Chapter III: Part 3

Teddy Beecher was a fair representative of the second generation. He still retained the rugged democracy of the father who had fought his way to a moderate fortune in the troubled regions of the coal-fields. To him a man was a man, whatever the quality of his coat. Left an orphan at fourteen, he had passed victoriously through boarding-school and college without seriously troubling the peace of mind of those who were competing for scholarship honors. He was liked because he liked every one, not with a politic assumption, but from a veritable enjoyment of life and men.

After graduation, he had gone West on a ranch with several of his classmates, for the pure love of adventure and the delights of the great open spaces. Having thus begun his education, he continued it by knocking about the world, with periodic excursions in search of big game. He had known a great many types of men without knowing them in the least, and he appealed to all women without being deeply impressionable to their influence. His philosophy of life was very well summed up in a remark he had made on his return to New York--that he would probably go to work if he couldn't find anything better to do.

When he awoke the day after Rita Kildair's party, it was with the clear and dispassionate vision of the morning. The dramatic occurrences of the night before flashed instantly into his consciousness, arousing all the energy of his young curiosity. He recalled the promise to solve the mystery he had made in a moment of enthusiasm, and with a renewed zest began to consider how he should prove himself.

Several things immediately rose up to perplex him in the strange and dramatic climaxes at which he had assisted--the twisted undercurrents of which he was still completely ignorant. Why had Garraboy, and then Rita Kildair, adopted an attitude of suspicion toward him when he had returned? For Garraboy's hostility he found a ready answer in the mutual antagonism that had risen from the first exchange of glances; but the reception he had received at the hands of Mrs. Kildair thoroughly mystified him.

"Of course, if the ring wasn't found in the search," he said, getting out of bed and ringing for his man, "it's got to be in the studio; of course--no way around that. Whoever took it the second time didn't get much opportunity to hide it, either--unless it was hidden after the candle was lit; there was a chance then--every one was stumbling around. By Jove! I believe that's how it was done. But then, why the deuce should more than one person return?"

He stopped and suddenly remembered his own return.

"That's so; a man might come back to offer help. But why a woman? And who the deuce came back after I did--Miss Lille or Mrs. Bloodgood?"

At this moment the door opened on Charles, whom he had inherited with one half of the luxurious apartment from Freddie Duyckerman, who had gone to England for the hunting season.

"Your bath is ready, sir," he said, standing with that perfectly vacuous expression which had been carefully trained to express neither joy, grief, hilarity, nor the natural surprise which he might have experienced at beholding his master, brush in hand, standing absent-mindedly before a great copper platter that was near the window.

"Telephone up to the stables; I'll take Judy to-day," said Beecher, passing into the bathroom.

A touch of the cold shower set his nerves to tingling and sent his mind to recalling pleasantly the pretty faces of the evening before, after the manner of young gentlemen of leisure with a proper share of vanity. Two figures rose immediately--Rita Kildair and Nan Charters. He remembered them both without excitement, but with different emotions.

"By George, Rita's a thoroughbred," he said. "She has them all beat--mysterious as a sphinx. Prettiest sight in the world, seeing her manipulate a crowd. Jove, but she has nerve!" Then he reflected a little guiltily that he had rather deserted her for other shrines, and he resolved enthusiastically to make amends by throwing himself, heart and soul, into the recovery of the ring.

"By George, it's something to have the confidence of a woman like that!" he exclaimed, sublimely fatuous. "That old mammoth of a Slade would give ten years of his life, I'll bet, to stand where I do with her."

Then he remembered Nan Charters, with a little movement of impatience at the thought of his sentimentality.

"What the deuce got into me last night?" he said, displeased with himself. "I acted like a school-boy. I suppose she thinks she's got me on her scalp-belt--easy as a stage-door Johnny. What the deuce got me wabbling so? These actresses are full of tricky stuff."

He resolved that he would show her his complete indifference by not calling for at least a week, maybe two, and concluded, with profound penetration:

"Good game. She'll remember how I started in, and wonder what changed me. That's it--keep 'em guessing."

He went into the dining-room, where the coffee was boiling in the percolator, and sat down, after assuring himself by a trip to the opposite bedroom that Bo Lynch was still sleeping the profound sleep of the unjust..

But hardly had he begun on the iced grape-fruit when a lank figure in peppermint pajamas appeared at the doorway, brushing from his sleep-laden eyes the long wisps of hair which, carefully treasured to conceal the bare upper regions, now hung about his sharp, supercilious nose.

"Why the devil don't you breakfast with a chap?" he said, emerging.

"Hello, Bo," said Beecher pleasantly. "Up till four or five, training for your polo match this afternoon?"

"Well, Fontaine was there; we call it pairing off."

"Auction?"

"Yes, damn it. I cut that little wild ass of a Plunket six times running. He'd gamble away his grandmother on a couple of aces. I say, Teddy," he continued, with a little more animation, emptying a bottle of mineral water which Charles, knowing what might be termed the regularity of his habits, had set out for him, "do you ever try a flier in the market?"

"I have been such a fool."

"Look here; I've got a sure thing. Eddie Fontaine gave it to us last night--in dead secrecy, of course. Worried it from the old man, and you know old man Fontaine is the real thing. The whole Atlantic Trust business was patched up at a conference yesterday afternoon. Majendie's to get all the backing he needs."

"Well, what of that?"

"Why, you ignoramus, that means the banks have let up on the trust companies and are coming to the support of the market. Everything's 'way down below where it ought to be. Stocks'll go up twenty points in two weeks. I've taken another thousand of Northern Pacific myself. Better get in on it."

