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An RGL First Edition©
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The Argosy, November 1903,
with "Miss Sherlock Holmes"
The mystery in a big department
store, and the strenuous fashion
in which the house detective solved it.
JASPER MARKLE, manager-in-chief of the big department store of Markle Brothers, sat in his private office, frowningly biting at the tip of his pen-holder, while he listened to the report of the dark-haired, keen-eyed little woman before him.
It was long after hours, and the hum and bustle which swept through the immense building all day, making it seem like nothing so much as a huge, buzzing hive, was stilled for the night. The only sound which came to them now was the echoing footfall of the night watchman as he made his rounds through the untenanted corridors.
The light from a shaded electric lamp above fell in a vivid circle upon the floor, embracing both the man and the woman, but leaving the rest of the room shadowy and indistinct.
The manager's office was on the first floor, an ornate little retreat, tastefully constructed of glass and polished wood, and furnished with the modern appliances of business—a roll-top desk, a typewriter's table at the side, a letterpress, some cabinets and file-cases, a couple of chairs for chance visitors.
Nor did the autocrat who held forth in this domain, and whose word was law throughout the entire big establishment, fail to accord with the character of his surroundings.
A man about fifty years of age he was, with a spare, well preserved figure, shrewd, cold eyes, a firm, thin-lipped mouth, and gray side-whiskers of formal cut. His attire was quiet, but modish and expensive.
"You are positive, then, Miss McCrea," he observed, when his companion had fully set forth the facts she had to offer, "that these annoying thefts are not the work of shoplifters?"
"Absolutely so," she replied, giving an emphatic little nod to her head. "During my whole three years here, I have never known the store to be more free from visitors of that class than it is at present. In fact, the only one of them that has got past the door in the last three weeks was Belle Dickson. I spotted her at the millinery counter last Friday, and put Emerson on to her; but she quickly realized that she was being watched, and made herself scarce.
"I have questioned, of course, whether a new and clever gang might not be conducting operations, and so have persistently dogged every stranger, but all in vain. It has only rendered me the more certain in my conclusions."
"Perhaps some one of our well-known customers has turned kleptomaniac?" suggested Markle.
"No, I have thought of that explanation, and it, too, seems wide of the mark. The pilfering is too regular and too selective to be accounted for in that way. We have no patron who visits us every day, rain or shine; and, moreover, a kleptomaniac would sequester whatever struck her fancy without regard to value. This thief, however, disdains anything except the costliest articles."
"Why are you so confident that the work is being done inside business hours?" queried the manager, branching off a little from his previous interrogations. "Might it not be possible that some shrewd band of crooks had found a way of entering the building after nightfall, and of successfully eluding the watchmen on their rounds?"
"Ah, but you forget, Mr. Markle, that our heaviest losses have occurred in the jewelry department, where everything of value is locked up at night; and there has certainly been no tampering with the safe. In addition to that, however, I will tell you that I myself spent four nights on guard last week, concealing myself so that no one could suspect my presence.
"The watchmen were alert and attentive to business, there was no sign of an intruder anywhere about the premises; yet nevertheless there was reported missing during the time four pieces of that three-hundred-dollar lace, a box of silk underwear, a dozen cut-glass tumblers, and a pearl necklace."
"You are confident, then," summed up her employer, "that the stealing must be carried out by some one on the inside?"
"My investigations force me to such a belief, Mr. Markle; and yet, in view of the precautions we take in regard to our employees, I must confess that that hypothesis also seems untenable. You know as well as I do that our people all come in and go out by the one entrance, that none of them can take a package or parcel out of the building without a written pass from yourself, and that, moreover, it would be practically impossible for one of the force, without quickly exciting suspicion, to rove about through the various departments, picking up whatever suited his fancy, as this thief has done."
Markle's frown grew deeper as he sat considering the girl's reply. His fingers drummed impatiently on the desk. Then he turned to her.
"Well, Miss McCrea," he said sharply, "I don't think I need tell you that I am bitterly disappointed. I asked you for a report on this matter, and all you are able to tell me is that it is inconceivable we should have been robbed, while every day is bringing us a story of increased depredations.
"Now, it strikes me that the matter is most emphatically up to you. Like every other firm, we expect and are willing to stand a certain percentage of loss from peculation; we figure on that in regulating our scale of prices.
"But when our losses of this character reach a total"—he consulted a little slip of paper lying on his desk—"a total of $10,000 in a period of less than two months, it is certainly time to adopt heroic measures of some sort. We assuredly cannot afford to pay a person to protect us, unless that person renders us some degree of protection.
"You have been with us three years now, Miss McCrea," he went on, silencing with uplifted hand the defense she was endeavoring to interpose, "and I am free to admit that your work up to this juncture has been in the main satisfactory; but I will tell you frankly that your continuance in your present position will depend solely upon your ability to check this pillage and discover the thief."
The woman's face paled at his words, and she had to bite her trembling lip for a full minute before she could sufficiently command her voice to make answer.
"How long a time will you give me in which to achieve results, Mr. Markle?" she asked huskily.
The superintendent thoughtfully stroked his chin.
"If you can't do it in three weeks," he finally announced decisively, "you can't do it at all. Let's see, to-day is Thursday, the seventh. On the twenty-eighth, Miss McCrea, I shall be ready to receive either a solution of this mystery or your resignation."
Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, Markle grimly held open the door for the other to depart, and then, banging down the lid of his desk, hurriedly left the building, struggling into his overcoat as he went.
The girl, only stopping to pull on her rubbers in the cloak-room, followed, but he was already out of sight when she reached the entrance.
"Ye're the last to leave again, Miss McCrea," observed old John, the watchman, as she passed out, "I'm thinkin' it's a cold dinner ye're gettin' pretty often these days."
"Still, a cold dinner is better than none at all, John," she retorted, albeit with a very sober sort of smile, reflecting as she spoke that the alternative she mentioned was by no means an improbability of the quite immediate future.
Three weeks Jasper Markle had given her, and she knew him well enough to understand that his words contained no empty threat. He was not a person to speak at random, or without duly weighing the consequences.
Three weeks to the minute would she have for her task, and that without question or interference; but not an hour, aye, not a second, over the allotted time.
The old watchman seemed almost to read her thoughts, and to sympathize with her.
"May the saints keep us all from that, ma'am," he interjected devoutly. "A good night to ye," and so closed the door behind her.
Within the shadow of the store's huge, arched portal, Miss McCrea lingered a moment, for all the world like a cat dreading to cross a muddy pavement. The evening was raw, damp and depressing, slushy and sloppy underfoot, and settling down overhead into a thin, foggy drizzle.
Along Sixth Avenue the wet asphalt was black and shiny, where the garish light fell upon it from the brilliant windows of restaurants and cafes. Under umbrellas, the nondescript crowds of pedestrians were pushing up and down the sidewalks, and in the center of the street the trolley cars, packed with moist and jostling humanity, were clanging wildly to and fro. Up above, the elevated trains roared and rumbled in their transit between the Battery and Harlem.
With a little shudder at the dispiriting prospect, Miss McCrea drew her fur collar up about her throat, and gathering her skirts together in her hand, joined the plodding procession straggling up the thoroughfare.
There was a little restaurant two or three blocks away, she remembered, where one could get a decent meal at a fairly reasonable price; she did not possess the hardihood even to dream of obtaining dinner at so late an hour at the Harlem boarding-house where she lived.
Reaching the restaurant at last, and seated at a table, she leaned her head dejectedly upon her hand, and gave way to gloomy reflections.
Her continuance at Markles', it was evident, was conditioned solely upon her success in elucidating a problem which had already baffled her shrewdest efforts. It seemed almost hopeless to make any further attempt at a solution. She might as well hand in her resignation at once and be done with it.
Yet, what to do then? This was a question of no small moment.
It was absolutely necessary that she should earn her own livelihood, and she possessed neither skill nor experience in any kind of occupation save that upon which she was engaged. If she were discharged from Markle Brothers—for a resignation under the circumstances would be tantamount to a dismissal—how, shorn of her prestige and having to confess herself a failure, could she ask for a similar position with another house?
Janet McCrea had become associated with the big department store in the capacity of detective in rather a peculiar fashion.
She had in more prosperous days been one of the firm's regular and most lucrative patrons, and one day, while standing at the silk counter, had chanced to observe the woman next to her slip a bolt of costly goods underneath her cloak. Realizing that the woman would attempt an escape if she deemed her guilt suspected, Janet gave no hint of her discovery, but quietly kept on pricing fabrics, though all the time edging farther along the counter.
At last, satisfied that her neighbor could not overhear, she leaned forward and whispered to the salesman: "That woman in the big hat is a shoplifter!"
The clerk gave one quick glance of comprehension, then lifted his forefinger in a cabalistic signal to the floorwalker. Three minutes later the culprit was being conducted under guard to the manager's office; and upon subsequent investigation it was developed that she was one of the shrewdest and most dangerous characters known to the police.
A short time afterward, Miss McCrea by a similar display of vigilance was able to repeat her experience; and on this latter occasion Mr. Leopold Markle, the head of the firm, called on her in person to extend his thanks, and to compliment her upon her readiness of wit.
"If you ever should want a position, Miss McCrea," he remarked jocularly, "that of detective at our place will always be open to you."
Janet, of course, laughed too over the suggestion at the time; but a few months later, when, through the defalcation of a man to whom they had trusted all their funds, she found herself and her mother practically penniless upon the world, Mr. Markle's offer presented itself to her mind in the light of a life-preserver tossed to a drowning man.
After all, why not? It was imperative that she should turn her hand to something, and her education and temperament failed to fit her for most of the ordinary vocations which women take up.
She could not write, or paint, or teach, or embroider, and her heart quailed at the thought of being chained down to a desk in a business office. Here was an opportunity ready-made for her, exactly suited to her mental equipment, and giving her from the start a remuneration ample for her own and her mother's needs.
She hesitated no longer, but presenting herself at the Markles', stated her case, and requested the fulfilment of their promise. They were at first disposed to balk at such a novel proposition; but Janet was determined, and so skilfully parried all their objections that finally she persuaded them to accede.
Indeed, it turned out to be one of the luckiest strokes of business the house had ever made, for amply did she justify the assurances she had given of her powers. She had been almost a daily visitor to the store before, and only the department managers now recognized that her peregrinations about the establishment were for a different purpose.
Nor did the most astute and experienced "crooks" ewer suspect that the fashionably gowned, eminently aristocratic young woman who patronized the place so extensively was a "spotter." They only realized that some apparently intangible system of espionage existed at Markle Brothers', which, so sure as they attempted a questionable move, resulted in their being touched on the arm before they reached the door, and politely but firmly escorted to the manager's office.
Thus it happened that the emporium where she was employed gradually became known to the "talent" as a good place to shun, and accordingly Janet's position grew to be a veritable sinecure.
Indeed, for the past year her duties had been almost exclusively confined to the occasional "stalking" of some society woman who, overcome by a covetous mania, would attempt to carry off goods without attending to the formality of paying for them.
Then, all of a sudden, had begun this inexplicable series of thefts which selected for booty only the best and most expensive articles in stock, and which was not confined to one or two departments, but ravaged all alike.
She had taken up the case with eager interest, and had brought to bear upon it her keenest and most concentrated intelligence, watching every avenue of possible dishonesty with the vigilance of a terrier before a rat-hole, only to find in the end that she was as far away as ever from a satisfactory solution.
There seemed absolutely no loose end on which to commence work; strive as she might, she could unearth no clue pointing to either the identity of the thief or his method of procedure, while he, apparently rendered bolder by her ill success, was daily increasing the scope of his operations.
WHILE Janet sat in the restaurant, thus dolefully meditating over the situation, she was suddenly startled by the sound of a big, hearty voice at her elbow, and, turning, she saw standing by her side Billy Brueton, the manager of the furniture department at Markles'.
"Well, well, well," he exclaimed, "this is an unexpected pleasure. I was detained at the store to-night, and, finding it too late to go home, ran in here to get a bite to eat. But I never hoped for such a welcome surprise as meeting you here. Yon don't mind if I share your table with you, do you?"
Scarcely waiting for her permission, he slid himself into a vacant place on the opposite side of the board, and listened with ill-concealed disgust while Janet gave her modest order to the waiter who had just then come up.
"Tea and toast?" he commented scornfully, "Not on your life. Miss McCrea. This is one of those nights when a person should coal up on good old essentials, and not on sick-room slops. Look here, my dear young woman, you're looking a bit off color, like all the rest of us this sort of weather, and I'm going to prescribe for you. You are to be my guest, understand, and you've got to eat what I say, whether you want to or not."
Then, disregarding Janet's protests, he turned to the waiter.
"Here, Gaston," he said, "you bring us a good, thick sirloin steak with mushrooms, and make it rare, and some baked potatoes, and what other vegetables the lady wants. And bring us a couple of bottles of Bass' ale.
"There," he explained when the bowing attendant had taken himself off, "that is what one needs to put blood in the veins, and courage in the heart. It is a regular London night outside, and one ought consequently to eat a London dinner. 'When in Rome,' you know, Miss McCrea."
