.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43298
   :PG.Title: The Riddle and the Ring
   :PG.Released: 2013-07-24
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Gordon MacLaren
   :DC.Title: The Riddle and the Ring
              or, Won by Nerve
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE RIDDLE AND THE RING
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      Cover

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      The Riddle and the Ring;

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      OR,

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      WON BY NERVE

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      BY

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      GORDON MACLAREN

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      [From *TOP-NOTCH MAGAZINE*]

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      STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
      79-89 SEVENTH AVE., NEW YORK CITY

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      Copyright, 1911
      By STREET & SMITH

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      The Riddle and the Ring

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      All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages,
      including the Scandinavian.

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK.`_
II.  `AN AMAZING OFFER.`_
III.  `PANIC.`_
IV.  `THE EMERALD RING.`_
V.  `THE POWER OF AVARICE.`_
VI.  `AS IN A DREAM.`_
VII.  `NEW GRACE AND DIGNITY.`_
VIII.  `THE GATES OF CHANCE.`_
IX.  `A WOMAN IN DISTRESS.`_
X.  `SHIRLEY RIVES.`_
XI.  `HIDE AND SEEK.`_
XII.  `PUZZLED.`_
XIII.  `THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.`_
XIV.  `FOLLOWED.`_
XV.  `THE GIRL WHO VANISHED.`_
XVI.  `ANOTHER WOMAN.`_
XVII.  `BEYOND BELIEF.`_
XVIII.  `CHAOS.`_
XIX.  `PROTECTIVE MEASURES.`_
XX.  `THE MAN WHO LOST.`_
XXI.  `IN THE NEXT COMPARTMENT.`_
XXII.  `THE TOUCH Of COLD STEEL.`_
XXIII.  `BY FORCE OF ARMS.`_
XXIV.  `THE EMPTY HOUSE.`_
XXV.  `THE FACE IN THE CANDLELIGHT.`_
XXVI.  `THE HAND OF FATE.`_
XXVII.  `THE LETTER.`_
XXVIII.  `THE HOUSE ON THE AVENUE.`_
XXIX.  `LAWRENCE PLEADS.`_
XXX.  `THE TANGLED WEB.`_
XXXI.  `DESPAIR.`_
XXXII.  `AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW.`_
XXXIII.  `GONE!`_
XXXIV.  `THE PUZZLE GROWS.`_
XXXV.  `THE ASTONISHING MRS. WILMERDING.`_
XXXVI.  `TAKING UP THE TRAIL.`_
XXXVII.  `TWO SHEETS OF PAPER.`_
XXXVIII.  `IN CAPITALS OF RED.`_
XXXIX.  `HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.`_
XL.  `THE OPEN DOOR.`_
XLI.  `AT CROSS-PURPOSES.`_
XLII.  `THE MAN IN THE MIRROR.`_
XLIII.  `HIS SECOND HALF.`_
XLIV.  `THE RIDDLE SOLVED.`_
XLV.  `THE GIFT OF THE RING.`_

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.. _`THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK.`:

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   THE RIDDLE AND THE RING.

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CHAPTER I.

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THE LITTLE MAN IN BLACK.

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It was the second time the man had passed
the bench, and, as their eyes met for an instant
before the stranger swiftly averted his head and
walked on, Barry Lawrence frowned with quick
suspicion.  Was it possible that the intolerable
persecution had begun again?  For more than
three weeks he had been left in peace, and it
seemed the irony of fate that now, at a moment
when he was tasting the bitter dregs of life, the
harassing should begin again.

The next moment he shrugged his shoulders
resignedly.  After all, what did it matter?  They
could get nothing from him now—he had nothing
to give.  If they had indeed returned, they must
soon discover that.

The massive façade of the Pennsylvania
Station had caught his eye, and brought new hope
to his numbed brain.  Here at least would be
comparative warmth, and they could not very
well turn him out.  He could pretend that he was
waiting for a train, and might sit for hours in
the waiting room.  After that——  Well, he did
not wish to think of afterward.

He was only just beginning to recover from
the stupefying cold which had numbed and chilled
him to the marrow, and driven him into the
great station to keep from dropping in the icy,
wind-swept street.

He fancied that the passing porters looked at
him curiously.  When the announcer strolled
near him, he felt impelled to turn toward the
news stand in the corner.  At least he could
afford a paper.  It was about the only thing he
could buy now, and with it he could retire to the
waiting room with some semblance of naturalness.

It was as he turned away from the stand that
his eyes met, for the first time, those of the
little man in black.  Lawrence did not notice his
appearance particularly then, but averted his
eyes, and strode toward the men's waiting room.
Here it was much warmer.  The benches were
well filled, but he found a seat facing the door,
spread out his paper, and began to read.

Perhaps five minutes later he happened to
glance up in time to see that same short, slim,
precise figure pass the bench on which he sat.
Of course, there might have been nothing more
than a coincidence in it—people are constantly
walking about a station while waiting for a train,
and one frequently notices the same face half a
dozen times in the space of a few minutes.

Still, Lawrence felt annoyed.  His recent
experience of having been followed and spied upon
had so worn on his nerves that he constantly
found himself suspicious of even the most casual
glance.  A frown furrowed his wide forehead,
and, though his eyes dropped again to the printed
sheet before him, he could not seem to dismiss
the commonplace stranger from his mind.

Thus it happened that, when the man passed
the bench again, Lawrence threw back his head
swiftly, and caught the pale, grayish eyes fixed
on his face with a stealthy, but unmistakably
intent, scrutiny.  The lids drooped instantly, and
the stranger continued his pacing without a
pause, Barry's glance followed him suspiciously.

This man did not look at all like the others who
had made his life miserable for months.  He
seemed so insignificant, with his slight, spare
form, his pale eyes, and rather weak face.  He
looked more like a bookkeeper or clerk, grown
old and sedate in the service of some long-established
banking house, than anything Lawrence
could think of; though that did not seem to fit
him exactly.

Now the man had turned and was coming
back, and Barry, noticing his face intently, found
himself wondering whether he was really old or
not.  After all, he might easily have been thirty-five
or so; it was his iron-gray hair and curiously
set expression which made him seem older.

The young fellow's eyes dropped to the paper,
and he waited for the stranger to pass on.  The
latter did not pass, however.  Instead, he
approached the bench, and quietly took the seat on
Barry's left.  There was a momentary pause,
during which Lawrence wondered what under the
sun was coming next.  Then the unknown
cleared his throat, shot a quick glance at the stout
man dozing at the end of the bench, and spoke.

"I beg pardon," he said sedately, "but would
you have any objection to earning a thousand
dollars?"





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.. _`AN AMAZING OFFER.`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   AN AMAZING OFFER.

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Lawrence dropped his paper, and flashed a
startled, bewildered glance at the man beside
him.  For a moment he was silent, unable to
credit his senses.

"What did you say?" he gasped at length.

"I asked if you would care to earn a thousand
dollars," the stranger repeated, in a quiet,
precise voice.

Lawrence stared for a second longer, and then
suddenly burst into a harsh, mirthless laugh.  For
an instant he had been thrilled to the very core.
A thousand dollars!  Good Lord!

In that fleeting space there flashed through his
brain a dozen pictures—clear, vivid, and distinct.
He saw restaurants such as he used to patronize,
with food—real food, and not the gross, coarse
stuff one ate simply to fill that gnawing, aching
void.  He saw theaters, with their glittering
lights and stirring music.  He saw his old rooms,
cheery and homelike in the lamplight and the red
glow of the grate fire.  He saw an overcoat, well
cut, and lined with thick, warm fur, into which
he might snuggle and defy the bitter blasts which
had sapped his vitality and tortured him almost
beyond endurance.  He saw everything that a
thousand dollars would bring to him.

And then he came to earth with a thud.  Of
course, the man was mad!

"I can understand that this may seem a little
odd to you," the stranger went on, in that same
dry, unemotional tone, "but the circumstances
themselves are somewhat out of the ordinary.  I
had hoped that you might consider the matter
favorably."

Something in the other's calm, sedate,
business-like manner made Lawrence eye him again
keenly.  There was nothing in the least savoring
of insanity about the stranger.  His whole
personality fairly exuded respectability.  His pale
eyes were quiet and steady—the eyes of a man
who might be utterly unemotional and lacking
imagination, but scarcely the eyes of a maniac.

Somehow the glance steadied Barry, and
brought him new hope.  After all, it would do
no harm to inquire further into this extraordinary
matter.  He could scarcely be worse off than
he was now.

"You can hardly blame me for being surprised,"
he said, with a faint, whimsical smile.
"I beg your pardon for laughing, but I couldn't
help it.  If you will be a little more definite,
and explain what I shall have to do to earn this
money, I'll be very glad to consider it."

The stranger did not smile in answer.  He
simply nodded in a manner betokening his satisfaction,
and turned more directly toward Lawrence.

"Good!" he said briefly, in that same low tone,
which made it impossible for any passer-by to
hear him.  "The matter is very simple.  It will
take exactly one week of your time, at the end
of which the thousand dollars I shall hand you
now will be yours, without further obligation on
your part."

"You mean to pay me in advance?" Lawrence
exclaimed incredulously.

"I am obliged to.  I think, however, that I
may safely leave it to your honor to fulfill the
conditions I impose."

Barry frowned.  The situation was growing
more and more puzzling, and verging on the absurd.

"And those conditions are?" he questioned.

"Simply this," the unknown explained: "If
you accept my proposition, you will at once
provide yourself with an ample wardrobe, including
proper evening clothes—provided, of course, that
you are not already so equipped."

Barry's lips twitched as he remembered that
empty hall bedroom over near Tenth Avenue, but
he made no comment save an understanding nod.

"There are shops where a man of taste can
obtain these things ready-made," the stranger
continued quietly.  "I should prefer to have them
cut by a good tailor, but there is no time.
Having secured the wardrobe—you understand that
there must be no stinting in either quality or
quantity—I will give you an additional sum for
expenses.  You will go to the St. Albans Hotel,
and engage a suite of rooms.  You know the house?"

Lawrence shook his head.  It seemed that he
could not speak.  His brain was whirling, and
he was beginning to wonder whether it might not
be he himself who had taken leave of his senses.
One or the other of them must be mad; there
could be no doubt of that.

"It is on Forty-fifth Street, just west of the
avenue."  The precise, matter-of-fact tone of his
companion's voice penetrated to Barry's
disordered brain, and again he felt that odd,
reassuring sense he had noticed before.  "A quiet,
high-class house.  You will remain there for just one
week, beginning to-day.  During that week you
will dine every night at the Waldorf; lunch each
day at the Plaza, the Knickerbocker, Shanley's,
or restaurants of equal standing, and next
Tuesday afternoon, at three o'clock, the thousand
dollars will be earned."

Lawrence sat staring at him, open-mouthed,
waiting for him to continue.  When it became
evident that the little man had nothing more to
say, Barry's eyes threatened to pop out of his head.

"Is that all?" he managed to stammer.

"Yes."

"You don't want me to do anything but that?"

"No."

"He is daffy!" Lawrence said to himself decidedly.
"There can't be a doubt of it.  He's
probably given his keeper the slip, and is having
the time of his life with me."

For an instant his heart sank, for, in spite
of everything, he had been thrilled by the
prospect opened up by the stranger's words.  Then
he shrugged his shoulders.  After all, it would be
rather diverting to see how the fellow would get
out of the affair, and Barry was sadly in need
of something to take his mind from his own
difficulties.

"My time, then, except for lunching and
dining and sleeping, will be my own?" he inquired
seriously.

"Exactly."

"You wish me to register at the St. Albans
under my own name?"

"That's a matter for you to decide.  It's quite
immaterial to me."

"I suppose it would be a waste of time to
inquire why you are willing to pay such a sum for
anything so very simple," Lawrence remarked
tentatively.

"Quite so!" the stranger returned emphatically.
"That is altogether my affair.  Well,
what do you say?"

Barry kept his face serious with difficulty.
"Say?" he repeated.  "Why, I accept, of course.
I'd be a fool not to."

The unknown arose briskly.

"Good!" he said.  "Suppose we take a stroll
outside.  This place is getting close."

Without question, Lawrence followed him out
into the great vaulted space.  What was the
fellow going to do?  How was he going to
escape carrying out his side of the bargain with any
plausibility or grace?  Of course, he would get
out of it somehow, for he was mad—mad as a
March hare.

But, in spite of this conviction, Barry felt the
blood tingling in his finger tips as they walked
past the news stand, past the ticket offices, and
on to the deserted extremity of the enormous
marble hall.