"Thanks; I'll circulate my money on a horse-race--something I know about. By the way, Majendie was there last night."

"He was, was he?" said Lynch, with more animation. "How did he seem?"

"Cool as a cucumber," said Beecher, who, however, was surprised to find how little he remembered of any one else's conduct. "I was in at one of Mrs. Kildair's affairs. By the way, Nan Charters was there."

"Oh, was she?" said Lynch sleepily, hesitating between the call of his bedroom and the cooling aspect of the waiting grape-fruit.

"Know anything about her?" asked Beecher, perceiving he would gain nothing by indirection.

"Never met her," said Lynch. "Charlie Lorraine was crazy about her a couple of years ago. We thought he was going to marry her. I believe they were engaged, or had an understanding."

"No scandal?"

"Oh, she's perfectly straight. Charlie's a good proposition, but that didn't seem to hurry her any. She has a lot of 'em buzzing after her."

"I say, Bo," said Beecher suddenly, "did you ever run up against a fellow called Garraboy?"

"What's he do?"

"He's a broker."

Lynch reflected, yawning behind his hand. His occupation in life was supposed to be stocks and bonds, according to the city register.

"Nope, never heard of the fellow."

"Who'd know at the club?"

"Ask Jack Lindabury or Tom Bovee. Well, ta-ta; I'm going to sleep out a bit for the match. Tell Charles to default me to the manicure and the scalpist," said Lynch, who termed thus the prim, middle-aged person who had guaranteed to preserve his numbered hairs. "By the way, how about a little bet on the match? I'll give you six to five."

"Done for fifty," said Beecher obligingly.

"See you at luncheon," said Lynch, who was soon heard plunging heavily into bed.

Beecher belonged, without yet being one of them, to that set who live what in England is called a gentleman's life--racing, hunting, playing polo, seeking the sensations of big game or big fish, rather courting danger, drinking hard as a matter of pride, on the theory of the survival of the fittest, consuming the night in battles of cunning and physical endurance at the card-table. Beecher had returned to this society partly because most of his friends "belonged," partly because, being an idler himself, he liked their busy days dedicated to sensation, and their curious standards of what was and what was not permitted to be done. He had not as yet plunged into the whirl, being more curiously interested in the various sides of New York life that opened before him. He preserved, in the midst of the nervous American excess of his companion, a certain old-world moderation. He entered their card games in a desultory way for an hour or two at a time, but without that engulfing, brutal passion for mastery which kept Bo Lynch at the card-tables until dawn. When he joined a group at the bar, he drank with them as long as he wished and no longer--a difficult matter where a withdrawal usually was greeted with taunts; but there was about Beecher, young as he was, an atmosphere of authority which came from having proved himself among men the world over.

He was rising from the table when the telephone rang, and, mindful of his afternoon engagement with Rita Kildair, he refused an invitation to join a party to the polo match. A call from Bruce Gunther urged him to be one of a gay party of six, bent on a lark for the evening.

He enjoyed a furious gallop in the park, dressed, and swung alertly up the Avenue to his club for luncheon.

There, all the talk was of the stock market which had gone up several points on the morning's tradings. Bo Lynch and Eddie Fontaine buttonholed him and besought him to avail himself of the opportunity: it was the chance of a lifetime, the crisis was over, stocks simply had to go up. The friends of Majendie, who was one of the directors of the club, were relieved and jubilant. He had weathered the crisis; there was nothing more to fear. The story which was told from lip to lip as being direct from headquarters was, that at the meeting on the afternoon before, Fontaine had declared, with his fist on the table, that he would never be a party to any movement that would jeopardize the future of his lifelong friend, Bernard Majendie. Some who still clung to the short interest even added, with an air of knowing more than they could tell, that the attack would now be concentrated on the Associated Trust with the intention of making an example of John Slade, a Western intruder who was protected by no ties of association and friendship.

Beecher, true to his habits of caution, laughingly refused all offers to double his fortune. Bruce Gunther drew him aside, outlining his program for the evening.

The thought of Nan Charters came into Beecher's mind, and he wondered curiously if she would be there.

"I say, Bruce, what's all this hip-hurrah?" he asked as Gunther led him to the dining-room and they took seats at the long mahogany table. "Has Majendie really pulled through? Is the story true about Fontaine? Would you go into the market?"

"They tell it on Fontaine now, do they?" said Gunther, with a short laugh. "It started with my old man, but I guess he was too tough a weight to carry. Ted, I don't know any more than you, but I know this--keep out."

"My opinion," said Beecher, nodding to a new arrival.

Bruce Gunther was his closest friend--a chum from boarding-school days. He was a stocky, rather ugly type, direct to the point of rudeness, with more than a trace of his father's power. Gunther Senior had, from a long and merciless examination of men, come to regard youth as a natural malady, an ebullition of heated blood to be lived down before a man was fit for great opportunities and the vision of great affairs. When young Gunther was graduated, he called him to his desk, wrote him out a check, and told him to take five years, sow his oats, and be through with it--at the end of which time his career would begin at the bottom of the great banking offices of Gunther & Company, New York, London, and Paris. Young Gunther was now completing the last year of his contract with a compressed savageness that would have wrecked any but the strongest constitution. At heart he awaited the end of his holiday with a feeling of relief and enthusiasm. He was quite unspoiled, and a terror to sycophants and boot-lickers. It was these sturdy, passionate qualities of energy and directness in him that had attracted Beecher.