Janet was able to muster up a very fair imitation of a smile at his lively chatter. Indeed, her world had sensibly become less gray and somber since the advent of this persistent optimist.
It was impossible to help liking Billy Brueton. He was one of those big, masterful, jovial creatures who continually get their own way by an audacious impudence, which their unfailing good humor renders inoffensive. Yet he was the very antithesis of selfishness; there was nothing he would not do to help a person in trouble, and his unostentatious generosity made him the idol of all his associates.
A big, well-proportioned fellow, skin as clear and fresh as an athlete's in training; warm, gray eyes, and a sunny smile disclosing two rows of even, white teeth, he was the type of man women inevitably take to and admire.
Still, despite all the adulation he had received, there was nothing of the "matinée hero" about Brueton. He was as frank and sincere and unaffected as a boy. Janet on many occasions had been the recipient of thoughtful little courtesies at his hands, and she was not ungrateful.
The dinner question settled, he turned to her now with a touch of curiosity in his manner.
"How does it come that you are dining here. Miss McCrea?" he asked, "I fancied you live up Harlem-way somewhere?"
"I do," she replied; "but I also was late to-night. In fact, I have just left the store."
He glanced up at her quickly, with a look of aroused interest.
"Is that so? Then it's funny we didn't run across each other. I came straight from there here."
"Was Mr. Markle still in the building when you left?" she queried.
"Oh, no. He had gone fully five minutes ahead of me."
"Why, how strange!" she exclaimed in puzzled fashion, "He and I went out almost together; yet old John told me I was the last one to leave, and you know John would never be mistaken on that point."
Her words seemed for some unaccountable reason to occasion her companion a marked embarrassment. He flushed under her questioning gaze, and his fingers toyed nervously with the salt-cellar in front of him.
"I—I—" he stammered confusedly; then he caught himself together, "Perhaps, after all, I was mistaken. I thought it was Markle I saw going out; but it might have been some one else.
"Yes, that is undoubtedly what occurred," he repeated. "I mistook one of the other men for Markle. You know, in the dim light, and not noticing particularly, a fellow might easily be deceived."
It was certainly a plausible enough explanation; but the very eagerness of the man's manner, as he made it, struck Janet as absurdly over-anxious and strained. Why, she could not help asking herself, should Brueton be so assertive over a matter which at the most was of very slight importance?
Before, however, she had really formulated this doubting inquiry in her own mind, the waiter appeared with his array of smoking dishes, and thereupon the conversation was diverted to matters of more immediate interest.
Nor did her companion allow her an opportunity of returning to the subject throughout the course of the meal. Indeed, he rattled on so amusingly, and with such a fund of salient gossip about their various mutual acquaintances in the store, that she quite forgot for the time the little untoward incident which had momentarily excited her misgivings.
"Say, look here, Miss McCrea," said Brueton as they waxed confidential in their interchange of views and impressions, "what do you think of Seymour?"
"You mean the man in the jewelry department?" she returned, "Well, to tell you the truth, I like him least of anybody in the store."
"He is a surly, unsociable sort of a chap, isn't he?" agreed Billy, "But I guess he has cause to be soured against the world. Did you ever hear the story about him?"
"No," with feminine curiosity. "What is it?"
"Well, in the first place," rejoined Brueton, "Seymour isn't any more his name than it is mine—I forget now what his real handle is, although Phil Hartopp, a bookmaker friend of mine, told it to me once; but that doesn't make any difference, anyway. What I was going to tell you is, that he used to be the owner of one of the biggest jewelry stores in town, a bang-up, swell place over on Broadway.
"They say, in those days, he used to be a regular 'Sunny Jim,' genial and pleasant to every one, and furthermore was a model of all the business virtues, straight as a string, and his simple word a good deal better than most men's bonds.
"It seems, however, that he had a brother who was a plunger, one of those fellows that maintain a betting commissioner at the tracks, and who are constantly laboring to break up gambling in New York—by winning all the gamblers' money.
"From all accounts, brother must have been a pretty hard lot, although he did manage to keep his sporting career on the Q.T., and so retained a lucrative business clientele—he was agent for several large estates, I understand.
"Well, not to spin out a self-evident climax, the crash ultimately came, and Mr. Brother took his quiet little sneak for South America, leaving about eleven dollars' worth of assets for his creditors to divide up between them.
"One of the heaviest losers, as it turned out, was none other than Seymour, for he had very foolishly entrusted all his affairs to the financial genius of the family, and when it came to a pinch, that astute individual had entertained no more scruples against bilking him than he had any of the others. In short, Seymour was practically a bankrupt by the transaction.
"Talk about being wild. They say the man was little short of a maniac when he learned the truth. Nor could he be convinced that the money was all squandered, insisting that the fugitive would certainly be wise enough lo hold out a wad of it when he skipped. Accordingly, he took what few dollars he could scrape together out of I he wreck, and set off hot-foot in pursuit.
"Luck was against him, though. True, he did finally locate his brother in some out-of-the-way hole down in one of the banana republics, but he reached the place only to learn that his man had died of yellow fever the week before, and, if he had had any money with him, by that time it had, of course, disappeared. The authorities were regretful; but they were compelled to inform the Señor Americano that his esteemed relative had died intestate.
"There was nothing for the disappointed searcher to do but to traipse back home and try to get a fresh start in life—not an easy job either, let me tell you, when a man is over fifty, and settled in his ways.
"He hung around New York for a time without getting hold of anything, and, I guess, had a pretty hard road to travel. You see, his brother's flare-up had created considerable of a muss, and the jewelry merchants were just a little dubious about trusting another of the same name.
"At last the fellow took an alias; but still he didn't seem to catch on, until finally Markles picked him up, and when they opened their jewelry department placed him in charge.
"The strange part of the story, though, is that his experience seems to have changed his whole nature. Whereas he used to be genial and friendly, and exemplary in his habits, now he is morose and sullen, and, as for his conduct, he has become about as crazy over gambling as his brother ever was. There's not a night in the week that he isn't at it, and he rolls 'em high, too. I guess he thinks that is the only way he'll ever get back—"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Janet, whose eyes had been growing wider and wider with interest as the tale proceeded. "Do you think you could remember that name if you heard it again? It wasn't by any chance Van Dorn, was it?"
"By George," exclaimed Brueton, "that is just what it was! That is the very name Hartopp told me was Seymour's own—Theodore Van Dorn. But how did you guess it, Miss McCrea? Had you ever heard the story before?"
"I ought to know it," she replied bitterly, "My mother and I were among the long list of Cornelius Van Dorn's victims. We lost at his hands everything we had in the world."
"Oh, say, that's too bad," sympathized Billy. "I'm awfully sorry that I mentioned the affair. Had I supposed for a minute that you—"
"No," she broke in quickly, "Don't blame yourself unnecessarily. Indeed, I am very glad to have heard what you had to relate. Go on, and tell me interesting things about some of the others in the store. What of Mr. Elliott, for instance?"
Thus spurred on, Brueton plunged into a fresh series of anecdotes; but Janet, although she listened and laughed, seemed for the most part preoccupied and pensive, as though she were deliberating on something apart.
At length, while they were dawdling over their cheese and coffee, she turned to her companion with the abrupt question: "What salary does Mr. Seymour get, Mr. Brueton? Do you know?"
"The same as I do. Two hundred a month."
"And would that suffice to cover the card-playing he does?" Billy laughed.
"Why, often he will drop more than that in a single night." He paused reflectively, "By George, I never thought of that before," he added, "The fellow must have some outside source of revenue. I wonder—"
But Janet was not ready just yet to hear Mr. Brueton's speculations.
"Does Mr. Markle know of his gambling?" she probed.
"Lord, no! There is nothing the old man is more set against than that. He stands ready to bet any amount himself on anything that comes up; but he simply won't have a gambler in his employ. Why, if he thought—"
He interrupted himself suddenly, and a disconcerted look spread over his face.
"You're not thinking of giving him away, are you, Miss McCrea?" he questioned anxiously, "Because it would mean his getting the bounce sure, and I'd never forgive myself—"
"Have no fear, Mr. Brueton," she reassured him, "If Mr. Seymour is doing nothing more serious than gambling, he has little to apprehend at ray hands. I only want to learn where he gets the money to gamble with, and that"—she leaned forward and looked him squarely in the eyes—"you have got to help me find out."
Her own eyes were sparkling, her lips set in a firm, determined line. The atmosphere of depression had entirely vanished from her bearing, and she was alert and vigorous as she laid down her dictum.
Even in the astonishment which overcame him as he grasped her underlying meaning, Brueton found time to admire the delicate rose flush which tinged her olive cheek.
"Why," he gasped excitedly, "you must think then that these robberies at the store&mdaah;"
"Sh-h!" She laid her finger to her lips with quick warning, "Remember we are in a public place. There is no knowing who might overhear."
He sat pondering a moment over the light which had come to him through her words.
"Do you know," he finally announced emphatically, although lowering his voice in obedience to her injunction, "I shouldn't wonder a hit if you were right? More things have been reported missing from his department than from any other in the store, except mine. And his losses, of course, have footed up the most in value."
Again he fell silent, conjecturing upon possibilities; but presently he glanced up at her with a mystified expression on his face.
"How in the devil does he get the stuff out, though?" he asked.
"Ah," she returned, "that is what we shall have to find-out."
FOR a long time they sat discussing the pros and cons of the revelation which had just presented itself to them.
Brueton at first was inclined to be somewhat skeptical; but after talking over the situation with the girl, he was forced to agree that the thieving was the work of some one on the inside and, this point settled, there was no one in the establishment, as Janet pointed out, who possessed equal opportunities with Seymour for the exercise of a predatory activity.
In the first place, he was in charge of the jewelry department, where the stock contained articles of greater value, within less compass, than any other in the store. Secondly, he had hut one assistant, and was consequently exempt for a considerable portion of each day from any danger of espionage.
Third, it was a part of his duties to regulate the various clocks throughout the building, and as there was one of these in each department, and he was supposed to test each one at least once a week, he thus had free range to pick and choose where he would.
"Given the facts that he has had full chance to steal, if he so desired," succinctly summed up Miss McCrea, "and that he has been risking sums of money largely in excess of his known income, and," she added as, an afterthought, "that his brother's knavery would argue a vicious strain in the family, I do not well see how we can be blamed for regarding him with suspicion."
"Well, of course, as you say," admitted Brueton dubiously, "it looks mighty black against him, yet, for all that, I can't get it through my head that old Seymour would be up to such a game. I've got no more cause to like him than you have—he's as sulky and unpleasant to have around as a rainy Monday morning; but I have always sized him up for being on the square.
"Why, I remember, when Dave Thompson was fired—that young assistant cashier the old man caught knocking down, you know—and all of us were getting up a petition to try to have him taken back, Seymour flatly refused to sign it. 'No, sir,' he said, 'I have no sympathy for a thief—I don't care if it's only a postage stamp that he steals—and I'll not put myself in the position of countenancing or excusing any such person. Thompson may bitterly regret his wrong-doing, as you say, and he may have a widowed mother dependent on him for support; but those are matters he could have considered before he yielded to temptation. It is too late to urge them now.'"
"That merely confirms me in my opinion," asserted Janet indignantly, "No one but a rascal would make such a parade of probity; and no one but a thoroughly evil-hearted man could be so hard on a boy who had only erred through his youth and inexperience, and who was honestly repentant.
"But I must be getting home," she added, glancing at her watch, and hastily beginning to gather together her belongings, "You have entertained me so delightfully, Mr. Brueton, that I have not realized how rapidly the time is passing."
"Pshaw," interjected Brueton aggrievedly, "we were just getting 'down to cases.' What is the use of rushing off this way? As it happens, I have a couple of tickets to the theater in my pocket, and I was just thinking we might end up the evening there. We'll be in time for the second act, if we go right over."
"Oh, mother would have a 'conniption' fit if I were to stay out so late," objected Janet, albeit the temptation was strong. "Any time that I do not put in an appearance by half-past nine o'clock, she is immediately convinced that all manner of terrible things have befallen me."
"But that is easily arranged. We can telephone up to her, or even send a messenger boy with a note, if you'd rather."
"Ye—es, I suppose we could "—half-assenting—"but I hate to go anywhere, such a fright as I must look."
Mr. Brueton's extensive knowledge of the foibles of her sex, however, enabled him to reassure her on that score, and he performed the function so flatteringly that her face was suffused with blushes.
"Very well, then," she agreed, "if you'll just let me write a short note to mother."
The play was "The Great Ruby," and the two gazed and listened with enthralled interest while the exciting and intricate plot was gradually unfolded.
It will be remembered that the story hinges on the mysterious disappearance of a famous jewel. Which, while supposed to be stolen, has actually been concealed by its owner during a fit of somnambulism.
"That seems to me a little farfetched," commented Janet, as she chatted to her companion through the entr'acte, "I suppose there is such a thing as sleep-walking, and I know the same motive has been effectively employed in fiction and drama before; but I don't believe that in real life a somnambulist would carry out any such definite and ordered purpose as is here depicted. I fancy rather that the wanderings and the actions of people in that condition must be like the rest of our dreaming—hazy, disjointed, purposeless."