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.. _`PANIC.`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   PANIC.

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Clear of the last passer-by, the little man
paused, and thrust one hand into the pocket of
his inner coat.  "There is one other condition,"
he said, drawing out a thick leather wallet.
"Under no circumstances must you explain to any
one where you obtained this money.  You must
be silent regarding every particular of our
meeting here, and the terms of our bargain.  I have
your promise?"

Lawrence, his eyes fixed incredulously on the
bulging wallet, felt something grip his throat.  It
could not be true—it simply could not!  And
yet——

"I promise," he said, in a queer, hoarse voice.

The stranger opened the leather flap, and
showed the wallet crammed with crisp bank notes.

"I have your word to carry out faithfully every
condition I have mentioned?" he questioned
briskly, fixing Barry with a keen glance.

The latter tore his eyes from the bills, and
returned the look.

"I give you—my word—of honor," he stammered.

His brain was whirling.  He could not believe
his senses.  It was all a mad illusion—a dream
from which he must soon awake.  His heart,
thudding loudly and unevenly, drove the blood
into his face, a crimson flood.  He was
trembling, but not with cold.  The stranger's voice
seemed to come from far, far away; it had fallen
to a mere whisper, which Lawrence could barely
catch.

"There is a matter of another thousand
dollars here for expenses," he was saying.  He held
out the wallet, and Barry's fingers closed around
it instinctively.  "That is all, I think.  You know
what you are to do, and I can trust to your word
of honor."

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Lawrence sprang after him.  "I haven't
thanked you!" he exclaimed incoherently.  "You
don't know—what you have done for me.  I—I——"

"I want no thanks," the stranger returned impatiently,
his eyes fixed on the great clock.  "You
can best show your gratitude by carrying out my
conditions to the letter.  I am pressed for time.
I can wait no longer.  Good-by!"

As he hurried away, Lawrence stood staring
after him, as if in a dream.  He saw the slim,
somberly clad figure bustle past the waiting
rooms and through the doors into the train shed.
A moment later the announcer bellowed out the
last call for a certain train, and his raucous voice
aroused Barry from the trance.

He had thrust the wallet into his pocket, but
now he took it out, and opened it with trembling
fingers.  The bills were still there—new, crisp,
and yellow.  His fingers touched them, and they
did not crumble into dust, as he almost expected
them to do.  Scraps of long-forgotten fairy
stories, read as a child, danced through his dazed
brain, in which benefactors in strange guises
gave unexpected largess to starving, freezing
people.  Nothing could be stranger than the
appearance of the little man in black.

He laughed aloud.  Then a thought came to
him which swept the smile from his lips and the
color from his cheeks in the twinkling of an eye:
The bills were counterfeit!

With blanched face and trembling fingers, he
thrust the wallet back into his pocket like a flash.
What a fool he had been—what a bonehead!
The bills were counterfeit, and the stranger,
followed closely, no doubt, by detectives, had taken
this way of getting them off his person.  This
accounted for the stealth, the secrecy, of the
transaction.  This explained everything which had
been inexplicable.

With a swift-drawn breath, Lawrence looked
nervously around, to meet the glance of a thin,
wiry man standing in the center of the rotunda.
Cold chills began to course up and down Barry's
spine.  What should he do if he were caught with
the stuff in his pocket?  If he could only escape
from the station there might be a chance of
throwing it away unobserved.  If only he had not
dropped his paper, he might, even here, tuck the
incriminating wallet in its folds, and fling both
carelessly into the rubbish can.  What a fool he
had been!

Presently the man who had been watching him
turned slowly away, and walked toward one of
the ticket windows.  That was only a pretense, of
course.  Lawrence realized that perfectly, and
yet, relieved of the stranger's scrutiny, he
ventured to move toward the broad flight of steps
leading up to that long corridor, and thence to
the street.

The man did not turn, and Barry's speed
increased.  If he could only get out of the station
it would be all right.  As his foot struck the
bottom step, his eyes, glancing backward, told him
that the man was buying a ticket.  He could
scarcely see through the back of his head.
Perhaps there was a slim chance, after all.

Less than a minute later he flung himself out
into the icy street, with a gasp of thanksgiving.
Hurrying past the long front of the building, it
seemed to him that every one must be staring
after him.  Through his thin coat the wallet
bulged horribly.  How could any one fail to guess
what was in it?

Under normal conditions he was not a fellow
to act in this fashion, but conditions were far
from normal.  He was half starved, and half
frozen.  He had lost his job four months before,
under circumstances which made it almost
impossible to get another, and he was desperate.  On
top of this, the extraordinary situation in which
he found himself was enough to make any man
lose his head.

But Lawrence did not quite do that.

He was flustered, nervous, almost terrified;
but through it all he clung to one idea—to get
back to his miserable room he had thought never
to see again.  There, at least, he would have
security for the moment, and a chance to pull
himself together.

So he sped on, dodging through cross streets
and down wide avenues, the wind whistling in his
ears unheeded, the cold penetrating anew his
flimsy garments.  As block after block was set
behind him without the expected happening, a
shaky sort of confidence began to take
possession of him.  And when at last he ran up the
steps of the dilapidated rooming house on
Twenty-fourth Street, he gave a long sigh of
relief.

"I'm glad I didn't throw it away, after all," he
muttered, feeling for his key with fingers blue
with cold.  "There's just a chance it may be good."

But in his heart he felt that the chance was slim
indeed.





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.. _`THE EMERALD RING.`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


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   THE EMERALD RING.

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In the absorption of the greater trouble,
Lawrence had quite forgotten one of his lesser
worries—his landlady.  That argus-eyed female was
on the watch, however, and darted up from the
basement just in time to catch him in the hall.

"I s'pose you're comin' to pay me the three
weeks' rent you're owin'?" she said, with sarcasm.

Lawrence winced at her tone.  He was not yet
hardened to that sort of a thing.

"I hope to have it for you this afternoon,
Mrs. Kerr," he returned quietly.

"You hope, do you?" shrilled the woman caustically.
"Well, let me tell you right here, I ain't
livin' on hopes.  If that money ain't paid down
by three o'clock, out you go.  I don't care if it is
below zero.  I've stood your triflin' long enough,
an' if you can't pay you can beat it an' find
another lodging place.  I hear they're letting
loafers sleep in the churches these nights.  That
might suit you, bein' it's free."

Barry's face flushed, and his hand strayed
toward the wallet in his pocket.  For a second he
was sorely tempted to hand her one of those crisp
twenties, and tell her to keep the change.  She
would never find out its worthlessness until he
was safe away.  He stifled the impulse, however,
and, repeating briefly that she should have her
money that afternoon, passed on up the stairs.

The instant his door was shut and the key
turned, he jerked the wallet out and opened it
with trembling fingers.  As he shook out the mass
of yellowbacks on the bed, the sight of them was
like a stab of a knife.  They looked so real it
seemed impossible that they could be counterfeit.

He took up a fifty, and, carrying it to the light,
examined it closely, feeling the texture and
scrutinizing every little detail with care.  He could
see nothing wrong about it.  Four months before,
had such a bill been offered him at the bank,
he would have accepted it without hesitation.

He took up another, which seemed equally
good.  He examined half a dozen without finding
a single flaw, and then decided that the
trouble was in himself.  His judgment was no
longer what it had been, and he dared not trust it.

"They look good, but they can't be," he muttered,
frowning down at the beautiful bits of yellow
paper strewn so carelessly over the bed.
"What the mischief can I do?"

For fully ten minutes he stood there, his eyes
thoughtful and his forehead wrinkled.  Then,
gathering the bills up, he put them all back in
the wallet save one, a ten; after which he lifted
the mattress, and shoved the wallet well underneath it.

"There!" he said, straightening up; "now, if
I'm pinched, they won't find but one on me.  I
hate to take this over to the bank, but that's the
only way I can be sure."

Ten minutes later he entered the big Twenty-third
Street National Bank, and walked directly
to one of the tellers.

"Will you kindly tell me if this is all right?" he
said quietly, thrusting the ten-dollar bill through
the window.

The teller picked it up, and examined it
intently.  Then he glanced keenly and with some
suspicion at Lawrence.

The latter bore the scrutiny well, however, and
the official looked the bill over carefully again,
drew it through his fingers, and finally tossed it
back.

"Certainly it's good," he said, rather brusquely.
"What made you think it wasn't?"

For a second Barry was silent.  He could not
have spoken to save his life.  Then he
stammered something about "just wanting to make
sure," and turned away, quite heedless of the
impatient exclamation of the teller at having his
time wasted in that manner.

Lawrence had no distinct recollection of how
he got back to his room.  His brain was in a
whirl, and the only thing which stood out vivid
and clean-cut was the realization that the money
was real.

Real!  Ye gods!  The thought intoxicated him
like champagne.  He forgot the cold and wind, his
thin clothes, his ravenous hunger.  He gave no
thought to who the donor might be, or how he
had acquired those crisp yellow bills.  They were
his, every one of them.  All he had to do was to
buy clothes, to take an apartment at the St. Albans,
to dine for a week at the Waldorf!  He
laughed aloud, and a shivering, frosty-nosed
citizen turned and stared after him suspiciously as
he hurried down the street.

Lawrence did not see this; nor, seeing, would
he have cared.  He flew through the snowy
streets, and on the doorstep of his lodging house
was smitten with a sudden fear for the safety of
his treasure.  Racing up the two flights of stairs,
he darted into his room and tore up the mattress.

The wallet was safe, but what might have been
made him tingle all over with a sickening sensation,
for he had gone out without even locking
his door.

Having turned the key, he sat down on the
bed, and opened the wallet.  Slowly, deliberately,
and with a delicious thrill, he counted the bills.
There were fifteen one hundreds, eight fifties,
and an odd hundred dollars in twenties and tens.

Evidently the little man in black had been
prepared for his acceptance of the extraordinary
offer, and the realization brought into Lawrence's
mind a swift wonder as to what it could all be
about.  What reason—what possible reason—could
the stranger have for making those astonishing,
seemingly absurd, conditions?  What
purpose would be accomplished by Barry's
appearing at the places mentioned for the short
space of a week?

Urged on by a fresh curiosity, Lawrence took
up the wallet again, to examine it for some mark
of identification.

It was of heavy pigskin, finely made, and bearing
the stamp of a well-known English firm.  That
much told nothing; but, in turning it over, Barry
noticed something which had escaped his
attention before.  One corner was bulkier than the
rest.  His inquiring fingers told him that there
was undoubtedly a hard object in one of the
numerous compartments of the case.

Eagerly he searched, and at last, slipping his
fingers into a slit in the back of the wallet, drew
forth a ring.

For a moment he sat staring at it in wonder
and admiration, for it was one of the strangest
jewels he had ever seen.

A great, square-cut emerald was in the center,
and twined about it were two serpents in dull,
exquisitely chiseled gold, with tiny flecks of
emerald for their eyes.  Their heads were slightly
raised, and the unknown craftsman had wrought
them in amazing similitude to life.  With patient
cunning he had carved each tiny line of flat,
broad head and sinuous, undulating body, until
it seemed to Barry as if the things must actually
wriggle presently, and dart out forked tongues.

"By Jove!" Lawrence exclaimed aloud.  "I
never saw anything like it in all my life.  That
emerald's a perfect whopper, and must be worth
a fortune.  He forgot to take it out, of course;
and, hang it all, I don't see how the mischief I
can get it back to him.  I don't even know his
name."

He slipped it on his finger, and found that it
fitted well.  Then, as he sat admiring its
perfect, almost uncanny, beauty, the thought flashed
into his mind that, by its means, he might solve
the mystery of the man in black.

"Of course he'll come for it," he thought.  "I
have only to keep it, and he'll show up before
long to claim it.  Then perhaps I'll find out
something."

He began to gather up the bills and stow them
carefully away, his fingers trembling with
excitement.  There was much to be done if he were
to carry out the stranger's conditions.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE POWER OF AVARICE.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE POWER OF AVARICE.

.. vspace:: 2

In the hall of the lodging house, Lawrence
stood by the door, holding a crisp yellowback in
his hand.  Mrs. Kerr was panting up the
basement stairs, from which came the odor of
cooking cabbage to join the ghosts of a thousand
boiled dinners that lingered in the stuffy, airless
place.

Barry was not yet used to it.  He felt stifled,
breathless, almost nauseated, and he longed to get
away.  He did not look at the ferretlike face
of the slovenly woman as he handed her the bill.
There was something about her he could not abide.

"Here's your money," he said brusquely.  "I
am leaving at once."