"Bruce, I'm on a very curious chase," he said, pushing back from the table, "and I want your help. It's too long and too confidential to tell you now. But two things I wish you would do for me: find out all you can quietly about two men--Enos Bloodgood and a fellow called Garraboy, a broker."

"Garraboy--the brother-in-law?" said Gunther instantly. They left the table and went for cigars and coffee to the first room, to a window that gave on the Avenue. "I know him. He was blackballed here a couple of years ago. There were some ugly stories about him; I'll look 'em up. Bloodgood's another matter. I have heard rumors he was hard hit by the market. It's easy enough; I know several men I can call up. Can't you tell me the whole thing now?"

When Beecher had finished, Gunther remained a long moment immersed in reflection.

"By the Lord Harry, that is a problem," he said, suddenly waking up. "The dickens of a tangle! What the deuce was Slade doing there?" He relapsed into silence again, and as suddenly said decisively: "You're wrong on one point, Ted. It's not Garraboy or Bloodgood we ought to suspect first; it's Cheever--the Cheevers."

"How the deuce are we going about it?" said Beecher.

"I suppose Mrs. Kildair wants the whole thing kept quiet," said Gunther, rapping absent-mindedly on the arm of his chair.

"Naturally; besides, I promised."

"Of course. Well, we'll begin in a practical fashion. You don't mind spending a little money, do you?"

"I expect to."

Gunther rose and went to the telephone booths, where he remained for some time.

"Half-past six in my rooms, Ted," he said, returning. "I'll put you up against the most interesting character in the United States--a real detective. Dress and come over."

"But the girls," objected Beecher, remembering their engagement.

"The girls can go hang," said Gunther, shrugging his shoulders. "They can always wait half an hour. This is something real."

At five o'clock Beecher called on Mrs. Kildair, and found her out, to his considerable vexation. The bell-boy gave him a little note, which he opened and read:

DEAR TEDDY:

Forgive my breaking my engagement. All sorts of sudden and exciting things have crowded in on me to-day. Come to-morrow for luncheon.

RITA.

P.S. Remember--nothing public about last night!

The prospect of a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Kildair appeased him somewhat, but his anticipations for the afternoon were sorely disappointed, and he started aimlessly back, with a feeling that a great hole had been made in the day. As he reached the corner, a red automobile cut in close to the curb, causing him to step hastily back. Inside he recognized Slade. He watched the red machine come to a stop before Mrs. Kildair's and then whirl away, after depositing the massive figure of its owner. Beecher, with a little wounded vanity, lingered a moment, hoping to see him reappear; but, as the sidewalk continued empty, he was forced to conclude that he had come by appointment.

"She might at least have seen me," he said angrily. "What the deuce has she got to see Slade for?"

All at once he perceived that his steps had led him in the general direction of the quarter in which Nan Charters resided, and, as he had come to make an impression on one woman, he soon began to consider transferring his attack on another. Only, he remembered that he had determined to treat Miss Charters with indifference, to correct any erroneous ideas that she might have formed from his previous impulsive conduct.

"That's so," he said, angry now at himself, at her, and at a condition of affairs that left him with an hour of idleness on his hands. "If I call now, she'll think I'm hot on the trail. I could stop, though, and inquire about her health," he thought, hesitating; "that would seem natural, after last night."

But he rejected this as a subterfuge, and continued his slow, uneven progress down Seventh Avenue, which he had selected at random in search of a little oddity and interest; and gradually he recognized that the vexation he felt was, in reality, not at being unable to find an excuse for calling on Miss Charters, but the keen sense of disappointment he had in missing an intimate hour with Rita.

It was essentially the woman of the world in her that fascinated him, the woman of mysterious experience, of sure knowledge and complete command of situations. He wished to increase the intimacy of his position, because to be favored by her meant something--something that awoke his masculine sense of supremacy and fed his vanity. Determined on a long bachelorhood that would open to him all sorts and conditions of society and adventurous experiences, he had determined likewise to avoid the dangerous field of young girls of his own set and to exercise his curiosity with women of the world--older women, professional women, with whom an impulsive infatuation brought no risks, but something to be taken at value, a mood that was charming because it would pass.

All at once an idea came to him that reconciled his easily satisfied conscience and appeared sublimely politic. He would drop in on Nan Charters, just to show his indifference.

"I'll stay fifteen minutes--be quite formal and a little bored," he said, chuckling.

And he went without too much enthusiasm toward his destination, thinking of Rita Kildair and planning in his imaginative mind a series of confidential conversations for the tete-a-tete on the morrow.

"To see Miss Charters," he said, giving his card to the boy in the elevator, who turned it over doubtfully, hesitated, and disappeared like a float in an opera, mounting heavenward.

Beecher ceased to think of Rita Kildair, and prepared himself, smiling astutely, for his approaching scene with the young actress whom he intended properly to discipline for her effrontery in imagining that he--Edward T. Beecher--had entertained for a moment any other than a polite social interest. Miss Charters excused herself--she was lying down and dining out.

He cast a furious look at the telephone-booth, by means of which she might personally have assured him of her great regret, and stalked out in a worse temper than ever--Rita Kildair, Nan Charters, all the women in the world consigned to perdition.

"Confound them all!" he said, brandishing his cane. "What a lot of time a man wastes over them. She might have telephoned me. They only exist in this world to distract us from what we ought to do. I wonder if she did it on purpose--just to give me an appetite. Well, if she did--she's succeeded," he said ruefully.

He went to his rooms, resolved to meet her at every opportunity, to revenge himself by showing her he could play the game more cleverly than she could; and in his angry resolve there was very little trace of the indifference of which he had been so confident.