"Oh, I don't know," controverted Brueton eagerly, "There's Markle, for instance. That terrible experience of his several years ago strikes me as a direct refutation of your theory."
"What was that?"
"Haven't you ever heard the story? Why, it seems that one night he dreamed he could not sleep, but got out of bed, lighted the gas, and, wrapping himself in a dressing-gown, sat down to read a book. The dream was a particularly vivid one, and he could afterward recall each of its incidents as though they had actually occurred.
"Presently, however, another member of the family was awakened by an overpowering smell of gas in the house, and, tracing up the odor, found that it led to Markle's room. There the chief sat, just as he had pictured himself in his dream, in dressing-gown and slippers, and with the open book in his lap; but he was sound asleep. Nor was the gas lighted, for upon investigation it was discovered that, although he had turned the cock on full, he had used a match without any head.
"It was a mighty fortunate thing for Markle, I can tell you, that the mistake was detected in time, for the way that deadly vapor was pouring out of the pipe he would have been completely asphyxiated in less than an hour. As it was, I believe, they had to use pretty strenuous methods before they were able to bring him around.
"Why, is Mr. Markle a sleepwalker?" asked Janet in surprised tones.
"Is he? Hadn't you ever heard that about him before? Yes, indeed. He has to have a man tie him up in bed every night; won't go to sleep until he is sure everything is fast, and there's no danger of his taking one of his little midnight strolls."
Janet looked at her companion quizzically. "You're not joking?"
"No, on my honor "—earnestly, "It's the gospel truth, every word of it. You can ask any of the old-timers down at the store, if you don't believe me. Why are you so concerned about it, though? You speak as if it were a matter of vital importance?"
"Did I?"—carelessly, "I suppose it is because I am always interested in the strange or unusual. That is a rather pretty girl over in the right-hand box, don't you think?"
Billy scowled, as though annoyed at her abrupt turning of the subject; but before he could think of a suitable remark to readjust the conversation to its former channel, the curtain had risen on the next act, and he was perforce obliged to remain silent.
Moreover, by the time another opportunity had presented itself for discourse between them, he had evidently thought better about reverting to the topic; for, during the rest of the evening, he only touched on matters of immediate moment and of the slightest consequence—the trivial small-talk of ordinary social interchange.
One exception he made to this. On the way over to the L station he pointed out to her an unpretentious house, midway up the block on a quiet cross street.
"That is 'Tot' Barrison's," he explained, "One of the most exclusive gambling-houses in town. A man has pretty nearly got to be a steel magnate or a Western Senator to get in there; and there's no limit to the play, if a fellow wants to indulge in pyrotechnics. Barrison's, you know, is the joint where young Featherbone made his big losing a few weeks ago, and over which the papers have been making such a row."
"It doesn't look like much of a place from the outside," observed Janet disparagingly.
"Well, you know, it would hardly be good policy for them to shine up the front like a Broadway restaurant I'll promise you, though, that the inside is gaudy enough to suit anybody's taste. Why, there is one picture in the hall that cost $40,000 alone; and the fittings throughout are on a scale of sumptuous magnificence."
He paused, then—
"I suppose Seymour is over there now," he added rather pointedly.
"And when did Mr. Seymour get to be a 'steel magnate or a Western Senator'?" she quoted at him slyly.
"Oh, never fret about Seymour. As I told you, he'll roll 'em just as high as though he had millions. He—"
"And you?" she interrupted. "How did you gain the 'open sesame'? They were directly underneath a street lamp as she asked the question, and she saw a vexed flush steal over his face. He made no attempt at evasion, however, in his answer.
"I suppose you expect me to deny dropping in there occasionally," he smiled, speaking with the semblance of perfect frankness, "but I won't. I met Barrison when he was fixing up the place—we sold him his furniture down at the store, you know—and he invited me to come around whenever I felt like it. I never play myself, of course—can't afford to, in fact; but often I have a friend or so in town who wants to see 'the elephant,' and it's rather convenient to be able to take them in there. They can go home afterward and brag that they've been in the biggest gambling-house in New-York."
Plausible enough, again; if she could only have been satisfied that he was sincere.
"I see," she replied, nodding her head reflectively. Then, as though a sudden idea had presented itself to her: "Your frequent appearance there, then—say, every night or so—would create no particular comment?"
"None at all, I assure you." His eyes bore an amused gleam, as though her words distinctly tickled his risibility, "In fact, I might go there every night in the week, and no one would think anything of it."
"Then I am going to ask you to do me a great favor, Mr. Brueton?" She spoke urgently.
"Anything at all. I shall be only too happy to be able to serve you."
"Will you find out for me what amount of money Seymour risks there, on an average, and also as nearly as possible the total of his losses and winnings?"
Brueton bit his lip.
"I hate to play the spy. Miss McCrea," he finally blurted out uncomfortably; "can't you get some one else to do the job for you? I suppose, of course, the interests of justice demand that all honest people should unite in tracking down a thief, and, from what you tell me, I am inclined to agree with you that Seymour is pretty close to being 'It.' Still, the fellow has never done anything to my hurt personally, and I'll swear I don't want to be the one that has to show him up."
"It is not only in the interests of justice that I ask you to do this, Mr. Brueton," she said in a low tone; "it is also in my interests. Mr. Markle has informed me that unless this mystery is cleared up within three weeks' time, my position will be considered vacant."
"Whe-ew!" whistled Billy Brueton. "That alters the complexion of things, doesn't it?"
They were standing at the door of her boarding-house now, and the young fellow with an impulsive gesture extended his hand.
"You may count on your information, Miss McCrea," he said heartily; "and," he added, "don't you get discouraged. We'll manage to save your job for you, somehow. You know two heads are better than one, even if one is a blockhead."
"Thank you so much, Mr. Brueton," answered Janet simply; but there was a warm smile on her lips, and a tender light in her eyes, as she bade him good-night.
Once inside the door, however, the smile vanished, and the light in her eye became a gleam of mocking triumph.
"I have him," she cried to herself, clenching her fists, "All I had to do was to-give him rope, and he was only too ready to hang himself.
"But I thought he was at least a man," she continued, with a derisive curl to her lip, "There was no need for him to come out and admit that he was the guilty man—although, if he had, I would have saved him.
"Yes, I would," she asseverated fiercely, "even if, thereby, I lost all hope of retaining my position I But he might have spared me his weak fictions about Seymour, and his still more pitiful attempt to cast suspicion at Mr. Markle. Faugh, he disgusts me!"
Yet—strange vagaries of a woman's disposition!—before she, fell asleep that night, her pillow was wet with many tears, and she was sobbing feebly to herself: "If only I could believe that it were not he! If only some other person might prove to be guilty!"
JANET MCCREA'S suddenly declared assumption that the real thief was none other than the man with whom she had passed the evening requires a few words of explanation.
It is true that women, for the most part, disdain those slow and toilsome processes by which the sterner sex is accustomed to reach its conclusions; but from the very slightest foothold, or sometimes from no foothold at all, will leap with one bound to the pinnacle of complete assurance.
Still, in the present case, Miss McCrea's deductions were not so illogical and unfounded as they might appear. Indeed, if one stops to think, it will be seen that exactly the same measure of prejudice which Billy Brueton had so shrewdly brought forth against Seymour could with equal justice be applied to himself.
Janet's suspicion of the young fellow, only partially aroused by the confusion he had manifested regarding the time of his departure from the store, had been rendered active by his inadvertent mention of a bookmaker as one of his intimates, and by his use of the "sporty" expressions with which he so plentifully interlarded his conversation.
Casting about for facts to support this hastily-formed inference of hers, she remembered that his department had almost equaled Seymour's in the extent of its losses; indeed, these two sections seemed to be the favorite stamping-ground of the thief.
Nor, moreover, did the jeweler have any advantage over him in the matter of free range of the building. If Seymour was privileged to visit every nook and corner by reason of his duty in regulating the clocks, Brueton was no less favored by another detail of the management.
It was the custom at Markles' to check up each department every night, both as to the amount of sales and the amount of goods returned. This was to prevent a salesman from swelling the record of his sales by urging customers to take out goods on approval, only to have them brought back on the following day.
The various managers assumed this duty in turn, for a period of three months each; and, as it happened, the function had been assigned to Brueton only a week before the free-booting which had so agitated the establishment first began to be reported.
This process of checking up gave the man engaged upon it, of course, an opportunity to visit every department in the store, and that, too, at an hour when the clerks were hurriedly getting stock in shape, so that they might leave on time, and were consequently less watchful than at other seasons.
Making up his report from the information thus gathered usually detained Brueton for a half or three-quarters of an hour after closing time; and, as Janet reflected, it would be very easy for him during this period to slip Out to a waiting confederate whatsoever he might have picked up on his tour of the establishment.
He could then walk past the lynx-like vision of old John, serene in his innocence of any contraband articles in his possession.
As she recalled the location of Brueton's desk in the furniture department, she realized how easy it would he for him thus to effect communication with an accomplice; for directly behind him was a window opening on a court at the rear of the building. All he would have to do was to open the sash, and by means of a string lower his booty to the person in waiting.
Yet it might even be that he had no associates in the affair. He might have discovered some other exit from the store save that by which all the employees were obliged to pass, and which John so zealously guarded.
And some color was given to this conjecture in her mind by the variance she had that evening noted between his own statement and that of John's in reference to the time of his departure from the place.
But these were matters which could not be definitely determined until she had had an opportunity thoroughly to investigate. What interested her now were the psychological, rather than the actual, proofs of the man's guilt.
"What," she asked herself, "is the first impulse of a criminal, when he finds the net of circumstance being drawn around him, or when for any reason he begins to imagine himself under suspicion? Why, naturally to delude his pursuers and to throw them off his track. And the easiest way to do this, of course, is to direct their suspicions toward some other person.
"That is just exactly what this man has attempted with me," she asserted conclusively, "Fearing that he had given himself away by his bungling explanation about leaving the store, he dragged in by the heels this story concerning Seymour. Then, afraid, perhaps, that I might follow up the clue too closely, he endeavored to palm off on me that ridiculous fling at Mr. Markle. And finally—oh, climax of generosity!—he told me not to be discouraged, and offered me his own valuable assistance!"
She laughed shortly, mirthlessly.
"He help me!" she mocked. "As well expect the fox to help the hound which is chasing him down to his own destruction. No, Mr. William Brueton, I will work out this case alone and single-handed, and I will demonstrate to my own mind by incontrovertible evidence that you, and no one else, are the thief!"
It will be noticed by the observant, however, that Miss McCrea made no mention of demonstrating that important fact to the mind of anybody else; and indeed, whenever the question presented itself to her of delivering up to justice this man she so firmly believed guilty, she perceptibly shrank from its contemplation.
She was determined to prove his knavery to her own satisfaction; as for the enlightenment of others—that, she weakly argued, was a matter for the future to settle.
Yes, it must be confessed that the case, as she built it up, looked dark against Billy Brueton. There were bat three points to be considered; these affirmed, his culpability was practically clinched.
First, did he gamble, and if so, was he now or had he been losing? That would supply a motive.
Second, had he a confederate, or did he possess a secret means of departure from the building? That would answer the pithy question he had propounded concerning Seymour, "How the devil does he get the stuff out?"
Third, if he was the thief, did he sequester the goods on his tour of the various departments just before closing time, or was it at some other season? That could only be determined by watching him, and to this end Miss McCrea felt that she could safely trust her own bright eyes.
Yet, with these facts undetermined, how, it may be wondered, could she be so confident that he was the thief? After all, the proofs against him were no stronger than those against Seymour.
If it should turn out that Brueton was hazarding more money than he could afford, so beyond question was the other man. If Brueton had free run of the different departments, so also had Seymour. If Brueton might have devised some scheme for conjuring the stolen goods out of the building, was it not fair to allow Seymour the same powers of invention?
As far as that goes, how could she be so thoroughly persuaded at this stage of the proceedings that Mr. Markle was not equally open to suspicion with either of them?
He had an unquestioned right to go to any part of his store, day or night, and, picking up whatever he pleased, carry it out of the building.
Why might he not exercise this right when under the stress of his peculiar affliction?
For aught that she could say to the contrary, he might have been doing so, hoarding up the goods in some magpie retreat, the very location of which he would in his waking state be supremely ignorant.
This theory would certainly explain what had hitherto been one of the most puzzling phases of the thefts—that despite a rigid surveillance of the pawn-shops throughout the city, none of the stolen goods had so far been found "in soak."
And was it so utterly absurd as an hypothesis, after all? If the medical works are to be believed, stranger instances of somnambulistic extravagance than this are matters of authentic record.
Yes, it may readily be asked, why was Janet McCrea so incontrovertibly bent on proving Billy Brueton the Ethiopian in this particular woodpile?
Chiefly, it' must be known, for the very paradoxical reason that he above all others was the one she wished to see untainted by the slightest stigma of suspicion.
THE next evening at closing time Janet McCrea made her first move in the strategic campaign which she had planned to convince herself of the guilt of Billy Brueton.