She grasped the bill, and examined it closely.
Then she flashed a swift, sidelong glance at
Lawrence.  There was something about his face and
bearing which she had never seen before, and it
aroused her curiosity.

"I ain't got a bit of change in the house," she
said, in a very different tone from the one she had
used an hour before.  "Mebbe you want it to
count on this week."

Barry's fingers had closed around the knob.

"You can keep the change," he returned
shortly.  "I said I was leaving at once.  I am not
coming back."

"Lord save us!" she gasped.  "Don't say that,
Mr. Lawrence.  Don't say as you're leavin' on
account of them hasty words I spoke this
mornin'.  Fergit it.  I'm a lonely widder woman as
has to work my fingers to the bone to make both
ends meet."  Her voice took on a whining tone.
"I has to count every penny, an' sometimes I'm
most distracted, an' says what I don't mean.  You——"

She broke off abruptly as the door slammed,
and instantly a venomous expression leaped into
her face.  Like a flash, she had yanked the door
open, and run out on the little stoop, to peer
around the corner.

For a moment or two she stood shivering in
the cold, her small, close-set eyes fixed intently on
the back of the man hurrying toward Ninth
Avenue.  When he had disappeared she came back
into the hall, her face thoughtful.

"Now, what's come to him, I wonder," she
muttered, making her way slowly back to the
basement stairs.  "It's somethin', I'll be bound.  I
never seen him look that way before.  He was
excited, too, when he come in before.  If I'd had
any sense I'd 'a' looked around his room whilst
he was out."

An instant later she was pounding up the stairs
to the top floor.  The door of the hall bedroom
was ajar, and, pushing it open, she walked in.
For a moment she stood there, her sharp eyes
taking in every detail of the miserable place.  The
scantily covered bed showed signs of having been
sat upon, but that was nothing unusual.  Most
of Mrs. Kerr's lodgers found the bed more
comfortable than the straight, hard chair she
supplied.  The woman noticed something else,
however, which brought a swift frown to her face,
and made her step quickly forward, and jerk up
the cornhusk mattress.

"He's been hiding something away here," she
snapped aloud, peering closely at the rusty
springs.  "I knowed it!  What a fool I was not
to look before! but who'd 'a' thought it, after the
times I've went through his——"

She broke off with a queer, choking sound, and
in a second every trace of color had left her face.
For a moment she stood as if turned to stone,
staring at the floor with a look of utter
incredulity in her narrowed eyes.  Then, with a
guttural sound, half groan, half exclamation of joy,
she dropped on her knees and snatched up a crisp
twenty-dollar bill that lay under the bed.

"Good Lord!" she gasped.

Stumbling to her feet, she held it out,
devouring it with her eyes.  Then, fumbling in her
dress, she drew forth the money Lawrence had
just given her, and compared the two.  Both were
crisp and new and yellow; both were uncreased,
as if they had lain together in the same long
wallet or package.  And Mrs. Kerr's eyes lit up with
a horrible sort of cupidity.

"An' I let him go!" she muttered, through
clenched teeth.  "I let him step out of the house
with his pockets full of dough, leaving a twenty
behind he never knowed he'd lost!  I'm a dope!
But mebbe it ain't too late.  Mebbe——  Jim!  Jim!"

Her face flushed and mottled, her hands
trembling, she flung herself into the hall and down
the stairs, calling the name at intervals.

She had reached the second floor, and was
panting toward a door in the rear, when it was
jerked open, and a man appeared on the threshold.

"Shut your face, you fool!" he snarled.
"What're you yowling round like that for?  You'll
bust yer pipes!"

She caught her breath with a queer gurgle, and,
putting out both hands, pushed him back into
the room.

"Wait till you see what I found," she gasped.
"Wait till you hear——"

Then the door slammed shut, and the sound of
her voice ceased abruptly, leaving the hall dark
and silent, save only for the rapid, indistinct
murmur rising and falling in the room beyond.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AS IN A DREAM.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AS IN A DREAM.

.. vspace:: 2

It was not until he had reached Broadway that
Lawrence remembered his failure to turn over
the latchkey before leaving the miserable
lodgings for good.  For a moment he hesitated,
wondering whether he ought to go back.  Then he
remembered the extra money he had given the
woman, and the small cost of a new key.

"She can get another for a quarter," he
murmured.  "Besides, I simply couldn't go back there
now.  I wonder I was able to stand the old
harridan as long as I did."

Dismissing the matter from his mind, he
turned down Broadway, and a few minutes later
entered the big clothing store of Butler & Bloss.

"I wish to look at some fur-lined coats," he
said quietly to the gray-haired man who stepped
up to him.

Whatever surprise the latter may have felt at
this request from a man wearing no overcoat at
all, and a thinnish suit, at that, none showed in
his face.  Besides looking the gentleman, Barry
had an undeniable air about him which
commanded respect.  No doubt he might have stepped
in from some near-by building without stopping
to put on his overcoat.  At any rate, the customer
had the appearance of one used to instant
consideration, so a salesman was summoned without
delay, and Barry was committed to his care.

Lawrence had decided that about five hundred
dollars of the expense sum should be reserved for
hotel, restaurants, and incidentals.  The
remainder, therefore, was left to be spent on his
wardrobe, for he had determined to carry out the
conditions of the strange bargain to the very letter.

For a full hour he was busy in the various
departments of Butler & Bloss, and though in that
time he ran up a bill of close on to four hundred
dollars, the fur-lined coat was his only
extravagance.  Even that was not expensive, as such
things go, but he had been so cold for so many
days that he could not resist the handsome
garment, with its luxurious lining and wide collar
of unplucked otter.

In addition to this, he bought another, lighter
overcoat, of soft dark cheviot, two sack suits,
and a Tuxedo.  There were also, of course,
several pairs of shoes necessary, shirts of various
sorts, collars, neckties, underwear, gloves, and
a quantity of various odds and ends, which added
materially to the total of the bill.  When he had
paid it, and ordered the things delivered at the
St. Albans before six o'clock, he slipped into the
fur coat, drew on a new pair of gloves, and went
out into the street.

There he did not hesitate an instant, but made
a bee line for the nearest Broadway restaurant.
The interest and excitement of spending money
after such a long deprivation had kept him from
realizing how ravenously hungry he was, but at
the first lull the fact smote him with renewed force.

The glamour of that first real meal in weeks
will linger long in the memory of Barry
Lawrence.  He ordered lavishly, luxuriously, and yet
with the instinctive good taste which had
characterized him in the days when that sort of thing
was a part of his regular life.  And, as the
courses followed one another, he ate slowly,
enjoying every mouthful, reveling in the hum and
buzz of conversation, the animated faces of the
people about him, and the plaintive murmur of
violins playing the latest popular airs.

It was during the progress of the meal that
he suddenly solved the problem of the evening
clothes which had been troubling him.  A dress
suit had always seemed to him the one thing it
was impossible to get ready-made, and for that
reason he had refrained from looking at them in
the shop.  A sudden remembrance came to him,
of the suit which Tyson, his tailor, up on
Thirty-eighth Street, had been making for him when the
crash came.  He had never shown up for the final
fitting, and it was just possible that the man had
held the garments, awaiting some word from him.

Having paid his bill and left the restaurant,
Barry walked through to Fifth Avenue and
turned up that thoroughfare toward the tailor's
rooms.  One might have supposed he would have
taken a stage or taxi, but no such thought
entered his head.  Walking, when one is well fed
and well clothed, is a very different thing from
the exhausting struggle of that morning, when
the cold seemed to freeze his very marrow.

He reveled in the warm comfort of his fur-lined
coat and heavy deerskin gloves.  The
passing crowd pleased him, and the very contents of
the shop windows interested him as they had
never done when he had been penniless.  There
were few things among the myriads displayed in
such tempting array which he could not step in
and buy if he chose.  The fact that he did not
choose made no difference whatever.

Past the brick façade of the Waldorf he walked
briskly, glancing in at the dining-room windows
with a smile.  He would dine there later.  It was
a pleasant thought.

The tailor welcomed him heartily, gave the suit
of evening clothes a final fitting, and promised to
have it completed and delivered at the St. Albans
by evening.

Presently Lawrence crossed the avenue, and
purchased a handsome stick.  A little farther on
he remembered the need of cuff links and studs.
A firm of famed goldsmiths was near at hand,
and without hesitation Barry entered.

As the tray of cuff links was lifted out and set
on the glass case, Lawrence naturally stripped
off his gloves to examine the articles more closely.
He gave no thought to the fact that the serpent
ring was still on his finger, where he had placed
it for safe-keeping, but he was speedily reminded
of its presence there by the behavior of the salesman.

The man could scarcely keep his eyes off it.
He stared and stared, fidgeted about, and stared
again.  Finally, unable to contain himself longer,
he spoke.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, in a quick,
nervous manner, "but you have a wonderful ring
there."

Lawrence did not lift his eyes from the tray.

"I think it rather good myself," he admitted.

His tone was intended to quell this unwelcome
display of interest, but it quite failed of its effect.

"I have never seen anything like it before," the
salesman went on rapidly.  "Would you mind if
I—looked at it more closely?"

Barry glanced up with a faint frown, alert for
the hidden meaning in the man's words.  What
he saw reassured him.  The wide brow, the
vibrant, tapering fingers—above all, the soft brown
eyes, shining with enthusiastic interest—all
pointed toward an expert in his line, to whom a
thing of beauty was a source of joy, no matter
where he found it.

Without a word, Lawrence extended his hand,
and the salesman bent over it, his eyes devouring
the ring.

"Extraordinary!" he murmured, half to
himself.  "The stone is perfect, and worth a small
fortune, but the workmanship is even more
unusual."  He sighed a little, and went on in a rapt
tone: "Eastern, of course.  Probably Indian,
but not the stuff they make there now.  I should
place it in the reign of Shah Jahan, the golden
age of Delhi—over three hundred years ago.  But
of course you know all this.  I must beg your
pardon for letting my interest get the better of me."

"You needn't," Barry returned.  "I am very
glad to know what you have told me.  The
former owner of the ring gave me little or no
information of its history."

Having, concluded his purchases, to which he
added a silver cigarette case, he continued his
walk up the avenue in a rather thoughtful mood.

So the ring had come from India!  Still, that
proved nothing.  He could not picture the little
man in black having anything to do with that
country, and it did not really follow that he had.
No doubt the emerald had passed through
numberless hands since leaving the loving fingers of
its creator.

It was foolish to waste time puzzling over a
problem the solution of which was beyond his
reach.  Besides, Lawrence had a curious feeling
of irresponsibility, a conviction that he was in
the hands of fate.  What was to be, would be.
There was nothing left for him to do but float
with the current.  Since that current promised
at the moment to take him into pleasant places,
he made no effort to struggle out of it, or swim
away.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NEW GRACE AND DIGNITY.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NEW GRACE AND DIGNITY.

.. vspace:: 2

It was half past six, and Lawrence stood in
the bedroom of his attractive suite, taking a last
critical look at his reflection in the long mirror.

Mrs. Kerr would scarcely have recognized in
that tall, distinguished figure in evening dress her
former lodger.  Somehow, it was not the clothes
alone which made the difference, though they
had, of course, much to do with it.  Few men
there are who do not feel the influence of
well-cut, perfectly fitting evening clothes.

With Barry, however, the transformation was
something deeper and far more encompassing.
His face seemed actually fuller, and it glowed
with color.  His eyes sparkled with excitement.
He carried himself with a new grace and dignity.
His whole expression was that of a man in love
with life, and determined to extract from it the
last drop of enjoyment.

Naturally he was quite unconscious of all this
as he stared into the glass.  He was occupied in
noting the fit of the coat about his broad
shoulders, and the effect of the barber's shears upon
his wavy blond crop.  Both seemed satisfactory.

"Tyson never did a better piece of work in his
life," he said aloud, with satisfaction.

Turning from the glass, he reached for his
fur-lined coat, and slipped it on.  The room was
cluttered with parcels and boxes, opened and
unopened.  Clothes were strewn over bed and
chairs.  It was too late now to put them away.
He could do that later.

Taking up the pigskin wallet from the
dressing table, he extracted a hundred dollars, and
slipped the bills into an inner pocket.
Downstairs he handed the wallet to the clerk, asking
him to put it into the safe, and sallied forth to
where a taxi waited by the curb.

The corridors of the Waldorf were agleam
with lights, and resounded with a buzz of talk,
the swish of skirts and gay laughter of pretty
women, not a few of whom turned for a second
glance at Lawrence as he made his way slowly to
the dining room.