*CHAPTER VII*

Gunther had a suite in one of the newer hotels that tower over the eastern entrance to the park. When Beecher arrived, a quiet, powerfully built man was standing in front of the fireplace, smoking with enjoyment. Beecher recognized immediately Cyrus McKenna, formerly of the United States Secret Service, founder of the great detective agency that bore his name.

"Ted, shake hands with my good friend Mr. McKenna," said Gunther, appearing in the doorway with a refractory collar in his grasp. "McKenna, shake hands with Mr. Beecher. Fire away, Ted. I'll be out in a second."

"Glad to know you," said McKenna, grasping his hand.

Beecher was aware of the quick, estimating scrutiny and a sense of unusual physical vitality. But he was disappointed in his first glance at this man whose investigations had been the terror of corrupt politicians and unscrupulous agitators. McKenna was physically the ideal detective, in that not a feature possessed a trace of oddity which could betray him to the public, in which he thus mingled without fear of recognition. He was neither short nor tall, neither thin nor unusually heavy. His head was round, well-spaced, and evenly formed, without affectation of mystery or astuteness, lit up by a jovial good humor when animated, and quite blank and indecipherable when in repose. The eyes alone, like the eyes of a painter or a sculptor seeking tones or modelings that escape the common glance, were noticeable for a certain quality of penetration, expressed in the countenance by innumerable fine lines that gathered in the eye-pits.

"Mr. McKenna," said Beecher, who had an instinctive desire to impress the detective with the lucidity of his observations, "I will give you quickly the details that are important. First, here is the plan of the apartment, which may or may not be of use."

He went to the low table-desk at the side, and drew out paper and pencil. McKenna brought up a chair at his side, and Gunther, coming in, sat down opposite.

"It concerns the theft of a ruby ring worth over fifteen thousand dollars," said Beecher, busy with his pencil, "taken last night, between eight and eleven, at the apartment of Mrs. Rita Kildair. The circumstances are so extraordinary that you will be interested in the problem itself."

The detective smiled in a slightly amused way and asked:

"Am I retained in her interest or in yours?"

"In mine," said Beecher quickly. "The theft took place at a social gathering, you understand, and in the party were persons well known in New York society. Mrs. Kildair, as is natural, particularly desires that nothing shall become public."

"Does she know that you intend to consult me?"

"No--and I am not sure I wish her to know."

"Is she employing detectives?"

"Yes."

"Whom did the ring belong to?"

"To Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher, annoyed that he had forgotten this rather important detail.

"Let me see the plan," said McKenna, who glanced at it a moment and nodded. "Now go on."

"There were eleven persons present, including Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher, after a moment's pause. McKenna took the pencil and prepared to inscribe the list. "Myself, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Cheever--"

"I can give you a pointer on them," said Gunther, speaking for the first time.

"Unnecessary," said McKenna. "I know the card episode."

"Mr. and Mrs. Bloodgood."

"Mrs. Bloodgood--yes."

"Mr. Garraboy."

"Joseph L. or Edward C., the broker?"

"The broker. Miss Nan Charters."

"The actress--yes."

"Miss Maud Lille."

"Know anything about her?"

"She's a journalist; writes books too, I believe."

"Well?"

"Bernard L. Majendie and John Slade."

The detective raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"They were there--together?"

"They came separately. Slade joined the party at the last moment; he was not expected."

"A very interesting crowd," said the detective slowly, studying the list. "What servants?"

"None."

"You are sure?"

"Mrs. Kildair has only two, a Japanese butler and a lady's maid, both of whom were out."

"You are positive?"

"Absolutely. The occasion was an informal supper. Mrs. Kildair, while preparing the dishes, placed her three rings on the pin-cushion of her dressing-table--at this point here on the plans--fastening them with a hatpin. The table, as you see, can be easily seen both from the studio and the dining-room."

"What were the circumstances of her placing the rings on the pin-cushion? First, when did it occur? After all the guests had arrived?"

"Yes," said Beecher, who immediately corrected himself. "No, I'm wrong; Slade arrived later. But, as I say, he was a surprise. Majendie was the last of the invited party to come. Immediately afterward Mrs. Kildair went into her bedroom to put on an apron and take off her rings."

"Who was in the room?"

"Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille, and Garraboy," said Beecher slowly.

"They saw her take off the ring?"

"Yes; they even announced it later."

"Was there much passing to and fro?"

"All the time. I am quite sure every one was in the room several times."

"Did any one use the hall?" said the detective, indicating it on the plan. "I see it opens into the dining-room also."

"Quite a number," said Beecher. "I remember using it myself. We were all going and coming, carrying dishes, glasses, bottles, provisions."

"One question: did you notice the ring on the pin-cushion yourself?"

"Yes; I distinctly remember seeing two or three rings, I don't remember which."

"Go on."

"After about three quarters of an hour of preparation, we took our places at the table, with the exception of Mrs. Kildair, who was still moving about us. It was then that Slade came in, was introduced, and took his place."

"He did not pass into the bedroom, then?"

"No. Mrs. Kildair went in immediately, took off her apron, and discovered the loss of the ruby ring."

Beecher, without further interruptions from McKenna, recounted in detail the return of Mrs. Kildair, the locking of the doors, the extinguishing of the lights, the announcement of the theft, the beginning of the counting, the sound of the ring on the table, and the discovery of its second disappearance. Then he stopped, awaiting the questioning of the detective.