Markle Brothers' store, it should be explained, occupied a ton-story building, fronting an entire block on Sixth Avenue, and running back from that thoroughfare a distance of between three and four hundred feet.
The furniture department filled the entire seventh floor, except for a certain restricted space set aside as a restaurant, and, as already described, the manager's desk was in the rear, directly beside a window opening upon a court below.
The eighth floor was devoted to shoes, the ninth to groceries, and the tenth was a sort of lumber-room, given up to the storage of surplus stock.
As the clocks throughout the store pointed to five, Janet stealthily made her way to this top loft, proceeding all unobserved up from the fifth floor by means of the seldom used staircase.
Arriving at her destination, she refrained from striking a light for fear the beams might be observed by some one about the establishment and cause an investigation; but, guided only by the faint illumination which crept in through the dingy windows, stumbled along through the narrow aisles, piled high on either side with boxes and cases of goods.
Thus she reached the back wall and took her stand by the center window, directly over that which, if her calculations were to prove true, was the one used by Brueton in removing his stolen plunder from the building.
The damp, heavy weather still continued, and from her lofty eyrie she could look out to where the lurid yellow glow of the lights over on Broadway was reflected against the leaden sky. Far down below her, the wet, shiny roofs of the houses to the roar of Markles' glistened as black and sleek as the backs of a school of porpoises just risen from the waves, and still farther down was the little patch of courtyard, gray and shadowy now in the mist and dusk of the evening.
There was still sufficient light, however, she decided, to enable her to make out the figure of a man, if one should appear in the enclosure, and also to detect the passing out to him of any goods from the store, if such an operation should be attempted.
Accordingly, she settled herself to her vigil with lively hopes of a successful outcome. The moments passed, and the lessening of the sounds which came up to her from below indicated the gradual cessation of work throughout the big emporium.
She heard the clerks in the grocery department directly underneath her tramping out, exchanging quips and badinage as they went, and then presently came the echoing footfalls of the watchman as he made his first round, extinguishing the lights, and seeing that everything was snug for the night.
There was only one elevator running now, and at length this, too, ceased its punctuated grind. The building was still.
Keenly alert as she was to the sounds which marked for her the passage of time, Janet nevertheless kept her eyes steadily glued to the paved square of court so far below her, and now that the moment had come when if anything were to occur developments must be expected, she leaned far out over the casement and fairly strained her eyes in her eager excitement as she searched its misty depths.
Ah! At last! The little gate in the high board fence which shut off the court from the street was cautiously opened, and a man slipped through.
He peered about for a moment as though to make sure that all was safe; and then, rapidly making his way across the yard, took his stand in the shadow of some empty boxes piled up there.
Owing to the altitude from which she was observing him, and also hindered by the gloom and fog of the evening, Janet could gain no very distinct idea of his appearance; yet the realization came to her as she watched him cross over from the gate, that there was something remarkably familiar to her in the fellow's walk and movements.
A project, born of this half recognition, came to her as she leaned out and strove vainly to penetrate the murky atmosphere.
Why not hurry down to the place where the man came in, and where he must eventually go out? Through the cracks in the fence she could watch her quarry as well or even better than from her present station; could see if Brueton should lower down a package to the waiting confederate, and in addition could catch a glimpse of the strangers face as he came through the gate—perhaps be able to follow him to the cache where he stored the stolen goods.
Without delay, she started to carry her new plan into effect.
As rapidly as possible, she threaded her way through the network of crowded aisles in the lumber-room, and when she had reached the door removed her shoes and fairly flew down the long succession of iron staircases.
At the seventh floor she paused a moment and peered cautiously around the partition to see if Brueton was still at work. A quick glance of astonished surprise broke from her lips.
The furniture department was utterly silent and deserted; the manager was not at his desk, nor, for that matter, anywhere else about the place.
"Ah," she swiftly reflected, "the interchange of loot has already been effected. While I was stumbling around in the upper loft, and was sneaking so softly down the stairway, Brueton has passed out his spoils to his accomplice and has then taken himself off. Through sheer carelessness I have lost the chance of clinching my evidence against him."
She could almost have cried in her disappointment as she sat down, foiled and baffled, on the top step of the landing and began slowly to pull on her shoes. But she had a strain of adaptability in her nature which induced her always to search for the best in any situation, and as she pondered a new idea broke upon her.
Perhaps it was not too late after all to extract some result from the circumstance. It was barely possible that the confederate at least might still be lingering in the courtyard, and that she might yet overhaul him and get the coveted glance at his features.
It would do no harm anyway to make sure before she began to weep over her spilt milk.
To decide with Janet was to act. She gathered up her skirts in her two hands, and, paying no attention now to the clattering of her footsteps, tore down the six remaining flights as though all the furies were in pursuit.
Attracted by the noise of her stoutly soled shoes upon the iron stairway, a man, who had almost reached the door, stopped and turned back to see who could be approaching at such a runaway gait.
Too late to avoid him, Janet saw the fellow and recognized, to her consternation, that it was none other than Billy Brueton.
A glance of startled alarm swept over his face as he, too, recognized her.
"Why, it is Miss McCrea!" he exclaimed, running forward a step or two to meet her, "What's the matter? Is the store on fire? Are you in any trouble?"
"No; everything is all right," she gasped, "only I am in a great hurry. Please don't stop me now; I haven't time to explain."
"But," he urged, catching step with her and hastening along at her side, "perhaps I may be able to help you."
"No, I thank you," she returned pantingly, "this is something I must attend to myself."
"Don't refuse my assistance, please, Miss McCrea," he persisted, "if I can be of any aid. I am always only too happy—"
His eagerness, however, only aroused her to anger. The thought flashed through her mind that possibly he might have fathomed the purpose of her headlong flight, and be now endeavoring to delay her.
She turned on him with impatient asperity.
"Mr. Brueton, I have told you twice already that I could not accept your assistance, nor could I stop now to explain my hurry. Is that sufficient or shall I have to express myself in still plainer terms?"
She stopped short, rendered a little contrite by the flush which showed on his good-humored face.
"Really, I thank you," she went on more kindly; "but this is not an occasion where any one can help."
"All right. Miss McCrea," responded Billy cheerily, quite appeased by her later words; "go your own gait, bow, and I'll see if I can't find some other way to serve you."
He lifted his hat; but she, scarcely halting to return his smile, was once more speeding toward the door. Out of it she scurried, around the corner, and then down the unfrequented cross-street on which opened the gate to the court.
Was she too late? Had this delay proved fatal to her hopes? By any fortunate chance, could the man still be lingering there after all this time?
Her thoughts and fears were running on as fast as her flying feet.
Reaching at last the high board fence which shut off the narrow enclosure from the street, she Breathlessly applied her eye to a convenient knot hole and took a quick survey of the situation.
Ah I Her strenuous efforts were not to go unrewarded after all. The man was still there, lurking in the shadow of the boxes.
The street, as it luckily happened, was quite deserted for the entire block, not even a policeman was in sight; so Janet had full opportunity to make a complete and uninterrupted inspection.
She could not see the man very well, it is true, for his figure for the most part was concealed by the bulky packing cases behind which he was crouching; but, as well as she could make out, he was stooping over examining something on the ground close by the wall.
He kept lighting matches, the tiny flame of each creating, a sort of hazy, yellow sphere of radiance in the fog.
"He is evidently appraising his loot for the night, and is rearranging it into parcels more convenient for him to carry," decided Janet shrewdly, "If he could only be arrested now, with the goods actually on him, there would be no difficulty about proving his guilt."
She questioned for a moment whether it were not the wiser plan to summon a policeman and have the arrest made then and there; but, although the temptation was great, she finally concluded to refrain, arguing that the man, if arrested, might refuse to disclose the hiding place of the great mass of goods already stolen, or even, what she considered of much greater importance, the identity of his associate.
No, she determined, it would be vastly preferable to let this fellow, probably nothing more than a tool at the best, go for the present, only trying to snatch a glimpse at his features, or, if possible, follow him to the store-house where he disposed of his booty. Then, through the evidence thus acquired, she would be in a position to lay a trap for the catching of bigger game.
Indeed, by the time she had definitely arrived at this conclusion, no other course was left open to her, for there was still no policeman anywhere in sight, and the man was manifestly preparing to take his departure.
He peered out cautiously from behind his shelter of boxes, and, crooking his arm around a large bundle which he picked up, began cautiously stealing toward the exit.
Janet ran back a few paces down the street, and then came on again in a slow, unconcerned saunter, endeavoring to so time herself that she should meet the intruder face to face just when he opened the gate.
Her plan worked to a mathematical perfection. She was not more than a yard away when the gate swung back on its hinges; and with on air of jaunty nonchalance the fellow stepped forth into the full glare of the electric light on a nearby lamp-post.
Janet bent eagerly forward to make her swift scrutiny of his lineaments; but when she actually saw the man's face she was so stricken with amazement that she stopped short in her tracks, hardly able to believe the evidence of her own senses.
For instead of the burly figure and the low-browed, sullen visage of the professional thief whom she had expected to behold, the light revealed a sharp, clear-cut profile, the formal side-whiskers, and the immaculate attire of Jasper Markle.
He gave a little start as he recognized Janet, but instantly recovered himself.
"Ah, Miss McCrea," he said with bland inquiry, "just going home? You are late to-night, are you not?"
For a moment Janet wavered between a desire equally strong to cry and to laugh; the outcome was so disappointing to all her high flown hopes, and yet to have pictured Jasper Markle in the role of a burglar was so irresistibly ludicrous.
Then the appeal to her risibilities gained' the upper hand and she began laughing—almost hysterically, it must be confessed, in her reaction from the strain of excitement under which she had been laboring.
Mr. Markle gazed at her in grave surprise.
"Will you kindly explain, Miss McCrea?" he broke in drily, "I see nothing so remarkably mirth-provoking in our happening to meet casually on the street.
"Oh, you don't understand, Mr. Markle," she exclaimed, sobered by the offense so manifest in his tone. "You see, I took you for the thief."
He glanced sharply at her, and a quick frown gathered behind the bow of his gold-rimmed glasses. Was it of annoyance over her mistaken surmise?
"Yes," went on Janet, not noticing his momentary perturbation, "I saw you lurking there in the shadow of the building, and thought you were a burglar trying to effect an entrance."
She deemed it unnecessary at this time to explain the full scope of her suspicions.
"Oh," he rejoined in a mollified tone, and laughing, too, although not very heartily, "Well, I don't know that I can blame you; my actions must have appeared a little questionable to any one who did not understand them. I assure you, though "—with mock solemnity—"my intentions were not in the least nefarious.
"You see," he continued, "one of the porters told me this morning that a leaky water-pipe was undermining our rear wall; but I forgot about it until after I had started home. Then I returned to make an examination, so that, if necessary, repairs could he commenced at once.
"My bundle"—patting the bulky parcel under his arm—"is some things I happened to be taking home from the store.
"You are fully satisfied now, I hope," he concluded with a quizzical smile, "that it is not your duty to give me in charge?"
"Quite so," she answered; "and although I don't wish you any bad luck. Mr. Markle, I must say that for my own sake I am sorry you didn't turn out to be the thief."
Then she bade him good-night and turned back toward Sixth Avenue with the mystery apparently still as far from solution as ever.
Jasper Markle stood watching her until she had rounded the corner, and while he did so there rested on his lips just the suspicion of a faint, cynical smile.
THE following noon Brueton halted Janet as she was passing through his department on her way out from lunch, and, drawing her aside with an air of great secrecy, asked her if she would come to his desk after closing time that evening, as he had information of the greatest moment to impart to her.
She of course acquiesced, but all the rest of the afternoon she kept puzzling her brains over the invitation, wondering what it could possibly be that he had to tell her.
Once, indeed, the conception did come to her mind that having discovered how hot she was upon his trail, he might be luring her there in order to put her out of the way. All sorts of tragic possibilities flitted through her brain, and she was strongly tempted for the moment to forego such a hazardous appointment.
But a little common sense reflection soon dissipated all these melodramatic fancies.
In the first place, she could not conceive of Billy Brueton hurting a fly; and in the second, even though he were the most murderous scoundrel unhanged, she did not see how he possibly could have any opportunity to do her harm.
Nor, it may be added, when she actually appeared at the tryst, did he display any of the characteristics of the heavy villain who has lured an unsuspecting maiden to her doom.
True, he was smoking a cigarette when she entered; but us he threw it away immediately upon her arrival, this ought not to be allowed to count against him. No, it must be confessed, he neither frowned nor stamped up and down the floor, nor ejaculated "Ha!" at her from between his clenched teeth.
On the other hand, he was distinctly joyous and elated, bubbling over with importance at the nature of the tidings he had to offer.
"Do you know," he said impressively, when greetings had been exchanged, and they were settled down to a confidential talk, "I really believe I've got this thing straightened out for you? Talk about Sherlock Holmes, and Le Coq, and the rest of that bunch! Why, they aren't in it when your Uncle William comes out on the track."
"But what have you discovered?" demanded Janet, impatiently interrupting this vainglorious apostrophe.
