

The prince laughed delightedly. From the very beginning he had apparently enjoyed the situation to the full, and there was a total lack of royal dignity and stiffness about him which was refreshing.

"It's the greatest lark I ever had," he chuckled. "Haven't you begun to see the fun of it yet, uncle?"

The grand duke sighed. "Are you never going to be serious?" he asked sadly. "Do you mean to go through life taking everything as a jest, content to remain an irresponsible boy always?"

The prince straightened suddenly, and there came into his handsome face an expression which was very far from boyish. His jaw squared, and he pressed his lips firmly together as he stood regarding his uncle out of clear, level, uncompromising eyes.

"It isn't any use, uncle," he said abruptly. "My mind is made up, and nothing you can say will induce me to change."

The grand duke's lips parted as if he meant to speak, but closed swiftly again, and he darted a significant glance at the man with the beard.

"Be so good as to leave us, baron," he said curtly.

Baron Hager gave a start and turned hastily toward the door, followed closely by his two compatriots and the American detectives. Brennen brought up the rear, moving with evident reluctance, as if there were numberless points about the affair he was pining to have cleared up.

"By the way, Mr. Brennen," Lawrence called after him, struck by a sudden thought, "whatever you've done to my two friends, I'd be obliged if you would undo it at once."

The detective nodded sourly and closed the door behind him. As he disappeared, Barry realized that it would be more graceful for him also to leave the room; but, when he made a move to do so, the crown prince caught him by the arm.

"Please stay," he said quietly. "Mr. Lawrence is my friend, uncle. Whatever you say before him will go no farther."

"As you will," returned the grand duke indifferently. He hesitated an instant, his eyes fixed pleadingly upon his nephew's face. "Oscar," he went on swiftly, "your father, the king, has sent me to beg of you to come home to your family, your people, your country. He wants you. He needs you. You cannot realize the nature of the step you have taken. You acted hastily--heedlessly. For the honor of the throne, Oscar, I beg of you--I beseech you--to give up your harebrained scheme and resume again the place in life to which you were born."

There was no gleam of mirth in the face of the crown prince now. It was firm and serious and a little white; his eyes were fixed unfalteringly on his uncle's face.

"And what of my wife?" he asked quietly. A flicker of pain flashed into the grand duke's face and was gone.

"There are ways----" he began hesitatingly.

"Ways!" broke in the prince swiftly. "What ways? You mean a morganatic marriage, I suppose. You know that is impossible, even if I would consider it. She is an American girl."

Lawrence, standing a little behind the duke, listening with an interest he made no attempt to conceal, noticed how the faint, foreign intonation--it could hardly be called an accent--in the young man's voice was intensified in a moment of excitement.

The grand duke did not answer at once, and, when finally he spoke, there was a hopeless undercurrent in his voice which showed clearly that he had little hope of his argument meeting with success.

"Under the laws of Ostrau," he said in a low tone, "a woman without royal or noble blood cannot marry into the reigning family. She, therefore, has no standing as your wife. In Ostrau the bond does not exist, and you would be free to marry your father's choice, Princess Olga, of Gratz."

The young man's lips curled and his eyes narrowed. "Never!" he exclaimed impulsively. "She's ten years too old and a thousand times impossible. Luckily," he went on more composedly, "we're in America, not Ostrau, and I propose to stay here. I'm beastly sorry, uncle, for your sake. We've always been great pals, and ever since I was a kid I've loved you more than my august father. I'd do anything else for you gladly, but this is impossible. I'll renounce my rights to the succession for myself and my heirs forever. Let Maurice be crown prince, can't you? He'll make a lot better king than I ever could. All I want is to be let alone; to be free to live my own life and be happy in my own way. Ostrau stifles me with its foolish, cramping etiquette and narrow bigotry. It's ruined your life, and I'll take precious good care----"

He broke off abruptly as the grand duke groaned and covered his face with one hand.

"Forgive me, uncle!" the prince begged. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I forgot myself. But you understand," he went on softly, "because you, too, have suffered."

*CHAPTER XLV.*

*THE GIFT OF THE RING.*