"No; go right on," said McKenna, with a little gesture of his pencil that dotted an imaginary _i_.

Beecher continued, describing the lighting of the lights, the confusion in the room, the sending for the detectives, the discussion as to the order of search, and the failure to recover the ring. Omitting his personal observations of Miss Charters and their conversation in the cab, he recounted his return to Mrs. Kildair's, his meeting with Garraboy, the discovery of the detective, the strangeness of Mrs. Kildair's attitude, and her concealment of the identity of the next visitor. He concluded, and both young men looked at the detective as if they expected him to solve the problem on the instant--an attitude that was not lost on McKenna.

"I suppose you young men believe every word that has been written on deduction," he said, grinning and biting off the end of another cigar. "Presume you've already determined that a woman took the ring, and lacked the nerve to face the risk--that the strong, daring nature of a man seized the opportunity the second time, and, because Slade and Majendie are millionaires and Bloodgood the respectable owner of a newspaper, the thief is either Garraboy, a gambler in stocks, or Cheever, with an ugly reputation."

The two young men smiled guiltily.

"But I say, McKenna, you don't reject deduction entirely," said Gunther.

"Oh, no, I believe in 'deduction forward,'" said McKenna, laughing. "If I know there's a thief in the company, I deduce he'll steal if he gets the chance. Now, before I put a few more questions to you, let me tell you this. My business isn't in deducing how the theft was done (I get my man and sweat him out; he'll tell me that), but who did it; and for that it don't take any deduction, either. Give me time, money, and no strings on me, there isn't any crime can't be worked out."

"But how the deuce are you going to locate a ring," said Beecher, "if you don't know whom to follow?"

"The ring's the easiest part," said the detective. "You may not know it, but every stone of great value is what's called a named stone; every jeweler knows of it. Now, there aren't many rubies worth over fifteen thousand floating around. If you don't believe it, I'll show you how easy it's done. Inside a week I'll give you the history of the stone and just how it came into the hands of Mrs. Kildair."

"You mean no one can dispose of it to a jeweler without its being recognized?"

"Unless he's done it within these twenty-four hours, which is quite probable if a certain suspicion of mine isn't far wrong."

"Deduction," said Gunther, laughing.

"Not entirely; and, besides, that's not quite fair. It just happens that I may be interested in a couple of persons in your party from another tack. No, gentlemen; deduction's all right, if it's honest deduction and if you use it in its place; but the great thing's motive. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, get down to your motives and you get your criminals. Show me the person who needed to steal that ring, or who just simply had to steal it, and you've got your man."

"But suppose that applies to two persons there, or even three," said Gunther, who perceived that the detective did not intend to commit himself.

"Possibly."

"Or it may be the hysterical act of a woman who will never attempt to sell the ring."

"Possible--more than possible."

"And then it will never be found."

"That's right."

"But you don't think that's the case," said Gunther. "And you have an opinion."

McKenna gave him a quick look of appreciation.

"That's right; but it's not who took it, but why it was taken. In forty-eight hours I'll know a little bit more about the habits of the ladies and gentlemen we're dealing with, and then I'll be more communicative." He paused, with a little pardonable pleasure in the mystification he was preparing, and added: "In forty-eight hours I'll give you a little story about each of the persons who were at that party which'll beat anything in the story-telling line you ever came up against. Now, Mr. Beecher, before we get down to questions, here's one thing I want you to do. Find out from Mrs. Kildair what's her detective agency. Say you've a friend who's trying to track a valet for stealing and want a good address--see?"

"You are not going to shadow the detectives?" said Gunther curiously.

"You bet I am, till I know more about them," said McKenna. "Young man, I can tell you more than twenty cases I've been on where the detective who was called in to make a search went cahoots with the thief."

"Detectives!" said Beecher, amazed.

"You bet. I don't trust my own, when I've got anything that's got to be done right. I don't trust any one man; I put two on it. My dear fellow, the crooks that pick your pocket or break into your house are only amateurs. The real criminal, the criminal of brains, joins a police force, becomes a detective, a clerk, goes slowly, gets to be a cashier or president of a bank. You think I'm joking. Not at all. Look here; just stop and think it over, and you won't laugh. For every bank president who takes the funds of his bank, speculates, and _loses_, how many do you think win out and never get caught?"

"That's so," said Gunther thoughtfully.

"It's too big a subject," said McKenna, smiling. "I shake hands every day with gentlemen who ought to be breaking rocks. Now, let's get back to business. Mr. Beecher, what did you notice of any kind last night that would make you suspect any one? I don't mean opinions, but eyes."

Beecher hesitated an interval that did not escape the notice of the detective.

"Nothing," he said at last, unwilling to mention the name of Nan Charters. He added, to cover the hesitation: "I suspected Garraboy, but I admit there's no proof--personal dislike."

"Why do you dislike him?"

Beecher shrugged his shoulder and his glance went to one side.

"Mr. Gunther, will you get me my office?" said McKenna, suddenly looking at his watch. "You know the number."

Gunther disappeared in the hall in search of the telephone.

"Now, Mr. Beecher," said McKenna, smiling, "I'm like a doctor, you know. There's no use calling me in unless you give me all the facts. What's the name of the lady who excited your suspicion, whom Mr. Garraboy was so attentive to, and on account of whom, I rather guess, you got interested in this case?"

The startled look Beecher gave him amply gratified McKenna, who continued:

"What's Miss Charters' position in this business?"

Beecher admitted the correctness of the surmise with a laugh, and, Gunther being absent, quickly recounted the different moments of Nan Charters' agitation and the conversation in the cab.