"Don't be in a hurry," chided Billy, "Just give me my head a minute. Miss McCrea, and let me take the hurdles my own way, and you'll find that I'll come out ahead at the wire. You know I told you I'd back myself to scheme out some plan to help you on this deal, and my old noddle has been working overtime ever since to try to make good.
"First thing I did was to go over to 'Tot' Barrison's last night, and get confidential and chummy with the 'main squeeze' himself. You must understand. Tot thinks he's an art critic for fair; so I talked old masters to him till I was pretty near blue in the face. What I didn't pretend to know about Murillo and Velasquez and Tintoretto and that push isn't down in the books.
"Well, he came right up to the bait, and when I saw I had him fixed, I switched off on to the subject of high-rollers, and remarked casually that Seymour was about as game as any I ever saw around there.
"'Yes,' said Tot, 'he plays high enough, and he loses sufficiently frequent to satisfy almost any gambling-house keeper; but to tell you the truth, I don't like to have the fellow coming to my place.'
"'Why not?' said I. 'He seems to be a pretty stout loser. I don't believe he's the kind that would put up a squeal, if he happened to get stung.'
"'Oh, its not that that I'm afraid of,' said Tot; 'but I can't understand where the fellow gets his money from. I understand he is only on salary in some department store down town; yet he'll drop from two to ten thousand dollars here in an evening, and when he goes out gives a check for what he owes, as cool as a cucumber. I'm scared that there'll be a big scandal about him some day, and I'll get mixed up in it.'
"'By the way,' he added, 'you're in the same store he is, aren't you? Don't you know where he gets his paws on all this coin he is handling?'
"'Not me,' said I. You see I was playing to get information, not to give any away. 'I've have enough to do, looking to see where mine is coming from, without bothering my head about other people's methods. Are Seymour's checks always good?' I asked.
"'As good as old wheat in the mill. Here's one of 'em now,' and he fished out of his vest pocket for me a cheek for $5,000, signed by Seymour and made out on the Bank of Nicaragua.
"'Does that cover all his losses to you?' I said.
"He only laughed and looked wise, and when I pressed him to find out how much Seymour had lost altogether, he would only answer, 'That'd be telling.'
"Finally, however, after I'd joshed and jollied him for pretty near an hour, he did let out to me that, being sort of afraid of Seymour, he had kept a record of his play from the first, and he showed me the figures. Taking the whole period, winnings and losses together, Seymour, as I figure it, is just about $10,000 to the bad.
"Now, having discovered this. Miss McCrea, I began to put two and two together, for the amount, you will see, just about tallies with the value of the goods that have been stolen out of the store. I know that Seymour doesn't gamble anywhere else except at Barrison's, so consequently the money lost there is not winnings that he has made at other places.
"Furthermore, it is a well known fact that the man didn't have a cent to his name when Markle picked him up and put him in charge down here; and we both realize that his salary isn't furnishing him the wherewithal for his extravagance. Therefore, since he must have some outside source of revenue, and the only possible source as far as I can see is by robbing the store, Seymour beyond any question must be the robber.
"I reasoned this far, and then it struck me that I wasn't reaching any remarkably startling conclusions; for, if you will remember, we both arrived at practically the same inference the other night over in the restaurant.
"The question which kept stumping me was the same one that stumped us then: 'How the dickens does he get the stuff out?'
"Well, I went home and I puzzled and bothered my head over the thing all night, and still I didn't see how it was possible for him to do it. I studied over it at my breakfast, and all the way down to the store next morning, and still I was hopelessly muddled; and then along came a little incident which made the whole graft to me as plain as daylight."
"Yes," said Janet, leaning forward interestedly. "Go on."
"Well, about ten o'clock, when everything had got to running smoothly for the day, and I was here at ray desk, figuring on an order I was getting ready to send out, in came Seymour.
"'Brueton,' he said, 'I am going to take that clock of yours down to my department to regulate it, and if I don't find time to fix it to-day I'll take it home with me this evening, and have it back here for you early in the morning.'
"That's what he always says, and heretofore I've never paid any attention to it; but this time it set me thinking.
"' That fellow claims to regulate our clocks for us at night,' I said to myself, 'and they are always brought back to us in good condition in the morning; yet how in the world does he ever find time to do the work when he spends every night of his life over at Tot Barrison's.'
"Then the whole scheme came to me, and I saw how easily Mr. Foxy Grandpa had worked us. Oh, I tell you we have been the prize package of lobsters, if any gang ever was."
"But I still don't understand," broke in Janet perplexedly, "How did the regulating of the clocks assist him in getting his plunder out of the store?"
"Why, don't you see?" said Billy.
"It's as plain as the nose on your face. He takes my clock down to his workshop, and, being an extraordinarily skilful mechanic, he fixes it up in short order. Then, while his assistant is out of the way, he hides it somewhere about his diggings, and fills up an empty box with the stuff he has managed to steal.
"Last of all, he gets a pass from the chief to take home a clock to regulate during the evening, and with this he slides the stolen goods past old John as slick as a whistle. Of course John never thinks of looking in the box to see whether the clock is really there or not."
"Oh, I see," ejaculated Janet, a sudden comprehension breaking in upon her, "It is wonderfully simple, when one comes to think about it."
"Isn't it? Easy as rolling off a log; and no one who isn't on to Seymour's habits would ever think of suspecting him.
"You see," he continued, "what clinches the case again him, and makes suspicion certainty, is the fact that the thefts always occur in each department on the day that its clock is being regulated. I confirmed this as to my own department as soon as my suspicions of his method were aroused, and afterward by a little quiet inquiry learned that the same was true of all the other deportments.
"For instance, this evening in looking over my stock I find that a valuable teakwood taboret is missing; you'll probably get a report of the loss tomorrow morning. Now, I have not the slightest doubt that that taboret went out of the store this evening in my clock-box, while all the time the clock which belongs there is safely reposing in some out-of-the-way corner down in the jewelry department.
"So all you've got to do now, Miss McCrea," he concluded, rising from his desk as if to terminate the interview, "is to nail our friend Seymour the next time he leaves the store with a clock-box under his arm. What do you think of me as a detective, anyway?"
"Think of you?" repeated Janet, "Why, I think you are just splendid. The clever way you have worked this thing out simply throws me into the depths of humiliation. Here I have been addling my brains over the problem for nearly two months, and you sail in and solve it in a single evening. Why, it is enough to make me hide my diminished head forever."
"Oh, now. Miss McCrea," protested Billy, flushing modestly under her praise, "It wasn't really any great show of cuteness on my part. It was simply a bit of luck. All there was to it was that I happened to know Seymour's habits. Given that as a starting point, and anybody could have worked out the combination."
"No," she insisted, "I won't have you belittling your prowess. You have accomplished a great piece of detective work, and you should have your full share of the glory. I intend to see—"
"Hold on a minute," broken in Brueton earnestly. "I want to ask that my part in this business remain an inviolate secret between you and me. If there is any credit due me for the little I have been able to accomplish, I prefer not to claim it.
"Really, Miss McCrea, I don't. I have my own reasons for it, and I think they are good ones; so I tell you frankly and candidly that it will be the biggest kind of a favor to me if you just keep my name out of the whole transaction. Let it, as I say, be a secret between us two."
He was so evidently sincere in his request, so manifestly averse to receiving any of the laurels, that after some demur Janet ultimately assented to his wish, and promised him his name should not be mentioned.
"I can only then extend my own most heartfelt thanks, Mr. Brueton," she said warmly; "and even you cannot realize how grateful those thanks are. The clearing up of this affair means more to me in many ways than anybody else can imagine."
And, indeed, it did; for it removed utterly from her mind the suspicions which had rankled there against Billy Brueton; and she had wanted so much to believe him innocent, had so longed to feel that she could truly trust and respect him.
He accompanied her home; and as they journeyed together on the crowded elevated trains, and sauntered side by side through the jostling Harlem streets, her heart was singing a paean of gladness and thanksgiving.
True, woman-like, she pilloried herself for the unjust doubts she had entertained concerning him, and consequently endeavored to offer recompense by displaying to him the very tenderest and sweetest side of her nature; but nevertheless the world all of a sudden seemed very glad and good to her.
The weather had completely changed, and there was a foretaste of spring in the air. In the gathering dusk a baby moon and a few pale stars were beginning to show against the cloudless sky.
All nature seemed happy, peaceful, and at rest; for, with Janet, the doubts and suspicions which had so tormented her were stilled at last, and she knew that Billy Brueton was all right.
EARLY the next morning Janet McCrea started in on a busy day. In fact, she began operations at the breakfast table, and her first objective point seemed to be the reduction of young Mr. Blair, who sat across from her, to the pitch of absolute imbecility.
This youth had for some time past been in the most violent throes of "puppy-love," the object upon whom he had centered his callow affection being none other than Janet herself.
She fully recognized the symptoms of his malady, and had hitherto treated him with an amused toleration, well knowing that in time he would recover and would then thank her for having refused the tender of his bleeding heart; but this morning, for purposes of her own, she adopted totally different tactics.
Indeed, she openly coquetted with him. Across the board "soft eyes looked love to eyes which spoke again;" and over the matutinal coffee and eggs she plied a whole battery of feminine wiles.
So shameless, in fact, was her flirtation that the old maids about the table sniffed at her in a chorus of scandalized horror, and Blair fast lapsed into a state of fatuous idiocy.
"Won't you escort me down-town, Mr. Blair?" she observed, with timid, appealing girlishness as they rose from the meal together. "One has such a dreadful time in those crowded cars unless one has a man along to act as protector."
Blair straightened up to fully an inch more than his normal height, and swelled out his narrow chest until he looked like a diminutive pouter pigeon.
He never stopped to think that Miss McCrea had gone forth every morning since he had known her alone and unattended. He only heard the call of shrinking femininity to his masculine chivalry, and he was only too ready to respond.
"You are in the Nicaragua Bank, are you not, Mr. Blair?" she questioned sweetly, when they were outside the house and on their way to the station.
He admitted the fact, and added in connection much gratuitous information concerning the standing and resources of that institution.
Indeed, from the airs of proprietorship which he assumed in regard to the bank, and the grandiloquent air with which he said, "We have this," and "We do that," one would never have supposed him anything less than its president.
Janet listened patiently to his bombastic utterances, and encouraged him from time to time by little exclamations of surprise and amazement. Finally she managed to get in a word.
"You must carry a great many heavy deposits, then?" she said, commenting upon one of his statements.
"I should say so!"—braggingly, "Why, if I should tell you the names of some of our depositors, and the balances they constantly keep with us, you would—"
"I have a friend, a Mr. Henry Seymour," broke in Janet tentatively, "who banks with you, I believe. He is a very rich man, is he not?"
"Oh, not particularly," returned Blair depreciatively, so carried away with the interest of his listener and the opportunity of descanting upon his own importance that he never heeded the impropriety of the question. "He keeps a fair sized account with us, something less than one hundred thousand dollars usually, although there is only-about fifty thousand dollars to his credit now; but that is nothing compared to what some of our clients—"
"What is Mr. Seymour's business?" again interrupted Janet. "I don't remember that he ever happened to tell me."
"Well, I don't exactly know either," confessed her companion, "and, of course, it's not our business to inquire. His money comes to him, though, in drafts from South America, so I imagine that he has interests of some kind down there."
"Ah," was Janet's only comment, and with that she deftly turned the conversation into other channels.
This made no difference to Blair, however. He prattled on as artlessly as ever, and if, perchance, he noted that his divinity's interest in his confidences had markedly decreased, or that she seemed absorbed and introspective, he put it down to the incomprehensible, yet wholly delightful, whimsicalities of her sex.
Nevertheless, Janet could not deny that her infantile admirer had given her food for thought. The robberies at the store, she recollected, had not exceeded a total of ten or twelve thousand dollars in value; yet here was the reputed thief with a bank account of nearly five times that amount.
Was it possible that his pilferings had really aggregated so much, and that only a small portion of them had been discovered and reported? No, she could not believe that. The system of checking up at Markles' was too accurate and precise ever to permit of larceny on such a stupendous scale without the fact being known to the heads of the firm.
It must be that Seymour's large revenues came from some other source. The boy had said from interests in South America. Might it not be that he had managed to locate and seize some of the funds with which his defaulting brother, had absconded? That was more likely to be the true explanation.
Still, if the man were independently wealthy, as young Blair's story would seem to indicate, why was he filling a subordinate position at Markle Brothers' department store, and why should he be tempted to steal from his employers? For, wonder about him as she might, she never doubted that he was the thief; the evidence Billy Brueton had presented to her proved the case too strongly to her mind to admit of question.
She shook her head perplexedly as she strove to arrange the paradoxical shreds of information she had gathered into some sort of orderly and systematic pot-tern. The tangle, instead of being so simple as it had appeared last night, was really becoming more intricate and confusing the farther she penetrated into it.
Seymour, a wealthy man, yet stooping to the meanest kind of petty larceny; worth thousands of dollars, yet occupying a position little better than a clerkship; once an honorable merchant and a sunny-tempered man, now a besotted gamester and a misanthropic miscreant!
It was a combination of clashing circumstances too discordant for her to harmonize.