Here the head waiter met him, and ushered
him deferentially to the table which had been
reserved by telephone.  Another man, deft and
silent-footed, took his order.

Barry leaned back with a barely perceptible
sigh of pleasure.  It was good to be back in his
own world again; good to watch the many faces,
with their swiftly varying expressions, to hear
the chance remarks that filtered to his ears
through the soft music from the orchestra.

Resolutely he thrust all thought of the future
from his mind.  There were to be six more nights
like this, and when the last one had passed it
would be quite time to turn to serious things.

The oysters had passed, and the soup.  Barry
was just finishing his entrée when, happening to
glance around at a table standing somewhat back
of him and on his right, he experienced a shock.

Two men were dining there alone.  The one
who faced him, and whose expression was almost
ludicrous in its mixture of startled surprise and
outraged anger, was short and stout and rather
pompous.  He was Robert Tappin, president of
the Beekman Trust Company.  His companion,
black-haired and ruddy-cheeked, with full lips,
and the blue tinge of a heavy beard showing on
his clean-shaven face, was Julian Farr, the
cashier.

Lawrence disliked them both with the intensity
which only a man can feel for those who have
wronged him deeply.  A little over four months
before he had been one of the tellers in that
institution.  A defalcation was discovered.
Several thousand dollars was missing from the cash,
and Barry was accused of theft.  There was no
real proof against him, but the money had been
in his charge; and, though Lawrence vehemently
protested his innocence, he was summarily discharged.

Not only that, but for weeks he had been
followed by detectives set on by Tappin for the
purpose apparently of finding out what he had done
with the loot.  Day and night they dogged his
footsteps.  Half a dozen times Barry had landed
a position, only to lose it the next day, certain
that these men had gone to his new employers
with their lying tale.

Now these two who had nearly wrecked his life
must turn up here to spoil his new-found
pleasure.  With sudden fierce determination,
Lawrence resolved that they should not.  Pulling
himself together, he met Tappin's amazed look
with a cool stare of utter blankness which
staggered the man.  Then he turned back and went
on composedly with his dinner.

It was impossible to forget them, however.
Though he did not turn again, he felt that their
eyes were fixed upon him, and he knew as surely
as if he had heard the whispered words that they
were talking about him.

Nevertheless, he finished his meal leisurely.
When the check had been paid, he arose and made
his way slowly toward the door, without a
backward glance.

His preoccupation prevented his noticing a
rather odd incident which happened on his way
out.  Near the door, sitting alone at a small table,
was a short, thickset man of forty odd, with a
rather full, round face, helped out to some degree
by a pointed Vandyke beard, tinged with gray.

During the progress of the meal he had been
not a little interested in Lawrence, if one could
judge by the frequent keen glances he shot across
the room.  But now, as Barry came toward him,
he swiftly dropped his head, seemingly absorbed
in the menu which lay before him.  Not until the
younger man had disappeared did he raise his
eyes, and then a close observer might have noticed
in them a curious, enigmatic expression.

Within three minutes the table by the door was empty.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GATES OF CHANCE.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GATES OF CHANCE.

.. vspace:: 2

At the Fifth Avenue corner Lawrence paused,
leaning on his stick, and glancing up and down
the brilliant thoroughfare.  Though it was too
late for the theater, the night was still young,
and he was wondering just how he would put in
the hours before bedtime.

In the old days, before his disgrace, he would
have headed straight for the Harvard Club, on
Forty-fourth Street, and been sure of a pleasant,
lazy evening; but now the thought did not appeal
to him.  In some ways Barry was unusually
sensitive, and it had happened that the few
acquaintances he encountered shortly after leaving the
bank seemed cool and offish in their manner.

Whether that was really so, and chance had
thrown the caddishly inclined in his way, or
whether he had simply imagined it all, did not
matter now.  The result had been to embitter the
young man, and make him determined to take no
further chances of snubbing from those he had
supposed his friends.

The club was, therefore, impossible.  It was
equally out of the question to look up any one
else he had known in his prosperous days.  As for
relatives—well, Barry was singularly deficient in
that respect.  Save some cousins in Boston, and
an aunt living in Providence, he was quite alone
in the world.

In spite of this, the pause at the corner was
not a long one.  Lawrence wanted to walk.  The
fascination of the great city still held him in a
vise.  The novelty of seeing it in this wonderful
new light had not even begun to wear off.  He
wanted to watch the people, look into the shop
windows, smoke his cigar, secure in the
knowledge that he was safe against cold and hunger
and distress.

Wondering which way to turn, Barry's eyes
fell upon an approaching Thirty-fourth Street
car, and whimsically he determined to take the
opposite direction to that of the first alighting
passenger.  With a faint smile curving his
sensitive mouth, and lurking in the pleasant gray
eyes, he saw a man bustle off the front platform,
dart across the tracks, and hurry on up the
avenue.  Then, without hesitation, Lawrence
wheeled about, and walked briskly downtown.

There was a certain fascination in walking thus
at random, having no fixed plan, no definite
destination.  He had done exactly the same thing in
the weary weeks which now seemed so dim and
nebulous and far away; but this was quite
different.  He was well fed and immaculately garbed.
There was money in his pockets, and a fine cigar
between his teeth.  When he tired of rambling
he had simply to hail a taxi or step on a car and
be whirled back to the luxurious apartment which
belonged to him—for a week, at least.

And so it pleased him to feel again that he was
in the hands of fate; that the gates of chance had
opened to his touch, admitting him to a strange,
fantastic city where anything might happen, and
nothing was beyond the bounds of probability.

As he walked briskly southward, he amused
himself for a time by watching the passers-by,
and inventing stories to fit their appearance.  But
this soon palled.  They were all so bundled up,
and hurried past so swiftly through the bitter
air, that all Barry could think of was how cold
they were and how anxious to get home.

Then he took to regulating his course by means
of odd devices.  If a certain man crossed the
avenue at Twenty-eighth Street, he would follow
the example.  If the next kept on downtown,
Lawrence would turn eastward on Twenty-seventh
Street, and the like.

It happened that the man turned into the side
street, and Barry continued straight ahead until,
high above the icy branches of the naked trees,
the glittering Metropolitan Tower, ethereal and
fairylike, in spite of its colossal bulk, loomed
before his eyes.

He paused an instant, while the silvery chimes
rang out the hour of nine.  There were many
directions in which he might turn his steps, but at
the moment the square seemed singularly
deserted.  At length his glance shifted to the bright,
open space beyond him, where three streets
joined, and he smiled.

"If that Broadway car is a Lexington," he
murmured, "I'll cut across the square."

The car approached, swerved off, and turned
east on Twenty-third Street; and Lawrence
promptly wheeled into the winding walk, and
briskly followed the diagonal course.

The benches, usually so full of loungers, were
deserted now.  The fountain in the center was
filled with dingy snow, while ice glittered on the
iron railing about it.  The wind, whistling across
the open space, penetrated even the thick fur of
Barry's coat a little, and made him half wish that
guiding street car had not led him thither.  He
did not turn back, however; he was too much
interested in this game of chance to give it up just
because it had so far failed to bring him anything
out of the ordinary.

Rounding the desolate fountain, he slipped on
a treacherous bit of ice.  When he recovered his
equilibrium, he saw that a woman was coming
toward him along the cement path.  She walked
hurriedly, yet there was an odd touch of
indecision in her movements which puzzled Barry.

As they approached each other, she passed
under the glare of an electric light, and
Lawrence noticed for the first time how slim and
girlish she was.  She seemed little more than a child.
Certainly she ought not to be on the streets at
that hour and in such bitter weather.

As she came nearer he saw that she had no
muff or neck-piece, and that her little suit seemed
woefully inadequate.  Her face was invisible
under the wide brim of the black hat, but she did
not pause or falter or even glance up at him.

Then came a sound which turned Barry's sigh
into a quick gasp of pain, and made him whirl
around to stare after the slight, retreating figure.
It was a stifled sob, carried to his ears by the
vagrant wind, until it seemed as clear and
pitiful as if she had stood close beside him.  Another
followed, and another still.  The girl was crying
as if her heart would break.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A WOMAN IN DISTRESS.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A WOMAN IN DISTRESS.

.. vspace:: 2

For a second Lawrence stood rooted to the
pavement.  His first impulse was to follow her.
She was in trouble, and perhaps he could help
her.  He took a few quick steps back toward the
fountain, and stopped still.  How could he speak
to her?  How could he offer to do her a service?
She would misconstrue his motives, and be
terrified.  She would——

A faint cry, which was little more than a
startled exclamation of terror, cut short Barry's
mental reasonings, and in a second he was
running forward with long, lithe strides.  As he
approached the fountain he saw another figure
scurrying away across the snow toward Madison
Avenue.  The girl was crouching against the
ice-covered railing, steadying herself with one small,
gloved hand, and, as Lawrence came straight
toward her, he saw that she was trembling violently.

"You called me," he said quietly.

For a second she made no response.  Her
fingers still clutched the iron railing; her whole
attitude was that of one driven into a corner and
standing at bay.  From under the shadowy hat
brim Barry could see that her lips were pressed
tightly together.  Her eyes, wide with a
desperate sort of fear, were fixed upon his face.

"I heard you call out," Barry said gently.  "I
thought you were frightened at something."

Something in his voice, or perhaps his face—the
light was very bright around the snowy
fountain—reassured her.  Her eyes lost a little of
that look of terror, and her fingers relaxed their
grip on the iron railing.

"I was," she answered, in a low, uneven, and
charming voice, "terribly frightened.  That—man——"

Suddenly she put up both hands to her face,
and swiftly turned from him.  Scarcely a sound
came from her, but the sight of that bowed head
and the convulsively heaving shoulders, showing
but too plainly through the thin cloth of her short
coat, hurt Lawrence desperately, and brought a
lump into his throat.  She seemed so young and
frail and girlish, so utterly unfitted to cope with
the world, that a quick impulse came to the man
to take her in his arms and comfort her exactly
as one does a child.  He realized instantly, of
course, that such a thing would be impossible.

"Please don't," he said softly, after a moment's
silence.  "It's all right now."  He watched her
trembling hands searching for a handkerchief,
and then he went on, with deliberately forced
cheerfulness: "I tell you what we'll do.  If
you'll let me, I'll walk along with you, so there
won't be a chance of anything like this
happening again."

She ceased dabbing her eyes, and, turning
slowly, looked long and searchingly into his face.
"You are very kind," she said at length, and
Barry caught again that faint, Southern
intonation which he had not been quite sure of before;
"but it is a long distance, and I think I can
manage by myself.  I—am used to going about alone."

"But you really wouldn't be taking me out of
my way—if that's what you were thinking,"
Lawrence expostulated.  "I haven't a thing to do.
I'm out for a walk, and one direction is just as
good as another for me.  I hate to think of your
taking any more chances."

For a second the girl hesitated.  Then her lids
drooped a little, and she swayed the least bit,
putting out one hand blindly to steady herself
against the railing.

Barry stepped swiftly forward, and took her arm.

"Come!" he said, with a whimsical sort of
positiveness.  "You really must!  I know it's
unconventional, and all that, but we'll probably
never see each other after to-night.  I'll leave
you wherever you wish, and say good night.  You
were heading toward Broadway, weren't you?
Well, we'll go together."

The girl made no protest.  Perhaps it was
because she had come to the end of her rope, and
had no strength left.  Perhaps she sensed
intuitively the motives which governed this frank,
straightforward stranger who had come to her
aid so opportunely.  At all events, she let her
hand rest upon his arm, and walked with him
back through the square, across Twenty-fifth
Street, into the dazzling stretch of Broadway.

The touch of her hand brought again to Barry
that odd desire to protect and comfort her.  By
this time he knew that she was almost perishing
with cold.  In spite of her effort to control
herself, he felt she was shaking violently, and every
now and then the unconscious weight of her hand
on his arm made him wonder whether some other
thing than cold had not contributed to her weakness.

He wanted desperately to do something, yet
somehow he could not think of any way.  He
had not asked her where she wished to go, and
the girl herself volunteered nothing.

And so they walked on up New York's great
artery, he talking carelessly, lightly, and
frequently at random as his brain worked in
another totally different direction, she answering
him briefly now and then in her soft, tired voice,
but more often silent—out of sheer weariness, he
guessed.

Suddenly the electric sign of a well-known
restaurant blazing before his eyes gave Lawrence
the clew he had been seeking, and he stopped
abruptly.

"Are you in very much of a hurry?" he asked.

She glanced up at him swiftly, and he was
struck anew by the charm of her-wonderful eyes,
the delicate beauty of her mouth and chin.