At this moment Gunther returned. "I say, McKenna," he said, "some one's trying to get you on the wire."

McKenna passed to the telephone, and almost immediately returned.

"Look here, gentlemen," he said, "if you want to try your hand at deduction, here's something to work on. The Clearing-house has just refused to clear for the Atlantic Trust, Majendie's resignation has been accepted, and tomorrow there'll be a run on every bank in the city--and God help those who're caught in the stock market!"

*CHAPTER VIII*

The two young men and McKenna descended by the elevator into the lobby of the hotel. The news of the Clearing-house's drastic action against the Atlantic Trust was already in the scare-heads of the evening papers, though Majendie's resignation was still unknown. The halls were crowded with a fleet of newspapers, spread out, fluttering feverishly. Everywhere was a suppressed murmur and nervous tension, which occasionally exploded in exclamations when acquaintances met. The news was indeed staggering to the little man of the Street; the great Atlantic Trust with its hundreds of millions of deposits was on the verge of collapse and this at the end of a period of depression and alarm!

As they proceeded toward the carriage entrance, Gunther stopped to speak to one of the clerks at the desk, who, with a frightened face, came out to seek his advice. McKenna profited by the moment to say to Beecher:

"By the way, if you're a friend of Miss Charters', find out if she has any money invested in Wall Street, and who she's dealing through."

"Does it mean a panic?" said Beecher, surprised. "Do you mean she ought to get out?"

"Too late," said McKenna. "Find out what I asked you. I'm in a hurry. Say good-night to Mr. Gunther for me. And, say, if you're so interested in this case, get him to put you wise to Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood."

He gave a quick nod, and mingled in the crowd about the north entrance. Beecher watched him with a feeling of disillusionment. The detective had expressed no opinion, had brought to bear on the problem none of the instantaneous analysis which he had expected; in fact, had deliberately avoided even a discussion of the natural probabilities. Had this complete reticence been associated with an individuality of impressive oddity, he would have perhaps regarded it with respect. As it was, he was conscious only of being defrauded as though some one were tearing away a precious illusion.

"There's a poor devil; got all his money tied up in the Atlantic Trust," said Gunther, joining him and passing out to the waiting automobile.

"The Atlantic Trust can't fail," said Beecher, amazed. "Things aren't as bad as that."

"Don't know. Lots of queer things have been worked lately. Anyhow, what's bound to happen is--I should say--a receivership and closed doors to-morrow."

"But that means panic."

"Sure."

Beecher was silent a while. He thought of Majendie of the night before, correct, restrained, prodigal of small courtesies.

"By Jove, how game he was!" he said aloud. "I should hate to think there was anything crooked in him."

They had reached Forty-second Street in their smooth and rapid flight. There, newsboys were shrieking the latest extra, dodging under the heads of horses, swinging on the steps of surface-cars, bumping their shrill way through the crowd, with their hysterical instinct for heightening the effect of a sensation.

Gunther stopped the automobile and bought a handful of papers which a dozen urchins fought to press into his hands. On every sheet, front page, accompanied by sudden scare-heads, was the photograph of Bernard L. Majendie, whose resignation had been demanded and accepted.

The two scanned the pages for additional details. Some papers hinted at criminal actions--the district attorney had been suddenly summoned to town. Scattered through the sheets were photographs entitled, "Majendie's Palace on Fifth Avenue." "$100,000 Yacht of Deposed President." "Newport Estate of Millionaire."

"Is he a crook after all?" said Beecher, flinging down the extra.

"No, he is not a crook," said Gunther quietly, repeating the words with slow emphasis. "He is a speculator, a great speculator, and he has been made the victim of greater speculators who covet his territory. Then, there is this to be said: I doubt if at the present moment any great public corporation would face an investigation without alarm."

"What do you mean?" said Beecher, with his thoughts still wandering back to the handsome, stoic features of the Majendie of the night before.

Gunther began to speak, and, as he became serious and animated, Beecher followed him with surprise, noting the vigor and vitality that transformed the young idler.

"The present era we are passing through," said Gunther, "is probably America at its worst. We see only the gorgeous facades of things: the skyscraper, the industries that have developed into little kingdoms. We only try to comprehend statistics, and we are satisfied that we have bounded into greatness. As a matter of fact, the true test of the industrial greatness of a country is honesty. Dishonesty and graft are economic weakness--waste. A railroad that is spending a million a year to fight off hold-up state laws is by so much handicapped in its function of promoting commerce by low freight rates. A corporation that secures its franchise by bribing aldermen has taught them to blackmail in the future. It is difficult to say where the responsibility began--whether capital corrupted politics, or whether, in our unscientific political system, corruption was not inevitable."

"What do you mean by that?"

"At this time, when our political history is one of business development, we are over-burdened with useless offices. Aldermen and legislators who receive on an average less than a thousand a year--often less than it costs to be elected--are suddenly intrusted with the responsibilities of laws and franchises involving millions. When you ask yourself how a man is to continue a political career, support a family, and fight a costly fight for reelection on a thousand a year, the wonder is that any remain honest. We have not the slightest conception of values in America; the worst paid professions are those the vigor of the nation depends on most--the minister, the teacher, and the legislator. There are ministers living on five hundred a year, teachers on six hundred, legislators on less, while the carpenter or plumber who doesn't make at least $5 a day is unorganized." Then, perceiving that he had wandered from his subject, he added: "You see, Ted, this state of affairs results: politics becomes the business of business. Industry is at the mercy of the legislator, and the legislator knows it. He may restrict the field of business of insurance companies, prohibit others from operating in his state, add or detract from the wealth of individuals by tariffs, force the adoption of certain building material on contractors, regulate rates of railroads and force them to adopt certain life-preserving devices; can create rival franchises or tax out of existence corporations that refuse to pay its blackmail.