For a moment the thought presented itself to her of carrying her difficulties to Brueton. He was so level-headed, and seemed to possess the faculty of seeing through a millstone a little farther than most people; but she resolutely put the temptation from her. She had a certain pride in working the puzzle out unaided, now that she had a hint on which to start; and she determined not to appeal to her coadjutor again unless it were a case of last resort.
Then a sudden guiding inspiration came to her. Donning her hat and jacket, she left the store, and, taking a down-town car, was speedily transported to the shipping district of lower Broadway, where are the headquarters of the big transatlantic companies, and where may also be found the consular offices of the various foreign nations.
With the aid of a directory, she searched out the lair of a certain South American consul, and finally stood before his portal, high up in one of the big sky-scraping buildings which front upon the Bowling Green.
She found within a dark, wiry little man, who from the sign upon his door combined the duties of his official position with those of coffee-merchant, dealer in mahogany and other woods, railroad promoter, financial agent for several companies of high-sounding title, and owner of mines and sugar plantations.
Despite the diversity of these manifold pursuits, however, he did not seem overburdened with cares, for when Janet appeared upon the scene, he was reclining in an easy-chair with his feet upon his desk, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, while he languidly puffed at a cigarette.
He received his guest, nevertheless, with elaborate courtesy and a profusion of compliments, and she remained closeted with him for a full three-quarters of an hour.
At the end of that time she came forth with a smile upon her face and betook herself immediately to the nearest cable office, where with reckless prodigality she sent off a long message to an address the consul had furnished her, paving the heavy tariff therefor with the sang froid of one to whom an indulgence in such luxuries is a matter of daily occurrence.
By the time she had attended to these various matters, she found that the day had slipped around into the afternoon; so she treated herself to a bit of lunch, and then returned to the store.
Through some adroit questioning, she learned that the clock to be regulated that day was the one stationed in the Oriental department. Accordingly, to the manager of that section she went at once.
"Mr. Sears," she said, "I have a clue, I think, to the man who has been perpetrating this series of aggravating thefts here in the store; and, if I am not mistaken, your department is the one which lute, or is, to receive a call from him today. Now, what I want you to do is to take stock at once, instead of waiting, as is usual, until just before closing time; and, if you find that anything is missing. I wish you would report it to me directly."
"Certainly, Miss McCrea," responded Sears with alacrity, "I am only too glad to be able to aid in running down the rascal. You see, we are all of as more or less under suspicion until the real thief is discovered; and for my part, I am frank to say that I am getting tired of it."
Within half an hour he came to Janet's desk with a grave, worried look upon his face.
"You were right, Miss McCrea," he said, "We have been visited to-day, and visited bad. That gorgeous embroidered Japanese kimono is gone, and I'm afraid that when the chief hears about it he'll be simply wild. Only this morning he was examining it, and remarking how beautiful it was. If you aren't able to get it back for us, I don't know what he will do. It was the gem of our entire collection."
"Never fear, Mr. Sears," Janet reassured him confidently. "I think I can safely promise you that the kimono shall be back in your hands by not later than six o'clock this evening. My suspicions are now confirmed."
As the hour drew near for work to cease throughout the store, she took her stand beside old John and watched the throngs of employees as they hurried from the building—chattering shopgirls, chaffing clerks, the more sedate heads of departments, nimble-footed cash-boys and cash-girls, all that army of laborers who, by their united efforts, upheld and supported this towering edifice of modern commerce.
At last, slouching along with his head bent upon his chest, and with a large pasteboard box under his arm, came Seymour.
As he stepped abreast of John, he thrust out a slip of paper bearing the words: "Pass one wall-clock for Mr. Seymour," and signed with the name of the manager-in-chief.
Having presented his credentials, he was about to slip on out of the door; but John, who had received instructions from Janet, thrust out a brawny arm in front of him and barred the way.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Seymour," he said respectfully but firmly, "I will have to look at the clock. I see a box under your arm all right; but whether or not there's a clock inside of it I'm not here to say."
Seymour halted a moment while an angry flush surged over his dark face; then he vainly attempted to push past.
"Why, you old fool," he broke out savagely. "What do you mean by such insolence? Yon must be drunk. If you are not careful I'll have you discharged for this. Open that door and let me pass."
John stood as unyielding as a rock.
"When you show me the clock," he said quietly, "and not before."
A little crowd of belated employees who were following the jewelry manager, finding their exit blocked, crowded around now, casting curious glances at one another as they listened to the altercation.
"I'll not show you the clock," insisted Seymour hotly, "and if you know what's good for you, you'll open that door without any more of this nonsense."
"You won't show me, then?"
"You open that door, I tell you."
"Then I'll look for myself"—and with a quick movement the old doorkeeper twitched the box out of the other's grasp and tore open the lid.
Janet leaned forward eagerly, and the gaping crowd, its curiosity on edge by reason of the wrangling which had taken place, craned over one another's shoulders to get a peep.
Within the box, visible to all beholders, convincing evidence to the mind of the most skeptical, reposed—the clock!
JANET stood positively petrified with amazement for the space of a full minute. She had been so thoroughly convinced of Seymour's culpability, so absolutely certain that the opening of the box lid would irrefutably demonstrate the accuracy of her deductions, that she could not all at once adjust her mind to a new trend of thought.
It was with her as when one attempts suddenly to reverse an engine in rapid motion. The lever is thrown back in the opposite direction, and the steam endeavors valiantly to effect its new purpose; but for a few seconds, at least, the wheels persist in revolving obediently to their former impulse.
So she stood there, dazed and inactive. In the meanwhile, Seymour had regained possession of his clock.
"Are you satisfied now, you old fool?" he snarled at the discomfited door man, "I never heard of such a piece of egregious impertinence, and I promise I'll not forget it against you, either. Mr. Markle shall hear of this the very first thing in the morning."
He thrust the box under his arm again, and angrily pushed his way out into the street, the crowd which had been held back by the incident hurrying after.
"There wasn't nothin' there but the clock, Miss McCrea," observed old John meditatively, when he and the girl were at last alone.
"No," she answered with a little catch in her voice which was almost a sob of disappointment. "Nothing but the clock."
John coughed tentatively.
"May I make so bold as to inquire, Miss McCrea," he asked, "what you was expectin' to find?"
"Well "—with a disconsolate sort of a little smile—"it wasn't a clock. I'll tell you that much, John."
The old factotum was by no means lacking in shrewdness. Now he winked at her knowingly.
"No, it wasn't a clock you was look-in' for, miss," he said, "and, for my part, I misdoubt if it wasn't for some o' them things that's been takin' legs to 'emselves, all unbeknownst to everybody, and a-walkin' out of the store. Don't be afeerd, Miss McCrea. Old John ain't one to do any loose talkin'; but I shouldn't be a mite su'prised if you was right. That Seymour"—shaking his head censoriously—"is a plum bad egg!
"But we'll fix him, miss. We'll fix him all right," he went on reassuringly, "Don't you bother your head none. He may kick and squirm all ho wants to, but no more clocks does he pass out of this store unless I takes a squint at 'em."
"Oh, thank you, John," returned Janet gratefully.
She had been a little fearful that Seymour's bold front, and his threat to appeal to the superintendent, might overawe old John; for everybody about the establishment was aware that for some unexplained reason the most cordial relations existed between Mr. Markle and his jewelry manager, an inexplicable deference being shown to all of Seymour's wishes, entirely at variance with the chiefs customary attitude toward his subordinates.
Still, Janet knew, too, that the old door man was not a power lightly to be reckoned with, and recognized that he, if any one, was in a position to snap his fingers at Seymour's vengeful wrath.
With his aid, it would be possible to check completely the ravages which Seymour had been making upon the stock, and thus leave herself entirely free to prove the man's guilt in the thefts already committed.
Oh, if she only had time! But already twelve of those precious twenty-one days had flitted away, and still she had nothing more tangible to offer than mere suspicion.
She had hoped so much from the clue that Brueton had given her; had been so positive that the opening of the box would end the whole distracting mystery, and indubitably point out the thief. Yet here she was as far as ever away from a solution, and only nine days left in which to trace out the tangled, twisted skein.
She wondered how it chanced that Seymour had not attempted to smuggle out any of his loot that particular evening. He must have discovered in some way that he was under suspicion. But how?
For a moment the doubt came to her that Brueton might possibly have warned him; but that she dismissed as absurd upon the face of it. Why should Billy have taken all the trouble he had to aid her, if he intended to frustrate her efforts at the last moment? No; it was simply that Seymour was too clever a scoundrel to be so easily caught.
"And now," she reflected as she tossed about that night upon a sleepless pillow, reviewing the events of the day and busily trying to scheme out a feasible plan to trap him, "now he will be more wary than ever!"
The clock upon her mantel seemed fairly to shiver the air with its insistent beat, and to chime in with her despondent cogitations.
"Tick, tick," it went. "Twelve days gone. You have only nine more. Tick, tick. Tick, tick. It is hopeless— hopeless—hopeless. You will not catch him."
Another day and another night passed. Two more, and still no results.
Janet was looking pale and harassed from the worry and the perplexity of it all. Neither had any answer yet come to the cable message she had sent to South America, and on that she had builded her fondest hopes.
Suppose, moreover, that the answer did not come, or suppose that it should come and turn out to be of different purport from what she expected? These were contingencies that presented themselves more and more forcibly to her imagination and drove her almost wild with apprehension.
Still, she had one satisfaction; she felt that she had completely blocked the jewelry manager's game, for every night, when Seymour came hurrying out, old John insisted on stopping him and demanding an inspection of his clock box.
The fellow would stamp his foot and scowl, and call down all sorts of dire calamities upon John's devoted head; but the old watchman proved inexorable, and off the lid of the box had to come before the suspect was allowed to pass his barrier.
Nor was Janet able to discover that Seymour had ever carried out his oft-repeated threat and complained of the matter at headquarters. At least, John averred that Mr. Markle had never mentioned the subject to him; and it seemed more than reasonable to suppose that Seymour would be very chary about communicating a grievance which in the end would be almost certain to lead to the questioning of himself.
Yes, she thought she might rest reasonably well assured that there would be no more robberies in the store; her chief concern must now be the fixing of responsibility for those which had already occurred.
She waxed almost into a state of panic as day succeeded day. The hours verily seemed to her as though they had wings. Here the end of her period of probation was less than a week off, and still nothing had been accomplished.
Every morning Brueton would approach her with the eager question: "Have you got him 'cinched' yet?" and on each occasion she was obliged to shake her head, and answer with a show of hopefulness: "Not just yet; but I probably will to-morrow."
All this time she was longing to seek his aid in the matter. He had been so clear-headed and prompt in disposing of her difficulties before; perhaps he could be equally serviceable to her in her present dilemma. But a stubborn pride held her back from appealing to him.
"No," she harshly admonished herself, "if I am the house detective of this store, I'll be the house detective, and not have somebody else working out my problems for me, and I taking the credit. I'll clear up this mystery alone and single-handed, just to show Mr. Brueton, and everybody, that I can do it!"
Five days more! She paled as she marked the date off upon the calendar. Only five days.
And still no answer to her cablegram! Still no proof against Seymour! Still no adequate explanation of the mysterious robberies!
Mr. Markle was beginning to regard her with a look of cynical inquiry in his cold gray eyes when they met. His expression seemed to say to her: "Aha, for all your vaunted shrewdness, you have failed, just as I told you that you would."
She avoided him as much as possible, and thanked Heaven daily for the cessation of the robberies, since it spared her at least a summons to his office every morning to receive a report of the previous day's losses.
After all, she reflected, why not make much of that point, when he called her to account? If she had not caught the thief, she had at any rate effectually stopped the thieving.
Pride goeth before a fall. While she was thus congratulating herself upon her achievements a messenger entered her room with a request for her to report at the manager's office.
She was delayed probably fifteen minutes with some matters of immediate importance before she could answer the call; but then she hastened thither, confident of a severe rebuke for her tardiness.
Contrary to her expectations, however, Mr. Markle seemed to be in an unusually genial mood. He was leaning over his desk, totting up some figures, and as he did not turn around at her entrance, she could not see his face; but his voice was pleasant and reassuring as he bade her a courteous good morning.
"I just sent for you to tell you about a new trotter I purchased this morning," he said gaily.
Janet stared at him in surprise. She did not believe she could have heard aright.
"About what?" she stammered timidly.
"About my new trotter"—with the same air of elation, "He's a marvel, I assure you; four years old this spring, and last season went three heats better than .06. There's no knowing how fast the rascal can go. Why, when I take him up on the Speedway I'll make every old plug there think he belongs in a milk-wagon."
Janet was more astounded than interested by these confidences.
Jasper Markle was ordinarily the most reserved of men, and rarely touched upon his private affairs in his dealings with his employees. Consequently, although she knew that he was an enthusiastic horseman, she could not understand why he should have summoned her from her work to inform her of the new acquisition to his stables.
So, doubtful just what attitude was expected of her, she only nodded her head and murmured a discreet "Yes, sir."
"You don't think so, eh?" cried Markle excitedly, evidently misunderstanding her response, "Well, I'll just bet you a thousand even that he can step off a mile better than .06."