"Not very," she said, in an odd, restrained tone.
"Why?"

"I was wondering whether you'd do me a
favor," Barry returned glibly.  "I meant to get
a bite of supper here, and I hate to eat alone.  If
you'd only take pity on me, and keep me
company, I'd be everlastingly obliged.  After that
we can take a car to where you're going, so's to
make up time."

Again she sent a long, searching glance into his
candid, level gray eyes.  Then suddenly she
laughed, a curious laugh, which had no mirth in
it, but rather held an undercurrent of intense
pathos.

"Very well," she said quietly, with an odd
gesture of her hands.

Her manner brought the color into Barry's
cheeks, and made him wonder whether she saw
through his clumsy subterfuge.  He did not
hesitate, however, but stood aside for her to enter
the turnstile door, following close behind.

The dining room was almost empty, for it was
the quiet interval which comes between dinner
and the after-theater supper crowd.  They were
ushered at once to a table against the wall.

While Barry was slipping out of his coat he
noticed the girl glancing into a mirror beside her,
touching her hair here and there, and giving the
frilly lace thing at her neck an unconscious pat.
She was still shaking a little, and when she drew
off her gloves he saw that she was gently chafing
her hands together beneath the shelter of the
white cloth.

Her hair was brown, thick, and dark, with
glints of copper in it, and waved attractively
above her brow.  Her eyes were almost of the
same shade, with long, curling lashes, which
made them seem almost too large for the
delicate, oval face.  Her mouth was sensitive, and
infinitely appealing with its pathetic downward
droop at the corners.  There was an unmistakable
refinement in everything about her; and, in
spite of the fact that she was very tiny, she held
herself with an air which made Barry quite
forget her forlorn condition.

"How the mischief could I have ever taken her
for a child?" he thought, with a faint flush of
embarrassment, as he reached for the card.  "I
suppose it was because she seemed so little and
helpless."





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.. _`SHIRLEY RIVES.`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   SHIRLEY RIVES.

.. vspace:: 2

Having ordered two portions of a nourishing
bouillon to be served at once, Lawrence picked
out several dishes, then leaned back in his chair.

"I quite forgot to introduce myself," he said,
with quick, boyish impulsiveness.  "My name is
Lawrence—Barry Lawrence."

A faint, shadowy smile curved the girl's lips.
The warmth of the room was beginning to touch
her cheeks with color, and make her even more
lovely than before.

"It will be easier," she conceded gravely.  "I
am Shirley Rives."

"From Virginia?" Barry inquired quickly, then
bit his lips.  "I beg your pardon," he added
contritely.  "I forgot for a second that I meant to
ask no questions."

"That one doesn't matter," she said quietly.  "I
am from Virginia.  Since you've asked it,
though, I'll venture one myself: Do you
happen, by any chance, to be a Harvard man?"

Barry stared.  "Why, yes!" he exclaimed.
"How in the world did you guess?"

"You seem rather like other Cambridge men
I've known," she answered slowly.  "I had a
cousin there, and his friends used to visit——"

She broke off abruptly, as if regretting that she
had been so frank, and for a moment there was
silence as she touched one of the forks nervously.

"I don't know that it makes much difference,"
she went on at length.  "His name is Philip
Calvert.  Perhaps you knew him."

Barry laughed boyishly, and then bent forward
with sparkling eyes.  "Of course I did!" he
exclaimed.  "He was a junior the year I was
graduated.  To think of my meeting Phil Calvert's
cousin in New York!  I knew chance was going
to bring me something pleasant when I started
out this evening."

There was a moment's pause while the waiter
placed the soup before them.  Somehow, Barry
had a feeling that the girl was more than
hungry, and, though he did not see how he could
take a mouthful after his luxurious dinner at the
Waldorf, he did his best to seem ravenous
himself, talking all the while, so that she might not
see how little he was really eating.

The girl sipped the bouillon slowly and
leisurely, listening to her companion's whimsical
account of his progress down Fifth Avenue that
night, and occasionally making a light comment
of her own.  One would never have guessed, to
watch her, that she could have drained the cup at
a single swallow.

Lawrence's surmise as to her desperate condition
was more the result of intuition, helped on
a little by details he observed from time to time,
rather than anything he saw in her manner.

Little by little it was borne upon his
consciousness that the extraordinary trimness which had
puzzled him at first was nothing more than the
painful neatness of extreme poverty, combined
with innate good taste.  The wide black hat was
simply trimmed, and showed signs of wear.  The
perfectly fitting suit was of good material, but
had been brushed and sponged until it was
almost threadbare.  The shirt waist of fine cambric
looked as if it had been washed time and again
with jealous care by the girl's own hands.  On
one sleeve a tear had been repaired with painful
neatness.

All this Barry noticed as he talked on, wondering
to himself how under the sun a cousin of his
fastidious, seemingly wealthy, college mate could
possibly have been reduced to such straits.  But
he asked no questions, nor did he in his manner
betray the slightest touch of curiosity.  He was
only too thankful to see, under the influence of
warmth and comfort and nourishing food, the
color coming back into the girl's face, the sparkle
to her eyes, and that tired droop of her mouth
growing less and less noticeable.

As the meal progressed, however, his curiosity
was gratified.  It was inevitable that the
discovery of a mutual friend should make some
difference in the girl's attitude toward Lawrence.
From discussing Calvert—who, it appeared, had
been in Manila for over a year—the girl's story
came out bit by bit.

More than likely Shirley Rives would never
have thought of starting out to tell it to any one
from beginning to end.  But, while he did not
express it by a single word, she seemed to feel
Barry's sympathy, and be comforted by it.  She
had been bearing her troubles alone for so long
that the temptation to talk a little about them
to some one else was irresistible.  And, last of
all, she, too, seemed to feel that night something
of Barry's attitude toward fate.  She had come
to the end of her rope, and was desperate.  When
one is in that pass conventions seem very petty,
and life is stripped to the bones.

The story Lawrence gathered from a chance
word here, a sentence there, was very old and
hackneyed.  It was really threadbare, yet the
personality of the girl across the table lent it a vivid,
enthralling interest.

Orphaned a year before, and left in straitened
circumstances, Shirley Rives had taken the few
hundred dollars remaining after the settlement of
the encumbered estate, and come to New York
to earn her living.  Having no particular talent,
and no influence, stenography seemed the only
thing left her.  She took a course in a
correspondence school, and then obtained a position.
Three months later the firm changed its
organization, and she was cast adrift.  She got
another place, after eating into her diminishing
capital, but the wholesale company was presently
absorbed by a trust.  Another period of enforced
idleness ensued before she was taken on in a
broker's office, only to be forced to leave by the
unwelcome attentions of a junior partner.

That was three weeks ago.  Since then she
had failed to find anything.  Her money became
exhausted, and the board bill remained unpaid.
The landlady gave her notice to pay or leave.
The room had been rented late in the afternoon
to another woman.  Since then she had walked
the streets, dazed, bewildered, not knowing what
to do or where to go.

It was all told in snatches, but the thought of
this girl, delicate and refined and well-bred, thrust
out into the streets at such a time, without a
penny, and with no place to go, made Barry's
blood boil.  Again came that intense desire to
do something for her, accompanied by that same
maddening sense of helplessness he had felt before.

"You were hurrying when I saw you first," he
said at length.

She moved her shoulders a little.  "It was
partly to keep warm," she explained quietly, "and
partly because I had just thought of a sort of
forlorn hope."

"And that was——"

"A girl who used to work with me in the
wholesale house; she was very nice, and we got
to be good friends.  She used to live on
Forty-eighth Street, and I thought she would take me
in to-night."

"How long is it since you've seen her?" Barry asked.

"Some months.  I was tired, and it's a long
way to Forty-eighth Street."

She tried to speak lightly, but Lawrence could
see that old look of desperation, banished for a
time, again lurking in her eyes.

"But what if she's moved?" he asked.  "What
if you shouldn't find her at the old address?"

She tried to smile, but her lips only quivered.
And though she held her head high, like the
thoroughbred she was, the expression in her eyes
cut Barry to the quick.

"I—hadn't thought," she answered, in a low tone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HIDE AND SEEK.`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   HIDE AND SEEK.

.. vspace:: 2

For a second Lawrence was silent, as a thought
flashed through his brain as to the pathetic plight
of the girl.  The next instant he bent forward
across the table, his clear gray eyes fixed upon
hers, and holding her wavering gaze.

"I want to tell you a little story, Miss Rives,"
he said, in a hurried, almost jerky, tone, "and
then I want you to do me a favor.  Wait, please!
Don't say you won't until you've heard me.  This
morning I left a miserable hall bedroom over on
the West Side to walk the streets, because I could
not face the woman I owed three weeks' rent."

She caught her breath quickly, and, as her eyes
flashed to the wonderful emerald ring on his
finger and back again to the pearls gleaming in his
immaculate shirt, an expression of bewildered
incredulity came into her face.

"I know," Barry went on hastily; "it seems
impossible, but it's true.  I'd had little to eat for
days.  My last nickel went for a cup of coffee.
I had only a single penny left.  I was cold and
hungry and desperate.  I had been out of a job
for months, and there wasn't the slightest
prospect of getting one.  You see, there's scarcely a
person in New York who could understand as I
do what you have been through—and what may
be before you now."

He paused an instant, but she made no comment.
Her eyes were fixed intently on him as
if his story held her entranced.

"For hours I walked the streets, then took
refuge in a railway station to keep from freezing,"
Lawrence continued presently.  "And there,
when everything was blackest, when it seemed
as if not a single hope remained, the wheel of
fortune turned.  From the lowest depths I was
hoisted in a moment to a height I had come to
believe impossible."

A faint, puzzled line had come into her low
forehead.  For a moment she waited, expecting
him to continue.  When he did not, she raised
her eyebrows a trifle.

"But how——" she began.

"I can't tell you," he put in swiftly.  "I've
promised to keep silent.  I can only say that I
was given a very large sum of money to carry out
certain conditions, and that those conditions carry
with them no loss of self-respect.  What I want
you to do is to take a little—just a little—of this
money to tide you over this period of hard luck."

A sudden color flamed into her face, and her
lips parted.  Before she could utter a word Barry
went on pleadingly:

"Please don't say no, Miss Rives.  The situation
is desperate.  If this girl friend of yours
has moved, what will you do?  Even if she is
still there, I don't suppose you would keep on
accepting hospitality from one who probably
couldn't afford it.  I can, you see, and if you'll
only look upon me as Phil's friend, acting in his
place, I'm sure you won't refuse."

For a long minute the girl sat staring into his
frank, kindly face with eyes which seemed to
plumb his very soul.  Perhaps it was what she
saw there that made her give in; perhaps it was
the thoughts which flashed through her mind
of the awful streets, wind-swept and dark and
bitter cold, with even more poignant terrors
lurking in the shadows.  At all events, she sighed
faintly, and reached for her gloves.

"Very well, Mr. Lawrence," she said quietly.
"You may lend me—ten dollars."

"But that isn't——"

"It is quite enough," she put in decidedly, "to
make me grateful to you as long as I live.  Would
you mind—if we go now?  It's getting late."

Without further protest, Barry paid the bill at
once, and helped her on with her coat.  As they
reached the street he handed her a ten-dollar
bill, which she slipped into her worn glove with
another brief word of thanks.

The ride uptown was a rather silent one.
Barry did most of the talking, for he felt that the
girl would rather say little.

At Forty-eighth Street they got out, and,
turning westward, walked briskly through the chilly
street.  As they approached a certain shabby-looking
house midway in a block, Miss Rives,
glancing upward, gave an exclamation of satisfaction
at the sight of a light in the front room
on the top floor.

"I'm sure Sally's still there," she said, turning
to Lawrence.  "She used to sit up reading till all
hours."  She hesitated an instant, and then went
on more slowly: "I think I'd better go to the
door alone.  The woman who keeps the house
is very kind, and, even if Sally's gone, she'll take
me in.  Good-by, Mr. Lawrence, and—thank
you—a thousand times, for what you have done.
Will you—give me your address so that I can
send back the money—when I have it?"

Barry's fingers closed firmly over the hand she
held out.

"I'm at the St. Albans just now," he returned.
"But I probably won't stay there long.  Wouldn't
it be better if I looked you up to see how you're
getting on?"

For a bare second Shirley Rives hesitated.
Then she turned away, and began mounting the steps.

"I should be very glad to see you again,
Mr. Lawrence," she answered.  "Good night!"