"That is why there are, back in the secret life of every great business, ledgers it is not good the public should see. That is one reason why business goes into politics, nominates its men, and assists them--in order to protect itself against strikes and blackmail. The great political alliance of business is almost always expressed by the railroad which is the natural agent. All this is known; every newspaper that will shriek out horrified editorials next week knows this; but when the Atlantic Trust is caught in a business depression, and is unable to get ready money from influences it has antagonized, the public will learn only that one institution has secretly contributed to a political party, maintained a huge fund for lobbying purposes, made loans on securities that were speculative, and transgressed the letter of the law. The public will be indignant, and Majendie will be disgraced."

"But, Bruce," said Beecher, who was thinking of the analysis that had been made, "if we are so riddled with corruption, where is it all going to end?"

"The end will come in the opening of another phase of national life. We will become honest through the purifying process of another generation. Honesty, you see, has this one great advantage over corruption--it is the goal of corruption. Those who acquire, wish to retain, to resist those who in turn wish to graft from them. Stealing was an attribute of distinction, until men came to live together. The next generation will purify and reorganize."

"I didn't know you'd gone into things so deeply," said Beecher, impressed.

"I've worked like a pup since I started to amuse myself," said Gunther, with a laugh.

The automobile drew up before the glittering doors of Lazare's, and a gilded footman, recognizing it, flashed obsequiously to their door.

"Say, let's cut this out," said Gunther, frowning. "I'm out of the mood now. Let's run off for a chop and a baked potato somewhere. I'm tired of this."

"Too late," said Beecher, laughing and pointing to an upper window where a feminine arm was waving frantically. "We're caught." Then, suddenly he remembered the hint of McKenna's, and added: "I say, what's the story about Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood? I'm not up on the gossip, you know."

Gunther signaled impatiently to the flunky to close the door, and related, what every one knew, the attachment of the financier and the wife of the owner of the New York _Star_.

"Of course, every one believes what he chooses in such matters," he said. "Personally, knowing Majendie, I believe it's purely platonic--such things do happen. He has a sort of old-fashioned chivalry, you know. Bloodgood is a hard old nut, leads his own life--chorus girls' friend and all that--thirty years older than his wife--parents got her into it--and I shouldn't be surprised if he took advantage of the situation to touch up Majendie through the Atlantic Trust for a good-sized loan. The rumor was that Mrs. Bloodgood was to get a divorce. If so, it may have been held up by this rotten business. One thing's clear: she's crazy about Majendie, and doesn't care who sees it--poor devil. Well, let's get out."

They entered Lazare's, saluted by a sudden storm of clatter, music, and shrill laughter. Lazare himself, seeing Gunther, came up hurriedly, anxiety in his olive face, while several employees hovered near, with eager ears. Gunther exchanged again a few words on the financial situation, and led the way into the elevator.

"McKenna's a great one," he said. "Rather puzzled you, didn't he? There's no show about him--he's direct. You'll see the way he works. It'll be a revelation."

Beecher did not answer.

The disclosure of the relations of Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood had suddenly recalled the suspicion that had come to him the night before, while following the agitation of Nan Charters; and he was asking himself, in a bewildered manner, if Mrs. Bloodgood, desperate, perhaps on the verge of a separation, had not in an uncontrollable moment taken the ring. Gunther continued in praise of McKenna:

"It's the organization that's wonderful. It's like a spider-web, and McKenna sits in the center and pulls the threads. What the public never gets is this--that half of the work's done before McKenna's on the case. He knows to-day where every forger is living, every cracksman. He's got his informers in every saloon, in every cheap hotel, where thugs congregate. If a bank's robbed, nine times out of ten he can tell in a day who's done the job, because he knows who's disappeared from his regular haunts. A detective agency is a great news bureau that never prints its news."

"I guess the case is more complicated than I thought," said Beecher, struck by the new lead. "It begins to look as though a whole lot of persons might have taken the ring."

"Thinking of Mrs. B?" said Gunther quickly.

"Yes," said Beecher meditatively. They were in the corridor leading to the private dining-rooms. He put his hand out and checked his companion.

"I say, who's Madame Fornez?"

"Opera squealer," said Gunther irreverently; "Carmen and all that sort of thing. Bob Holliday's daffy about her. Come on; let's face the music."

He nodded to the attendant waiting with extended ears, who now sprang forward to open the door on the flaring room and the dazzling white of the richly covered table set for five.

Holliday and two women in decollete instantly burst into exclamations of reproach.

"Sorry; couldn't be helped--business," said Gunther, without taking the pains for a more elaborate apology. Then, sure of his explanation, he added: "You probably missed it. Poor old Majendie's up the spout. Forced resignation. There'll be the devil to pay to-morrow."

The reproaches ceased, succeeded by a rush of excited questions. Holliday, a tall, scoured blond, who had been drumming at the piano, was so disturbed by the news that he forgot his duties as a host.

"_Allons_, Bobbie," said Mme. Fornez, turning her great Spanish eyes on Beecher with an expression of approval, "introduce your nice-looking friend."