He was dragging a roll of money from his pocket as he spoke, and in the effort his elbow dislodged a heavy ledger which lay on the desk at his side. It crashed to the floor with a bang.
At the noise Markle gave a quick start and wheeled about in his chair. His eyes were blinking as though he had just awakened from sleep; and when his glance fell upon the girl, an expression of surprised annoyance flitted across his face.
"What are you doing here, Miss McCrea?" he demanded sharply.
"You sent for me, Mr. Markle. You will remember I have been here for some minutes."
He bit his lip vexedly.
"Ah, yes; of course. And "—lifting his hand to his brow as if to recall his thoughts—"what was it we were just discussing?"
She could see his eye surveying her suspiciously from between his fingers, and she felt vaguely uncomfortable.
"Why, don't you remember?" she faltered, "You were telling me about your new horse."
His brow cleared.
"Was that all?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Well," he observed a trifle shamefacedly, "you must excuse me. To tell you the truth, I was out rather late last night, and I am afraid I must have fallen into a doze before you came in, and been talking in my sleep. It is a bad habit that I have. Yes, I was evidently dreaming," he added, "for I imagined that I was chatting with my friend, Colonel Dangerfield...
"What I wished to see you about, however"—breaking off abruptly, and becoming once more the cold, circumspect man of business—"was the same old subject. I have fancied for the past two or three days that the robberies might have ceased; but it seems to have been only a lull in the storm. This morning's reports show renewed depredations, and, I may add, of a more extensive and costly character than we have yet suffered."
As he spoke, he handed over to her a sheet of paper containing a long list of missing articles.
He said no more; but his looks spoke volumes. And Janet, crushed and humiliated, slunk out of the office.
Cold despair was gripping at her heart. She had been positive that Seymour was effectually scotched, and now she had to realize that she had not foiled him for a single week. His predatory activity in no wise repressed, he seemed apparently to scorn her and all her futile precautions.
With bowed head and quivering lips she hurried through the crowded aisles of the store back to her own little retreat, where she might be alone, and give way, if she chose, to the dejected tears so dangerously near to the surface; and as she parsed she caught the scraps of a conversation between two of the shop-girls.
"Say, Mame," said one, "I just had the loveliest time that ever was last night."
"Where was you?" returned the other interestedly.
"Why, Frank took me to see 'The Great Ruby.' It's just grand. You want to be sure and not miss it."
Janet stopped short in her hasty advance, and clasped her hands together under the stress of a new idea which the chattering words bore in upon her.
"The Great Ruby" and its somnambulistic incident! Was it possible that she had been mistaken, then, in her premises, after all?
Might it be that Seymour was really innocent, and that the unconscious but none the less guilty thief was?
THAT night Janet sat until late poring over her note-book, striving to choose a definite path for her speculations amid the mass of conflicting data there set down.
Her suddenly acquired realization that afternoon that the hypothesis she had hitherto maintained might be entirely erroneous had once more put her all at sea in regard to this baffling mystery. Under its influence, the opinions she had so rigidly formed crumbled away like sand heaps before the waves; and she knew not what to think or what to do. She could find no solid rock anywhere on which to plant her foot.
She drew herself together with an effort. This would never do. She could afford to waste no more time in wavering. She must pick her course and hold to it, whether for success or failure.
Only four days left to her. Little enough time if she were certain of her direction; appalling when she had to select her road amid such a multiplicity of guide-posts.
Two theories appealed to her especially when she had finished her study of the situation. One pointed toward Seymour as the culprit, the other no less strongly to Jasper Markle.
The key to the puzzle she had hitherto considered lay in the discovery of the method by which the stolen goods were transported from the store; now she saw that something more was required.
That was the plan she had used in her endeavor to entrap Seymour, and he had not only balked her, but, if he were the thief, had been clever enough to devise almost on the spur of the moment another method of getting out his plunder which was fully as efficacious.
Markle would no doubt be equally hard to detect, for all his natural shrewdness would be sharpened by the ingenious cunning of an abnormal' mental state. Moreover, she had no time to watch and scheme. What she had to do must be done at once.
Therefore, she boldly determined to strike out on a new track, and, instead of trying to find out how the goods were smuggled out, devote herself to an unintermittent vigilance which would catch the thief in the act of taking them.
She had four days left; those four days she resolved should be dedicated to an unbroken watch.
One fact aided her. Brueton had mentioned it to her once, and now, on consulting her notes, she found it to be true; no department had ever been robbed except on the day when the clock belonging to it was to be regulated. Thus her task was simplified. She could tell beforehand where the lightning was going to strike.
The next morning she set about her enterprise. The needlework section, she found, was the first one on her list, and all that day and night she haunted it; but nothing happened.
Seymour came and got the clock about ten o'clock in the morning, with his usual promise to work on it that night and have it back in place-on the following day; but he took nothing then, nor did she again see him about the department.
The slow hours passed, daylight faded into dark, another day rolled around, and her first twenty-four hours of vigil was ended. Seymour had returned the clock to its place, and no theft was reported.
For one day, at least, Markle Brothers' had experienced no robbery. It was possible, however, that Seymour had seen her hanging about the place, and on that account had been afraid to venture a coup. She decided to be more cautious in the future.
The next department requiring her attention, she learned, was the kitchen-ware and house furnishing section; but, as this had never yet been invaded, and as the probabilities were small that the thief would be tempted by anything upon its counters, Janet very wisely gave over her harassing work for the time and devoted the entire day to resting up, preparatory to the strain which she knew the succeeding forty-eight hours would impose upon her.
The third day, however, brought her to the underwear department, and before sunrise she betook herself to the store and let herself in with a pass-key, which she had purloined from old John's bunch, and had had duplicated; for she was determined that on this occasion no one—not even the faithful old door man—should know of her presence in the place.
The underwear section was in a square wing just off the main floor of the establishment, and had running around it a balcony on which it was customary to display bath-robes, pajamas, and similar articles, many of these decking out the forms of dummies.
Sneaking cautiously to this balcony, Janet concealed herself there until the watchman had safely passed upon his rounds; and then she proceeded to divest one of the dummies of its peculiarly ornate bath-robe and array herself in its stead.
She selected for her purpose a figure which was represented as in a sitting posture; so, terrible as the strain of posing steadily for many hours would be, she fancied that she could endure it. Being a little back from the railing, too, and partly behind some other dummies, she had some slight chances for moving her feet and hands.
She had no fear of detection, for she had "made up" elaborately for the occasion, and no one ever visited the balcony, the goods there being for show rather than for sale. So she stationed herself to await what might chance to turn up.
It was easy at first, of course; in fact, it was not until after the scrub-women had finished their work, and the clerks had begun to arrive, that she found this holding to one position more than a trifle irksome. But as the slow minutes ticked away, the ordeal fast became an agonizing and prolonged torture.
Her feet and hands twitched convulsively, despite all her efforts to keep them still; she experienced seasons of nervous shivering, when she thought her movements were so pronounced they must attract attention from below; acute, dragging cramps so racked her limbs that it was only by biting her lips until they bled that she could refrain from screaming out with the pain.
She had brought a bottle of water with her, and with this from time to time, when she was certain that she was unobserved, she was able to moisten her tongue. She also discovered that beneath the heavy folds of the garment draped about her she could safely chafe her wrists and finger-tips.
But she lived in an agony of apprehension for fear that she should sneeze; and, despite all that she could do, the torment of physical suffering she endured was something she had not believed possible. Still, she nerved herself not to give up. She had embarked on this thing, and she was determined now to see it through.
At his usual hour, Seymour bustled into the place and took down the clock from the wall. She watched his every movement as a cat would a mouse, forgetting her own discomfort for the moment in the interest she felt concerning him; but when he left, she was obliged to admit that he had taken absolutely nothing from either counter or shelves.
Some little time afterward, Mr. Markle passed through on his round of inspection. At his entrance Janet bestowed upon him a careful scrutiny; but speedily realizing that he was in full possession of his waking senses, and knowing that no one would dare attempt a larceny with him about, she thereafter relaxed her wearying vigil for the remainder of his stay and allowed her tired eyes to close for a few moments of blissful rest.
The proprietor chatted briefly with his lieutenants, examined some new goods which had just been unpacked, and then passed out.
The hours dragged their slow length along. Janet grew so benumbed that she doubted if feeling would ever be restored to her frame. It also seemed to her as though her mind was wandering; the people she saw coming and going appeared to be shadows rather than living, breathing entities.
Still, she never wavered in her watchfulness. She was willing to take her oath that not one article had been dishonestly removed from its place.
The afternoon gradually waned, and about five o'clock Brueton made his appearance to check up the sales for the day. Janet watched him uninterestedly. There was no one else in the place, so she knew that no theft was about to take place.
The furniture-man stood beside o table of underwear, fingering covetously some new and costly goods. All the clerks in the department had their backs turned to him for the moment.
"Smashing elegant stuff!" Janet heard his murmured comment as he kept looking at the goods.
Then, to her surprise and horror, he whipped a box of the garments under the flap of his coat and forthwith hurried from the room.
Janet sat there cold and stiff, as though turned to stone. The pain of her cramped limbs no longer touched her. It was as if all sensation, all power of movement, were paralyzed within her; as though her heart had suddenly congealed in her amazed consternation.
Her eyes were set and fixed, her brain seemed to be whirling around and around, her lips were feebly muttering over and over again, "He is the thief, he is the thief!"
Apathetically she observed that the manager was closing up his department for the night; dully she listened when he gave vent to profane exclamations at the discovery of his loss.
"Dash it all, boys," he announced to his clerks, "a box of that fine underclothing is missing. I'll swear that thief'll have the whole store pretty soon, if we don't look out."
Still she sat there, looking on with aching eyes until the checked covers had been drawn over the counters and the last employee had taken his departure.
Then she sprang to her feet and threw off the gaudy bath-robe as though its touch stung her.
She clasped her hands to her throbbing temples and paced up and down the little gallery in her agitation.
"Oh," she moaned, "what shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do?"
Then, acting under an almost frenzied impulse, she dashed from the place and started up toward Brueton's quarters on the seventh floor. Three several times she faltered in her determination and started to come back; but at last she found herself standing before him.
He was just closing down his desk, preparatory to leaving for home.
"Ah, Miss McCrea," he said in his usual cheery voice, and advancing to greet her with a smile, "I am delighted to see you, for I have actually begun to be afraid that you were avoiding me. We haven't had a chat together for a coon's age. What can I do for you this evening?"
The girl was pale, but composed. All traces of her recent storm of agitation had passed, and her demeanor was simply one of serene iciness.
She refused the chair which he politely offered her and remained standing, transfixing him with the scornful glance of her accusing dark eyes.
"Mr. Brueton," she said, and if there was a catch in her voice it was so slight that even he did not detect it, "I have come to tell you that I have been on watch all day in the underwear department."
She paused.
"Ah, is that so?" returned Billy pleasantly, "And did you get any fresh clues to the thief?"
"There was a box of French underwear reported stolen from there tonight," she continued in the same impersonal tone.
He gave a little start and glanced quickly, questioningly, into her face.
"Well?" he said drily.
She met his glance fairly and squarely and there was no relaxation of the rigid mold in which her face was set.
"I think it right to tell you," she said, "that I saw you take that box at five o'clock this afternoon. If you care to give it to me, I will return it to its place and no one shall be the wiser."
The man's expression grew stern and hard as a rock in its intensity. The lines deepened about his mouth, and his blue eyes grew cold and searching.
"Then—you—know—that—I—am —the thief?" he said slowly.
They stood thus, gazing into each other's eyes, for a full half minute without speaking.
Then the woman heaved a great sigh of relief, and her set lips parted in a sob of happiness.
"No!" she cried almost hysterically, "No, thank God, you are not! I would not believe it now even if you told me so yourself!"
BILLY BRUETON sank back in his chair with a sigh of great content. The little beads of perspiration were standing out upon his forehead; he had not known how much he had staked upon that question, or how much joy her answering of it could give him, until it was all over.
"So you won't believe me guilty?" he said with a warm, tender smile.
"No, I won't," she averred stoutly; "not now, anyway. I am afraid I did doubt you," she confessed, "when I first saw you take the box; but when I got where I could look you in the eyes, I quickly realized how utterly mistaken I had been."
"Better be careful," he cautioned teasingly. "Any other detective would have had me in irons before this. Won't you accept the evidence of your own senses?"
"No," she affirmed again; "nor any other evidence. I know that you are innocent."
"Yes," he returned, dropping his bantering tone and speaking seriously at last; "it is a matter very easy of explanation; and yet situated as you were, and seeing only what you saw, no one could have blamed you for regarding me as the thief.
"The truth of the matter is that I selected that box of underwear from sample two or three weeks ago, and paid for it at the time. When the stuff came in to-day, Brainerd laid aside my box and marked it with my name. That is the one I took when you supposed me engaged in larceny this evening.
"See"—opening his desk and taking out the big sales-sheet which he had just finished checking up—"here is a record of the sale, duly made out to me in Brainerd's handwriting. If there was some of the stuff missing to-night, it was certainly another box, and not the one which is charged up to me."