From a little distance Barry watched her ring
the bell, saw the door open with almost no delay
at all, and heard a brief murmur of conversation.
When the girl finally stepped into the house and
the door closed, he turned away with a sigh of
satisfaction, and started back toward Broadway.

He had not gone more than a few steps when
he saw approaching the lights of a rapidly
moving carriage, and a moment later a well-appointed
private brougham passed him, the iron-shod hoofs
of the spirited horses striking sparks from the
icy street.  A vague, languid curiosity stirred
him as to what a conveyance of that sort was
doing there at that hour, but it swiftly vanished in
the interest of another discovery.

Reaching the corner of Eighth Avenue, he
happened to glance swiftly to his right, and
noticed a man standing silently in the corner of a
darkened doorway.  There was nothing very
extraordinary in this, save for the fact that it was
a night which offered no temptations for loitering
in the street; but there was something about the
powerful, square-shouldered figure, accentuated
by the heavy ulster which enveloped it, that
struck Lawrence as oddly familiar.  The coat
collar was turned up and buttoned close; the brim of
the soft felt hat was pulled well down, so as to
conceal the face, but in spite of that a bit of
grizzled beard was visible, which stimulated Barry's memory.

In that momentary hesitation on the curb he
remembered that just such a man had been
standing in another doorway near the restaurant as
they left it less than an hour before, and he
wondered at the curious coincidence which should
bring about this second meeting.

Before he reached Broadway Lawrence began
to have doubts as to whether it really was a
coincidence or not.  Another man would have
thought nothing of the matter; but Barry had
lately been through an experience of shadowing
which taught him many things about the
methods of private detectives and others of their ilk,
which had produced in him a habit of being
constantly on guard.

At least it would do no harm to be sure, he
thought, and, rounding the corner of Broadway,
he hastened forward a few steps to the entrance
of a moving-picture theater.  Once within its
shelter, he swiftly found a spot where the
plate-glass windows of the ticket booth acted as an
admirable reflector.  Then, back squarely to the
street, and eyes riveted on the improvised
mirror, he leisurely undid his fur coat, as leisurely
produced a cigarette from his case, and hunted
for his match box.

It was just as he struck a light that his
patience was rewarded.  In the glass he saw the
stranger steal silently into view around the
corner, hesitate for the fraction of a second, then,
catching sight of Barry's back, as softly
withdrew out of sight.

"So that's your little game, is it?" Lawrence
reflected, with a grim smile, as he lighted the
cigarette with care, and flicked the match into
the street.  "Looks as if there might be a bit of
fun in this."

Buttoning his coat, he started briskly down
Longacre Square, swinging his stick with the air
of a man who was just beginning a constitutional.
In front of the Astor he paused a second,
as if half minded to enter the brilliant hostelry.
Then, without warning, he turned abruptly,
stepped into the street, and headed for the Times
Building.  As he did so he caught a glimpse, out
of the corner of his eye, of his pursuer, half a
block in the rear.

With a chuckle of amusement, Barry passed
the outdoor subway entrance, and walked swiftly
into the lower floor of the building.  The instant
he was inside, he hastened his steps, hurried past
the stairs leading down into the underground
road, pushed his way through the throng which
crowded the big drug store that occupied the
ground floor, and emerged on Forty-second Street.

A crosstown car was just getting up speed as
he dashed across the street; and with some
difficulty he raced forward and swung himself
aboard.  A backward glance showed that his
bearded friend was nowhere in sight, and
Lawrence smiled again.

Nevertheless, he did not relax his vigilance.
Making his way through to the front of the car,
he sat down on one of the little seats just behind
the motorman, and made no attempt to alight
until Madison Avenue had been reached.  Here
he slipped off, dodged around the front of the
car, slid across the slippery pavement, and was
engulfed in the comparative shadow of the
Manhattan in an instant.

The three blocks to Forty-fifth were passed in
as many minutes.  Around the corner of the
cross street, however, he sought a secluded
doorway, and waited patiently for as much as five
minutes, with the pleasant, ever-growing
conviction that his man had been eluded.

"Not quite clever enough, my friend," he
murmured, as he crossed the dark and rather silent
street, heading for the bright entrance of the
St. Albans near Fifth Avenue.

Part way down the block stood a pair of
old-fashioned brownstone houses, and, as he passed
the shadowy bulk of the first high stoop, Barry
chuckled again.

"Not quite clever enough," he repeated
amusedly.  "You'll have to get up a trifle early
to——"

Crash!  From behind, something struck his
head with a crushing force that sent him to his
knees, stick flying one way, top hat the other.

With a hoarse cry of anger, he strove dazedly
to turn and grapple with the unknown assailant.
Before he could do so the heavy weapon
descended for the second time.  There was a shower
of stars, a sickening sense of faintness, and, with
a groan, Lawrence toppled forward on his face,
to lie still and silent on the icy pavement.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PUZZLED.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   PUZZLED.

.. vspace:: 2

How long Barry Lawrence lay there unconscious
he did not know.  Afterward he realized
that it could have been no more than a minute or
two, but at the moment he was too occupied with
what was occurring near him to waste time on
that score.

Even before he opened his eyes he was vaguely
aware that a struggle was going on close at hand.
The thud of feet, the heavy breathing, mingled
with occasional oaths, subdued, but fervent, told
him that, and acted as a spur on his dazed senses.

A moment later, as he pulled himself to a
crouching position on the pavement, he discerned
through the darkness two figures swaying in
close embrace a dozen feet away.

What did it mean?  Who were they?  He could
not understand why they were fighting there,
instead of carrying out the object of their attack
on him.  Then, as his sight cleared, he suddenly
discovered that one of them was the bulky man
in the soft hat whom he had lately been
pluming himself on having given the slip so
completely.  The other was taller and wore no
overcoat; beyond that Lawrence could make out no
distinguishing features.

Suddenly, out of the bewildering chaos of
Barry's mind, came the swift realization that one
of these men was apparently on his side.  There
could be no question that one was fighting in his
behalf to prevent the other from carrying out the
object of the cowardly attack, whatever that
might be.

Of reason or motive for that attack, Barry
knew none, but he was strongly moved for a
moment to join in the mix-up, and get in a blow or
two he was aching to deliver.  He even secured
his hat and stick, and was on the point of
struggling to his feet, when he remembered that he
had no idea which was the friend and which the
enemy.  He was not even sure that either of
them was a friend.

What could he do?

The answer came on the very heels of the
unspoken question.  The gate in the low, old-fashioned
iron fence close beside him was partly open.
Beyond loomed the friendly shadow of the high stoop.

Instinctively, with his brain still a little
muddled from the blow he had received, Barry crept
silently through the gate, casting a swift,
sidelong glance at the struggling pair.  He saw that
the taller man was evidently getting the worst of
if, and apparently trying his best to break away.
In another moment the fellow with the beard
would be free—free to return and complete his
work; for by this time Lawrence had come to the
conclusion that he was the one responsible for the
assault.

Without a second's delay the Harvard man
slipped through the gate and closed it softly
behind him.  Rising to his feet, but stooping low,
he felt his way forward, went down a couple of
steps, and pushed against the iron grille which
gave access to a space under the stoop, and
thence to the basement door.

To his surprise it yielded to his touch, and a
moment later he was ensconced in the little
square, dark space, the grille closed and latched,
peering through the openings in the ornate
wrought ironwork.

He was no more than safe before he heard the
beat of running feet on the pavement, and saw
a tall, thin figure dart past his hiding place, and
disappear toward Madison Avenue.  An instant
later another, bulkier shadow appeared more
slowly, and paused by the low fence.

It was the mysterious person with the beard,
and Barry shrank swiftly back, wondering what
he meant to do.

There was a moment's pause; then the low
gate was pushed open, and the stranger stepped
toward the grille.  Reaching it, he shook it
briskly, but the latch held.  From where he had
retreated in the shadow, with one arm thrown
up to prevent his face from being seen, Barry
heard the unknown give a guttural growl of
mingled surprise and impatience.  A brief pause
followed, during which his irregular breathing
sounded clear and distinct.  Then he turned and
walked back to the sidewalk, the gate clicking
behind him.

For a minute or two Barry did not move, but
at length, unable to restrain his curiosity, he
stole to the grille and peered through.  The
stranger was still standing near the fence, gazing
intently up and down the street.  Presently he
disappeared toward Madison Avenue, and Barry,
after waiting a few moments, undid the grille
and stole out.

Peering over the fence, the Harvard man
watched the mysterious stranger move slowly
down the street, staring keenly into every
doorway as he passed it.  Finally, at the corner, he
paused, glanced swiftly back, stood for some
time undecided, then vanished from sight.

The instant the man was gone, Barry emerged,
and made his way straight back to the hotel.
He managed to brush his top hat into some
semblance of decency, and rid his coat of the bits of
ice and snow which clung to it.  Happily the
elevator boy was half asleep, and did not notice
anything unusual in his appearance, so that
Lawrence reached his rooms without attracting undue comment.

His first move was to examine the lump on his
head, which felt about the size of a billiard ball.
He had a feeling that his hair must be smeared
and clotted with blood, and was agreeably
surprised to find that the skin had scarcely been
broken.  The weapon, whatever it was, had
evidently struck just the right spot to produce
momentary unconsciousness, without doing any very
permanent damage.

Stripping off his clothes, and getting into
pajamas and a loose dressing gown, Barry bathed
the bump carefully with warm water, then with
cold, placed a wet towel against it, and sat down
to think over the night's experiences.

They had certainly not lacked interest and
excitement.  When he started out in that whimsical
manner from the Waldorf he had expected
nothing quite like this.

The last adventure naturally received his
attention first.  Who was the bearded man, and
why had he such an interest in Lawrence?
Remembering the distasteful encounter with Tappin
at the Waldorf, Barry wondered whether it were
possible that the bank president had set his
detectives again on the trail.

Swiftly he thrust the idea aside.  Though he
realized that the sudden display of affluence on
the part of one who had so short a time ago been
in abject poverty was sufficient reason for Tappin
to make another effort to find out what had
become of the missing funds, Lawrence did not
see how there could possibly have been time to
get into communication with the agency, and
summon a detective to the hotel.

"I left them at table," he murmured aloud, his
forehead wrinkled in a puzzled manner.  "No
one could know where I was going—I didn't even
know myself; yet that fellow was waiting
outside the Broadway restaurant."

With Tappin eliminated, what motive
remained?  Was the bearded man a common thief
who had marked him down as a profitable
undertaking?  Had he by any chance caught a
glimpse of the serpent ring?  Barry had not
been oblivious to the fact that the unique jewel
had attracted attention in many quarters that
evening; and now, as he lifted his hand, and
surveyed the great, square, dully gleaming stone,
with its strange setting, he wondered suddenly
whether there was anything uncanny about the
thing.  He had read before of jewels like this
coming out of the mysterious East, and leaving a
trail of violence in their wake.  Perhaps there
was something about it——

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed aloud, springing to his
feet.  "I'm getting dippy!  This is New York
City, and the twentieth century.  Such things
can't happen here.  I'm going to bed."

But after the lights were out, and he had
stretched himself luxuriously between the fine
sheets, the puzzle returned to torment him.
How long it might have kept him restlessly awake
he did not know.  Fortunately his mind suddenly
jumped to the more restful and infinitely more
attractive subject of Shirley Rives.

She affected him in a way no girl had ever
done before.  There was an impalpable charm
about her which he could not define, but which
was very powerful; a curve to her lips that
fascinated him even to think of now.

If he only had a little influence in the proper
quarters it might be possible to find her a
position.  But, no!  That wouldn't do at all.  He
realized suddenly that hateful gossip and
slander had started from slighter beginnings than that.

Still, something must be done.  It was intolerable
to think of her being placed again in the
horrible position from which he had rescued her
that evening.  Something should be done.  He
must think up a scheme.  Probably one would
come to him in the morning, when he was fresh,
and not so utterly fagged out as he was this
minute.

So he dropped asleep, the last thing before his
eyes a vivid mental picture of the girl's face as
he had last seen it, turned back to glance at him
over her shoulder; the last thought in his mind
a little pæan of thanksgiving to the god of chance
who had directed his footsteps that evening to
such wonderful and wholly unexpected purpose.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

.. vspace:: 2

Barry slept late, and, having brought some
order out of the chaos in his rooms, descended to
breakfast with luxurious ease in the St. Albans
restaurant.  The subdued lights, the gleam of
silver and glass and delicate white napery, the
silent, swift-footed attention of his waiter, were
all very pleasing to Lawrence, and combined to
make last night's adventure seem more remote
than ever, more the sort of accident which might
happen to any one rather than a plot directed
especially toward himself.