Beecher, amid laughter, was presented. Mme. Fornez, who, from pride perhaps, chose to retain the freedom of the peasant, tapped him familiarly on the arm and said: "I like you. You don't look so clean and stupid as most of your dollar men. You will sit by my side. I select you. Monsieur Gunthere, Bobbie--enough of your old panics and your stocks; you have two charming ladies present, that's all you need to know. Bobbie, obey me at once!"

Beecher was giving his hand to Mrs. Craig Fontaine, a young widow, slight, with quick eyes, and almost masculine vitality, and an extraordinary elegance of dress and carriage, whom Gunther called Louise. She was scarcely twenty-six, possessed of a large fortune from her husband, who had been killed in a steeplechase three years before. Her position in society was unquestioned, and, being of a singular temperament, she did as she pleased. She was seen everywhere with young Gunther, and gossip had already arranged their marriage--an eventuality which she alone, who ambitiously desired it, knew to be impossible.

Beecher, who was particularly sensitive to the air of distinction that always surrounded her, even when most unbending, took her hand with a little extra gallantry, saying:

"I changed my mind on your account only, Louise, and I expect you to reward me."

Between the two, from his college days, had been a sort of confidential intimacy which Beecher had the knack of cultivating.

Holliday having ordered the dinner, Mme. Fornez took special delight in countermanding everything that could be countermanded, substituting other wines and abolishing the soup, scolding her escort all the while with a calculated tyranny which Mrs. Fontaine admired with a slight smiling tribute of her lips, as the clever advertisement of a professional woman that Mr. Holliday's fetch and carry attentions were entirely on her own sufferance.

"How have you escaped being married?" said Mrs. Fontaine in a bantering tone to Beecher, after Mme. Fornez had relinquished him for a moment.

"Because I fly like a coward," he said, pleased at the compliment implied.

"Seriously, Teddy, you've been back in civilization two months and you are not yet caught?"

"I am not the marrying kind," he said, with conviction.

"What's he say--your Teddy?" said Mme. Fornez, turning, with a laugh.

Beecher repeated his statement.

"_Allons donc_, you!" She broke into a ripple of laughter. "What do you say, Madame Fontaine?"

Mrs. Fontaine's reply was a tolerant, amused smile, and, leaning over, she pinched his ear.

Beecher furiously defended himself.

"Yes, that's what all you women say. You think you can catch any man. It irritates you to think any man can resist you."

"Ah, no, no," said Mme. Fornez energetically. "There are lots of men who can't be married. I don't say that, but what I say is this: a woman knows, the moment she meets one of you, if he is the kind that marries. A clever woman knows if she can marry him, but all women know if he is the marrying kind the moment they look in his eye. Is it not so, Madame Fontaine?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Fontaine calmly, with a glance around the table.

"Nonsense," said Beecher valiantly; "women are as easily fooled as men."

Mme. Fornez, drawing back her head, surveyed him critically.

"Teddy, you will marry the first pretty woman who makes up her mind to marry you," she said, tapping the table, amid laughter. "I see it; I know it."

"I say, how do you see it?" said Holliday, who was what might be called "_un faux Anglais_."

"It is in the eye; it responds or it does not respond," said Mme. Fornez, who shrugged her shoulders in Holliday's direction, and said: "You, you will never marry unless--unless there is one _big_ panic. Teddy, here, has the responsive eye. I saw it at once when I said he was a nice boy. Oh, you needn't be furious and blush," she added, pulling his other ear. "It is quite right. I like you. You shall play with me. You are much nicer than Bobbie, who is all collar and cuffs."

"And Mr. Gunther?" said Beecher, to cover his confusion.

Mme. Fornez looked at him with the same critical estimation.

"Ah, Monsieur Gunthere is very interesting," she said. "What do you think, Madame Fontaine?"

She asked the question with a little of that malice which women can not help showing toward one another. But Mrs. Fontaine, with the perfect control that never left her, answered at once:

"Bruce will marry, but he is not the marrying kind. He will marry when he pleases and how he pleases, not the least sentimentally, a woman, a young girl, who will raise up a family of children--a son to succeed him, as he will succeed his father."

"Yes, yes, that's it," said Mme. Fornez excitedly. "He can not be caught; any woman would know that."

Gunther smiled without embarrassment.

"Perhaps," he said.

"Yes, any woman would know it," repeated Mrs. Fontaine, looking at him with a little smile. "The reason is, as Madame Fornez says, in the eyes--they don't respond. It's more than that, they make no distinction. They look at a woman as they do at a man. He is quite to be congratulated."

"Ah, _la pauvre femme_," said Mme. Fornez--who was very romantic--in a whisper, pressing Beecher's arm. Then aloud, taking pity, "_Allons, mes enfants_, we are getting too serious. Bobbie, jump up and play us something lively."

The dinner continued gaily. They reached the theater in the middle of the second act of the operetta, and deranged the whole orchestra in the five minutes necessary for Mme. Fornez to be sure that she was properly recognized. Then, having carried off Elsie Ware, a dainty prima donna with the wiles and figure of a child, they proceeded to the party at Lindabury's studio, Mme. Fornez complimenting Elsie Ware on the quality of her voice, which was insignificant, and saying nothing of her acting, which was distinguished for its charm and natural gaiety.

Beecher, squeezed in between Louise Fontaine and Mme. Fornez, slightly bewildered by the fragrance of soft, filmy wraps, immensely flattered by the favor he had won, nevertheless was wondering to himself whether among the gay party he was approaching would be the laughing eyes and rebellious ashen hair of Nan Charters, whom he intended to treat _en ennemi_, and whom he particularly wished to witness his triumphant entry at the side of the celebrated Emma Fornez.

*CHAPTER IX*