He spent little time considering it, for his mind
was almost entirely taken up with thoughts of
Miss Rives, and how it would be possible for him
to serve her.

It would not be an easy matter; he realized
that.  The charming Southern girl was not the
sort to accept favors from any one and every
one.  The utmost tact would have to be exercised
in hitting upon just the right kind of thing,
and Barry finished his leisurely breakfast
without the shadow of an idea striking him.  His only
consolation was that the ten dollars he had given
her would keep poverty at bay for two or three
days at least.

"And before the end of that time I'll surely
devise a way," he reflected, as he strolled out
into the hotel lobby.

"A letter for you, Mr. Lawrence," the clerk
said deferentially, as he passed the desk.

Barry took the missive with outward indifference,
but with not a little inward curiosity.  He
stared at the unfamiliar hand, then tore open
the flap hastily.  The contents were brief, merely
two lines of undistinguished writing without
superscription or signature:


For the week agreed upon, you will be good enough to
lunch and dine entirely alone.


Barry frowned.  Somehow, the communication
brought bitterly to his mind a recollection
of his self-imposed isolation.  He was not likely
to have company at luncheon or dinner.  For
months he had gone his way alone, shunning his
old friends, avoiding their usual haunts, and
crossing the street on the rare occasions in which
he saw them approaching.  After all this trouble
to avoid cold snubs or equally abhorrent pity, he
could not imagine himself inviting them now.
The request was rather unnecessary.

As he strolled toward the door he looked the
note over curiously.  The writing was irregular,
almost to precision, and yet it had a certain
pleasing individuality about it.  The envelope was
postmarked "Madison Square, 6 a.m."  Evidently
it had been taken up in the first collection.
The little man in black was apparently still in town.

Reaching the street, Lawrence thrust the
communication into his pocket, and turned toward
the avenue.  Beyond the purchase of a few small
things he had forgotten the day before, he had
nothing whatever to do before luncheon, and,
strangely enough, the fact was not an
unadulterated pleasure.  Time was—and not so very
long ago—when he would have looked upon this
condition with unfeigned envy.  To be well
dressed and well fed, with money in his pockets
and unlimited leisure at his command, had
seemed a state beyond which there was little to
desire.  He knew now how wrong he had been,
and the unsigned note had driven home that
knowledge.  What good were his money and his
leisure if there were no one to enjoy them with him?

"Of course, I'm not prohibited from seeing my
friends outside of working hours," he muttered,
with a whimsical sort of sadness.  "But the
trouble is I haven't any friends left to see."

From force of habit, he glanced up Forty-fourth
Street toward the club as he passed; but
he made no attempt to cross the avenue, and
continued on his way downtown.  The day was
cloudless, and, though it was still bitter cold, the
wind had died down to some degree, and made
walking possible.

At Forty-second, Lawrence paused a moment
or two, waiting for the stream of crosstown
traffic to pass.  He had just stepped from the curb
when a hail from behind made his heart jump,
and brought him to a standstill in the middle of
the car track.

"Barry!" came in a familiar voice, raised in
protest.  "Oh, you Barry!  Hold up!"

He turned swiftly, and the blood flamed into
his face as he saw hurrying after him the great,
almost hulking figure of Jock Hamersley, the
famous Yale full back of two seasons ago.

The two fellows had chummed it at Groton.
They had kept up their friendship to a certain
degree ever since, in spite of the fact that they
had different Alma Maters, and had more than
once fought fiercely against each other on the
gridiron.  There was no one, perhaps, whom
Lawrence would rather have seen just at this
moment than big, lumbering, good-natured,
soft-hearted Jock; yet his face flushed and grew tense,
and his eyes held a touch of nervous fear as
he waited for the other's first words.

Hamersley, his big mouth stretched in a wide
grin, fairly flung himself at Barry, and gripped
his hands with a force which made the bones
crack.

"You blamed old quitter!" he roared.  "Where
have you been keeping yourself?  Haven't got my
lamps on you in months—nobody has!  What do
you mean by dropping all your friends as you have?"

The blood began to tingle in Barry's finger
tips, and his eyes sparkled.  The sound of that
booming voice was sweeter in his ears than the
most ravishing music.  The sight of that great,
muscular figure, clad in a loose, woolly coat of
English frieze, was a pleasure greater than the
most world-famous masterpiece of painting had
ever produced.  Of a sudden he was smitten with
a doubt as to whether his course had been right
or not.  He stammered something vague about
the trouble at the bank, but Hamersley promptly
cut him short.

"Rot!" he bellowed.  "Bosh!  I'd punch your
head, only I'm afraid of the concussion all that
gas would make rushing out.  What have you
done with the sense the Lord gave you when you
think the boys paid any attention to that stuff?
You're more a fool than I thought you, and that's
saying a lot."

He had linked his arm through Barry's, and
the two proceeded briskly down the avenue together.

Within three minutes Lawrence had a feeling
that nothing had ever happened.  After that first
outburst, Jock slipped back into his old manner,
quite as if they had parted only the night before.
He asked no questions, even by inference,
seeming content with what his companion
volunteered; and by the time they paused before the
building where the Yale man had offices, Lawrence
felt as if he had come into his own again.

"You'll lunch with me, of course," the big fellow said.

Barry's face fell.  "I'm beastly sorry, Jock,"
he returned slowly, "but I've an engagement.
I'm booked for luncheon and dinner both."

"Humph!  Well, drop in at the yacht club
around five, and we'll have a good talk.  Yes?
Right!  Don't forget, now."

He started into the building, but was back in an instant.

"Say," he exclaimed.  "There's a dance at
Sherry's to-night, and I've got an extra card.
Don't start till eleven or so.  How about it?"

Barry's mind was made up in a flash.  That
would give him time for dinner and a call on Miss
Rives.  His meeting with Hamersley had set
stirring within him an intense desire to mingle with
his kind, to be one of the passing show, instead of
a mere onlooker, no matter how spectacular a
part the latter was.  He wanted to go to that
dance.  He would go.

"That hits me all right," he said; "nothing I'd
like better."

As he walked on down the street the smile still
lingered on his lips.  He was thinking of what
he had been twenty-four hours before.  Already
the pain and suffering and sordidness of that
phase of his life seemed nebulous and unreal.  At
times he caught himself wondering if it had not
been an amazingly vivid and horrible nightmare.

The wheel of fortune was whirling him higher
with every passing moment.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FOLLOWED.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   FOLLOWED.

.. vspace:: 2

Having completed his purchases at several
shops along the avenue, Lawrence finally emerged
from the last one near Thirty-first Street, and
paused on the sidewalk to consider how he should
put in the time before lunch.  It was not long
after twelve, and he did not feel as if he could
possibly lunch before half past one or two
o'clock.

He glanced back at the dull-red façade of the
Waldorf.  He might go back there and take his
place among the loungers in one of the corridors
or smoking rooms, but he had an instinctive
dislike for that sort of thing.

His eyes, ranging swiftly in the other direction,
suddenly encountered the shifting glance of
a man who stood looking into a window of the
shop Barry had just come from; and at once
Lawrence's mind, for some reason or another,
reverted to the mysterious fellow with the beard.

There was no resemblance between the two.
This one was young and tall, smooth-shaven, and
very blond.  His clothes, while inconspicuous,
bore a certain foreign touch which Barry had
learned to recognize in that year he had spent
abroad, directly after leaving college, as secretary
to Doctor Grenfell, wealthy scientist and Harvard lecturer.

Nevertheless, there was something in that
hastily averted glance he had surprised which
made Lawrence wonder whether the unknown
stranger was anything more than an ordinary
lounger, and decided him to put into operation a
little test he had found extremely effective
during his late unpleasant experience with Tappin's
detectives.

Still swinging his stick gently back and forth
and humming a tune under his breath, he turned
and began to survey the man critically.  Slowly
his gaze wandered from the narrow-brimmed,
precisely dented felt hat, down the length of
belted overcoat to the narrow, flat, rather clumsily
shaped shoes.  Then he reversed the process.
And when his eyes came to rest upon the strong,
rather rough-hewn profile presented to him,
Barry was interested to observe that the stranger
was fidgeting nervously, and that a dull red was
slowly stealing upward from the high,
close-fitting collar.

All this proved nothing, for any man was likely
to be embarrassed by being stared at in such a
pointed way.  But when, as the scrutiny
continued, the fellow finally turned from the
window, and walked slowly on down the avenue,
without so much as a glance at Barry, the latter
felt that his suspicions were more than justified.
An ordinary individual would have glared at him,
or shown other signs of ill temper.

The affair was only beginning, however, and,
as Lawrence moved leisurely toward Thirty-first
Street, he decided that he would have no
difficulty in being entertained until luncheon
time.

Rounding the corner, he hurried toward
Broadway for a hundred feet or so, then stopped
abruptly to look into a shop window.

As he expected, the blond individual appeared
almost instantly, crossed the street, and came
briskly along on the opposite side.

From that moment the game progressed
merrily for nearly an hour.  Barry did not exert
himself at first.  He wanted to test the stranger's
cleverness, so he confined himself to entering one
door of a department store or hotel, and hastily
departing by another; leaping on a surface car
just as it was starting, only to alight as swiftly
a few blocks farther on, and take one going in
the opposite direction.

These, and half a dozen other tricks of a like
nature, he tried, only to end up at Fourteenth
Street and Sixth Avenue with the blond fellow
sticking to him like a leech.

"He's no slouch," Barry reflected, as he turned
slowly eastward.  "I reckon I'll have to be a little
spryer."

Turning uptown at Fifth Avenue, he kept a
sharp lookout for a solitary taxi.  When one
finally came along behind him, he hailed it
swiftly, ran out into the street, and leaped in
almost before the car had come to a stop.

"Metropolitan Building—Madison Avenue
entrance," he said quickly.  "Hustle!"

The chauffeur did hustle, and Lawrence, glancing
back through the little window, was pleased to
see his pursuer swiftly lost in the crowd of
noon-day pedestrians.

There was a short delay at the Flatiron
Building, then the car sped up the west side of the
square, on account of traffic regulations, east
along Twenty-sixth, and thence into Madison.  It
was just as they rounded the last corner that
Lawrence spied another flying taxi which seemed
to be following them.

He had a bill ready, however, and, as the car
slowed down, he leaped out, thrust it into the
chauffeur's hand, and darted into the building.

The arcade was full of people moving in both
directions, and Barry, hurrying through them,
slipped suddenly into a little cigar store midway
to Fourth Avenue, which had another entrance
on Twenty-third Street.  Less than a minute
later he was diving into the subway entrance.

Fortunately a local was just drawing into the
station, and, as he took his seat, he chuckled a
little to himself.

"You'll have some trouble in following that
trail, my friend," he murmured.

He got out at Fourteenth Street, and took an
uptown train, but long before reaching Fifty-ninth
Street the smile had vanished, and a puzzled
frown furrowed his forehead.

There seemed no doubt now that his encounter
with the bearded man last night had not been the
result of chance.  He was being followed
deliberately, and there were at least two men who
seemed tremendously interested in every move he
made.  What was their object?  What motive
governed this inexplicable pursuit?

Try as he would, Barry could find no answer
to the questions.  If they had been attracted by
the emerald ring, and were following him for
the purpose of robbery—and last night's
experience certainly pointed strongly toward that
solution—what earthly sense was there in the
actions of the blond stranger?  Did he expect to
sandbag and rob a victim in broad daylight, amid
the crowds which swarmed the city streets?  It
was absurd, Barry told himself, yet what else
was there to think?

The problem occupied him on his way over to
the Plaza, and made him somewhat absent
during the progress of the simple luncheon he
ordered.  He did not, in fact, really pay much
attention to his surroundings until an odd event
effectually brought him to himself.

He had arisen from his table, and was making
his way slowly to the door, his progress
somewhat impeded by the simultaneous departure of a
large luncheon party.  As he trailed along
behind the laughing crowd of girls, he happened
to glance casually to the left, and encountered the
gaze of a woman sitting at a table near the wall.

She was not young, but there was a stately
distinction in her looks and manner which impressed
Lawrence.  Her face was a perfect oval, showing
remnants of great beauty, and Barry had a
vague impression that he had seen her before.
She was perfectly gowned, and wore no jewels,
save a single strand of wonderful pearls.  Her
companions were much younger, and wholly
charming.  The head waiter hovered obsequiously
about the table.

As their eyes met, Barry saw her start slightly
and stare for a second, a look of puzzled
astonishment on her face.  The next instant she
smiled and bowed in a manner which was even
more than cordial.

Automatically Lawrence returned the bow
with what grace he could assume, and passed on.
At the door he turned for a backward glance.
and was surprised to see that the lady had moved
a little in her chair, and was following him with
her eyes.

"I suppose I've met her somewhere," he
thought, pausing in the doorway.  "I wish I
could remember her name.  She's certainly somebody."

An instant later he caught the eye of the head
waiter, and summoned him with a slight gesture.

"Who is the lady at the fourth table from the
door?" he asked briefly.  "I seem to have
forgotten her name."

The haughty functionary followed the direction
of Barry's glance, and then turned back, an
odd expression in his eyes.

"That is Mrs. Winslow Courtney, sir," he
answered stiffly.

For a second Lawrence was almost feezed.
Then, with a short nod, he passed on into the
corridor.

Mrs. Winslow Courtney!  No wonder he could
not recall meeting her before.  He doubted
whether he had ever even seen her, save,
perhaps, in her box at the opera; for it was she,
more than any other woman, who ruled New
York society.  With family, vast wealth, and a
charming personality, she had taken her place in
that innermost circle around which the social life
of the entire country revolved.  One of her
daughters was the wife of Prince von Lauenberg,
the wealthiest nobleman in Prussia; another was
the Duchess of Wilton.

Decidedly Barry had no right to that charming
smile from Mrs. Winslow Courtney.

"I suppose she took me for some one else," he
murmured, as he left the Plaza.  "I wouldn't
mind knowing her, though.  Her friends, her
acquaintances, have to be somebody."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GIRL WHO VANISHED.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GIRL WHO VANISHED.

.. vspace:: 2

Having grown a little weary of dodging
people, Lawrence decided not to give those who
seemed so interested in his movements a chance
to pick up his trail again that afternoon.  He
was fond of motoring, so he proceeded at once to
hire a good car, and, with only a chauffeur for
company, went spinning out over the snowy, level
roads of Westchester County.

In spite of the cold, he enjoyed it so much that
it was nearly a quarter past five before he
entered the yacht club, and sent up his name to
Hamersley.

The latter descended at once, and, when he
had finished upbraiding Barry, they went up to
the famous model room, and, settling down in a
corner with cigars, chatted, and joked each other
for over an hour.

Two or three times Lawrence was on the point
of asking his friend whether he had an opening
for a good stenographer in his office, but each
time he could not seem to bring himself to make
the inquiry.  And so they parted without Miss
Rives and her very pressing necessities being
mentioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is Miss Rives at home?" Lawrence inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where was she now?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ANOTHER WOMAN.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ANOTHER WOMAN.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BEYOND BELIEF.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   BEYOND BELIEF.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl was Shirley Rives!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAOS.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CHAOS.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PROTECTIVE MEASURES.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   PROTECTIVE MEASURES.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MAN WHO LOST.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MAN WHO LOST.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`IN THE NEXT COMPARTMENT.`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


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   IN THE NEXT COMPARTMENT.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, I have!" he returned lightly.

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

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

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

"No; I'll call again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TOUCH Of COLD STEEL.`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE TOUCH Of COLD STEEL.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your car is here, Mr. Lawrence."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BY FORCE OF ARMS.`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   BY FORCE OF ARMS.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I generally do," the unknown drawled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time the stranger's laugh was decidedly
forced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`THE EMPTY HOUSE.`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE EMPTY HOUSE.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FACE IN THE CANDLELIGHT.`:

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   CHAPTER XXV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FACE IN THE CANDLELIGHT.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HAND OF FATE.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HAND OF FATE.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LETTER.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE LETTER.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOUSE ON THE AVENUE.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOUSE ON THE AVENUE.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`LAWRENCE PLEADS.`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX.


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   LAWRENCE PLEADS.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But you saw me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That didn't count," he retorted.

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

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

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

"Madison Square?" she questioned swiftly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`THE TANGLED WEB.`:

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   CHAPTER XXX.


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   THE TANGLED WEB.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your aunt!" gasped Barry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`DESPAIR.`:

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   CHAPTER XXXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   DESPAIR.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawrence tapped the bell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandon laughed.

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





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.. _`AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW.`:

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   CHAPTER XXXII.


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   AN EXTRAORDINARY INTERVIEW.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But—who?" Lawrence managed to mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`GONE!`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   GONE!

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barry started slightly.  "You mean that——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

"Yes, what is it?"

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

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

"Mr. Lawrence!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PUZZLE GROWS.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PUZZLE GROWS.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bowed.

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

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

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. class:: smaller

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

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If this is true——" he began.

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

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

"But what——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`THE ASTONISHING MRS. WILMERDING.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE ASTONISHING MRS. WILMERDING.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

"And did she?"

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

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

"An ordinary messenger boy in uniform."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Having acknowledged the introduction,
Lawrence explained what he wanted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have enough money?" she asked.

"Plenty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"N-o; but everybody thinks——"

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





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TAKING UP THE TRAIL.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   TAKING UP THE TRAIL.

.. vspace:: 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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.. _`TWO SHEETS OF PAPER.`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   TWO SHEETS OF PAPER.

.. vspace:: 2

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

"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?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN CAPITALS OF RED.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN CAPITALS OF RED.

.. vspace:: 2

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:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: smaller

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.

.. vspace:: 2

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 café.  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.





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.. _`THE OPEN DOOR.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XL.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE OPEN DOOR.

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





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   CHAPTER XLI.


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   AT CROSS-PURPOSES.

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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 portières 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.





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   CHAPTER XLII.


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   THE MAN IN THE MIRROR.

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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.





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.. _`HIS SECOND HALF.`:

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   CHAPTER XLIII.


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   HIS SECOND HALF.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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   CHAPTER XLIV.


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   THE RIDDLE SOLVED.

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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."





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   CHAPTER XLV.


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   THE GIFT OF THE RING.

.. vspace:: 2

The older man did not answer at once, and
Lawrence, feeling as if he had no right to listen,
moved slowly backward till he touched the table.
Then he turned suddenly and looked down quizzically
into Shirley's eyes.

"You—understand?" he whispered gently.

She nodded swiftly.  "What must you think
of me?" she murmured a little unsteadily.  "I
didn't believe it at first, but they swore it—was
true; and, somehow, things fitted in, and—and——  Do
you think you'll ever forgive me?"

One hand stole across the table, and the strong
brown fingers closed over the tiny gloved ones.

"Did you really think I wouldn't?" he
questioned softly, gazing into her wonderful eyes
with an expression in his own which swiftly
brought her long lashes sweeping down on
crimsoning cheek.

"Well?" he queried as she made no answer.

"I—I hoped," she faltered.

It was the voice of the grand duke, weary,
sorrowful, but full of an unmistakable resignation,
which broke the silence.

"I cannot blame you, Oscar," he was saying
quietly.  "I have clung to the old traditions
because there seemed no other way—perhaps I
lacked the courage to do what you have done—and
my life turned to dust and ashes.  I love you
too well ever to wish to see that happen to you.
Have you any—plans?"

"Heaps of them, uncle," the prince answered
jauntily.  "I'm going to become an American
citizen.  I think I'll buy a big place in the South and
turn farmer.  I've money enough."

The two at the table saw the old man wince
slightly, but in an instant he had recovered his
composure.

"What a thoroughbred he is!" Barry whispered
admiringly.  He had apparently forgotten
to release Shirley's hand, but she seemed too
absorbed to notice the lapse.

"There will be no difficulty on that score," the
duke remarked.  "Your estates belong to you
personally, and their sale should net a million or
more."

Suddenly he gave a start and arose swiftly to
his feet.

"I beg your pardon, Oscar," he ejaculated, in
chagrin.  "My preoccupation has made me forget
entirely my desire to meet your—wife.  This lady
is——"

He glanced at Shirley with a courtly inclination,
just in time to see her snatch her hand from
Barry's grasp and spring to her feet with blazing
cheeks.  The prince saw it, too, and his eyes
twinkled.

"I have not the honor," he said quietly.  "My
wife is just recovering from an illness which has
been the cause of most of these complications.
Mr. Lawrence, will you be so good as to present us?"

With swiftly recovered composure, Shirley
acknowledged the introduction with a naïve
dignity; and, when they had all seated themselves
again, the prince begged for a recital of Barry's
adventures.

"Extraordinary and most diverting," he said
when the tale had been told.  "Perhaps a little
more amusing in retrospect.  My dear Mr. Lawrence,
I feel more than ever indebted to you for
what you have done.  When I started the ball
rolling last Monday morning I had no conception
of the strenuous experiences I was bringing upon
you.  You see, I had left Ostrau secretly with
only Watkins, my American secretary, who has
been with me for years, but I was almost certain
of being followed.  I hoped, however, that we
should succeed in losing ourselves somewhere in
the South or West before our trail was picked up.
I should explain, perhaps, that my wife and I
were married in Paris, where she was spending
the winter.  She was Miss Isabel Patterson, of
Baltimore.  We sailed under assumed names;
or, rather, under a name I used in England
during our exile——"

"I beg your pardon," Lawrence put in, "but
was it Nordstrom?"

"Why, yes.  How did you know?"

"I met a friend of yours who had known you
at Cambridge.  He was an Englishman named
Brandon."

"John Brandon!" exclaimed the prince.  "Of
course!  We were great friends during my
university days, but I haven't seen him in years.
You see, Mr. Lawrence, our family was exiled
from Ostrau until the timely revolution three
years ago which restored my father to power.  I
was brought up in England, and, as we were very
poor, indeed, I went through Rugby and
Cambridge under the name of Nordstrom, which is
one of our family names.  It would have been
absurd for a poverty-stricken individual to be
strutting about as a prince.  What times we had!"
he sighed.  "I think they were the happiest days
of my life—until now.  But I am digressing.
Unfortunately for our plans, my wife was taken
ill just as we were on the point of leaving New
York.  I knew that the pursuit would be keen,
and, unless attention was diverted from us to
another quarter, we would be hunted out, no matter
how carefully we hid ourselves in New York.
Considering my wife's health, I was most
anxious to avoid anything of that sort until she was
recovered.

"I was at my wits' end," he continued, "and
could think of nothing until one day, while
waiting with Watkins in the Pennsylvania Station for
a physician from Philadelphia, whom I knew well,
and who had promised to come on, I suddenly
caught sight of you.  I was simply stumped, of
course; then, like a flash, I realized that here was
the way out, which I had hitherto been searching
for in vain.  It took but a moment for me to
outline a plan to Watkins, arrange my bill case, and
place the ring in it.  You see, that had been given
me by the Rajah of Sind when I toured India two
years ago, and I had scarcely had it off my finger
since then.  If an added mark of identification
were needed, that would amply suffice.

"The plan worked to a charm.  When Hager,
my father's chief of police, arrived, he was
completely taken in.  He kept on your trail day and
night, and my purpose was accomplished.  We
had taken rooms in what I considered the most
out-of-the-way locality in New York.  When I
went out it was always after dark and wearing
a semidisguise.  In spite of every care, however,
fate seemed to be against me, and caused Hager
to choose this very house for the culmination of
his little drama.  My rooms are just back of this.
Through the door I heard all that passed; and,
when I found that my uncle was expected, I
realized that the better way would be to end
everything at once and be free from further persecution.
I can only close, Mr. Lawrence, by offering
my most sincere apologies for the annoyance to
which you have been subjected."

"There is not the slightest need of that, your
highness," Barry returned hastily.  "I am more
grateful to you than I can say, for without your
aid I should probably have missed—the greatest
happiness of my life."

"You are good to say that," the prince said
simply.  "I am very happy."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Lawrence
asked as they arose.

The crown prince looked slightly puzzled.
"I'm afraid I do not understand."

"This," explained Lawrence, drawing the
emerald ring from his finger and holding it out.
"It belongs to you, you know."

"Not at all.  That is yours.  It is part of the
bargain, and I am sure you have earned it."

"But it's worth a king's ransom," Barry protested.
"I really can't take it.  You have given
me more than enough without that.  Besides, it
is much too rare a jewel for me to be wearing."

The prince darted a mischievous glance at
Shirley Rives.

"Perhaps there is some one else who might be
willing to relieve you of its care," he murmured,
his fine eyes twinkling.

There was no mistaking his meaning, and the
girl dropped her lids, while a rush of color
crimsoned her lovely face.  The next instant,
however, she lifted them again and looked bravely
into Barry's questioning eyes.

"Perhaps—some day," she murmured.

.. vspace:: 4

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   THE END.

.. vspace:: 4

"Frank Merriwell, Jr.'s, Athletic Team" will
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