"Oh," she cried, casting down her eyes and swift as usual to upbraid herself, "I am so ashamed that I should have doubted you for even a single moment. I should have realized that you were incapable of such a thing, should have known that there was some such simple explanation."
"Not at all," he insisted vigorously. "Anybody else would have convicted me on the spot, and would have held to the conviction. I cannot tell you how glad and proud you have made me, that even without a word in my own defense and with appearances all against me you were still willing to take me on trust.
"Oh, Janet—" he started to continue ardently; but she broke in with a quick, nervous interruption.
"Yes," she said with an air of forced gaiety, "I am compelled to give you up as my thief; and now I am left without one. To-morrow night the days of grace which Mr. Markle granted me will end, and then"—there was just the suspicion of a quiver in her voice—"I shall have to confess that I have failed."
Brueton looked at her keenly. He saw that the long strain of the day's work had told upon her heavily, and that she was on the verge of collapse.
"Failed? Nonsense!" he interposed in his bluff, hearty way, "You still have twenty-four hours ahead of you; and how do you know that your luck isn't just about to turn? Stop thinking about this affair for a few minutes, and come out with me to that little restaurant of ours. A good dinner is the best tonic in the world for successful detective work, I find."
Janet was too low-spirited and fatigued to be able to resist his importunities; so they presently found themselves ensconced at their old table in the familiar little retreat. Moreover, under the stimulus of a piping hot dinner, and the lively sallies of her companion, her drooping spirits revived.
The world did not seem so altogether leaden hued as it had a few hours before, and she was even able to muster up an appreciative smile now and then at Billy's quip and comments.
"Now," said Brueton at last, when the board had been cleared of all save a hissing coffee-machine, and he had comfortably lighted a cigarette, "let's dive into this thing and go clear down to the bottom of it. Truth lies at the foot of a well, you know, and sometimes we have to get the water out of our eyes before we can see it.
"In the first place, let us take up our friend Seymour, We both of us know that there are strong reasons for regarding him as the thief. On the other hand, what grounds are there for believing him innocent? That, I think, will be the best way to get at a conclusion about him."
"Well," replied Janet reflectively, "we might say first, that he has no cause to steal, for he is a comparatively wealthy man; second, he certainly was not the thief who took the underwear to-day; third, however much we may suspect him, we are by no means certain that he ever smuggled anything out of the store in his clock box—in fact, our investigations seem to prove just the contrary; fourth—"
"Hold on a minute," cried Billy, "An idea strikes me. Might not that clock box be made on the principle of a conjurer's chest and have a false bottom?"
"No. I thought of that, and night before last had old John examine it thoroughly. There is no concealed compartment, or indeed any possibility of deceit about it. It is simply an ordinary, square pasteboard box."
Brueton rested his elbows on the table and ruminatively puffed clouds of smoke toward the ceiling.
"I can't get it out of my head, though," he finally broke out, "that this clock business must have some connection with the mystery. Else why does Seymour take the clocks home with him? He certainly doesn't do anything to them at night. He can't, for he is always over at Barrison's."
Both of them lapsed into a meditative silence. Suddenly Janet gave a quick start.
"I believe I've struck it," she announced excitedly. "I believe I have reached a solution."
She pressed her hands to her temples, while she thought rapidly.
"Yes," she repeated, "I am sure I have it."
"What's your idea?" queried Brueton with eager interest, "I'll swear it all looks as thick as mud to me."
"Don't ask me now," she rejoined. "I want to work it out all by myself, since I have at last struck the clue. Only answer a few questions for me. You won't mind, will you "—anxiously—"if I don't confide in you until to-morrow? I do so want to accomplish this, alone."
"Mind?" said Billy in a tone which set all her fears of offending him effectually at rest, "Of course not. It's your game, and you're right to play it on your own judgment. Don't think of me minding. Just go ahead and fire your questions at me, and I'll see what I can do to answer them."
"Well, then," began the girl, "Seymour leaves the store about six o'clock every evening, doesn't he?"
"And about what time does he put in his appearance at Barrison's?"
"Oh, along between half-past eight and nine."
"No chance for him to regulate a clock in that interval, is there?"
"Well"—calculating mentally—"if we give him half an hour to get home from the store, an hour to get cleaned up and eat his dinner, and half an hour to get down-town again, I should say not."
"And what time does he usually leave Barrison's?"
"Anywhere from two to four in the morning."
"Then it may be positively stated that he does not regulate the clocks when he takes them home at night?"
"Yes; I think we may put that down as a self-evident fact."
"Now, are there any other, heavy bettors in the store?"
"No, none of the rest of us can afford to trot in Seymour's class, that is excepting Markle. As I told you once before, he won't gamble; but he'll bet on the drop of a hat, and bet high, too."
"Yes, of course—Mr. Markle; but I meant any of the other employees?"
"No. Not one of them."
"Now, Mr. Brueton, you are thoroughly familiar with the arrangement of the store. Draw me a ground plan of the first three floors from the cellar up, will you?"
Billy secured a couple of sheets of paper from the waiter, and after a little consideration, sketched out the series of plans in lead-pencil. Janet took up the drawings as he finished them and examined them with interest.
"This is the cellar, is it not?" she questioned, laying her finger upon one of them, "What, then, is this square place you have put in toward the front?"
"That is the engine-room."
"And what is this over here?"
"That is a storage vault for old books and papers. It is directly under Markle's private office, but has no connection with it. The entrance is here to the front, and there is also an exit to the rear court."
"And what place is this, over at the side?"
"Oh, that is an unused furnace-room. It has been abandoned since the new addition was put on the building.".
"Where is the entrance to it?"
"Here "—indicating the spot with his pencil. "And"—with an afterthought—"there is also a trap-door leading down into it from Seymour's department. Do you suppose—?" he started to question excitedly.
She shook her head at him, laughing archly.
"Remember, I am to ask questions, and not to answer them," she said.
"All right," assented Brueton good-naturedly, "I'll not break in again. Go ahead with your cross-examination."
She studied the penciled plans for a few minutes longer in silence. Then she folded them up with a decisive air and placed them in her pocket-book.
"No," she said. "I think I have found out all I want to know."
Her eyes were shining, and she smiled back at him with an air of satisfied elation.
Billy laughed.
"I'll have to admit, then, that you are sharper than I," he rejoined; "for the whole muddle is still the most untranslatable Greek to me."
"You'll see into it plain enough by to-morrow night," was her enigmatic answer; and with that she seemed to throw all care from her shoulders and become once more her bright, sunny self, the very incarnation of vivacity.
They spent the remainder of the evening in a spirit of perfect camaraderie, and it was not until he was about to leave her at the door of her boarding-house that the topic of the mysterious robberies was again broached between them.
"I want to ask you just one more favor, Mr. Brueton," said Janet, "and that is to be at Barrison's and watch Seymour's playing to-morrow night."
He promised, of course, and she went into the house with a feeling that in some way everything was coming out right after all.
Nor was she destined to be disappointed, for there upon the table, whereon was spread out the boarders' mail, lay the blue envelope which contained the long-delayed answer to her cablegram.
"Yes," murmured Janet as she tore it open and digested its contents; "the luck has certainly turned at last."
THE next evening, true to his promise, Billy Brueton was at Tot Barrison's. Shortly after his arrival, he noticed a dapper young stranger gazing curiously about at the sumptuous fittings of the famous gambling palace.
The man examined appreciatively for a time the wonderful paintings, statues, and objets d'art which so lavishly adorned the place; but like most others who came there, his interest finally centered in the rooms devoted to play on the second floor.
Here the dealer, calm and inscrutable, his face as impassive as a paste-hoard mask, slipped the cards to right and left from his silver box; the case-keeper silently moved his counters forward on the rack; the lookout, sleepy-eyed, for all the world like a big tomcat as he sat perched on his high stool, still kept vigilant watch to guard against the house suffering loss from "sleepers" left by oversight upon the board.
A group of players, equally undemonstrative, and for the most part with hat brims drawn down over their eyes and fat cigars stuck in one corner of their mouths, were seated in front of the "layout," saying nothing except for an occasional muttered direction to the dealer, quiescent save for a quick glance from time to time at the case-board, or for the movement of their grasping fingers as they shifted their checks about the table.
Some little distance away from the faro bank was a roulette wheel, with its numbered squares of red and black, and its little ball spinning merrily around upon the whirling disk.
In smaller rooms to right and left, poker and kindred games were on in full blast, and among the various players a corps of negro waiters constantly circulated, supplying whatever was desired in the way of refreshment.
The stranger who had invaded this temple of chance, so Billy learned, had gained admission through a card from one of the big hotels, and introduced himself as Don Ramon de Gutierrez, of Nicaragua. He spoke with a marked Spanish accent, and was evidently something of an exquisite, for his clothes were of the latest and most stylish cut, and all his appointments thoroughly in the mode.
His frame was small, his complexion of dark olive, his face smooth as a girl's except for a tiny, waxed mustache, and his eyes, large, dark, and expressive.
He played moderately at roulette, staking an amount remarkable neither for parsimony nor extravagance, and, chancing to win, soon retired from the game, remarking that he did not feel much like playing that evening and was satisfied with what he had already gained. After that he stood around, watching the other players.
At the faro bank Seymour was losing heavily. His run of bad luck had continued all the evening, and he was out to the extent of several thousand dollars.
He growled and cursed at his ill fortune almost all the time; but he kept constantly adding to the amount of his wagers in the hope that he might recoup his losses.
At length he rose to his feet with a muttered oath, and walked across the room to where the clean-shaven proprietor of the place stood, blandly conversing with a party of friends.
"They won't run for me to-night, Tot," grumbled the "plunger." "I'm seven thousand to the bad, and I can't see any way of playing even with the beggarly little limit you've got on this game of yours."
He paused tentatively.
Barrison smiled gently, and fingered his watch-chain.
"How high do you want to roll them?" he inquired, answering the unspoken question.
Seymour's face was flushed, and his eyes sparkled with a reckless light. He seized a glass of whisky which the waiter had just brought up on a tray, and drained it as if it were so much water.
"Is my check good for fifty thousand dollars?" he demanded gruffly.
Barrison did not hesitate the flicker of an eyelash. It was his business to be ready to answer questions of that nature upon the instant.
"Certainly, Mr. Seymour," he said, "How will you have it—cash or chips?"
"Tell me how high a limit you will stand for first?"
The gambler smiled again.
"The blue canopy of heaven, if you want to go that high!" he drawled.
"All right, then," cried Seymour feverishly, "Give me the full amount in chips."
Barrison stepped over and whispered a word in the ear of the dealer, who nodded unconcernedly, and as Seymour took his place at the table set out before him two stacks of yellow chips, each orange-colored disk representing a cash value of one thousand dollars.
The other players at the table gave up their seats, and joined the onlookers who had gathered in a semicircle behind Seymour. By general consent, he had the board to himself, for it was recognized that this was to be a duel between Titans.
Side by side, almost rubbing shoulders in this press, were Billy Brueton and the little South American.
Brueton had not himself been playing, but for the most of the evening had been lounging unconcernedly in the back part of the room, chatting with Barrison and a few others. When Seymour had issued his bold challenge, however, his interest became vividly aroused, and now he was intently watching every move of the jewelry manager.
He saw too that, despite all his evident excitement and notwithstanding the heavy sums he was hazarding, Seymour had never played more coolly or warily. The deal broke in his favor, and when the last card was out of the box the bystanders gave a sigh of appreciation, for it was seen that his chips stacked up just double his original capital.
"You still want the limit off, I suppose, Mr. Seymour?" asked the dealer courteously.
"You bet I do," cried Seymour, grinning in his elation, "This is where I clean out your old bank for you!"
But the deal was negative in its results, neither side gaining any appreciable advantages.
The next run of the cards was similar, and Seymour in his desire to obtain faster action became reckless and indiscreet. He strewed the yellow checks all over the green baize, until it looked like a lawn covered with autumn leaves, and wagered upon this one deal his entire accumulation.
First to lose for him was the queen which he had played open, and almost immediately the ace followed suit. He shifted his checks, so as to play them to repeat, and in the mean while the eight and deuce both cost him dear.
Again the queen lost, and again he played it open. Disaster now followed disaster; he did not seem to be able to call a single bet, and the dealer was kept busy raking in the chips.
At last it was down to the "turn."
Seymour stacked up his chips. He had a little over $15,000 left in front of him; if he called the cards properly, he would stand slightly a winner on the evening.
Thoughtfully he considered. Then he placed his bets, the queen open and the ace to lose.
The dealer unconcernedly slipped the cards through the little slot; they were in just reverse order. The ace won and the queen lost!
Seymour sagged down in his chair, his face fairly livid. At one fell swoop his big bank account was wiped out as completely as though it had never existed.
Desperately he turned to Barrison, who was standing right behind him.
"Tot," he said hoarsely, at the same time drawing a packet of papers from his pocket, "I have here title deeds to mahogany lands in South America worth at the least calculation two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Will you advance me fifty thousand dollars on them?"
The gambler opened the papers and scrutinized them critically.
"Why," he exclaimed, "these are made out in the name of—"
"I know," interrupted Seymour impatiently; "but that is all right. Come into your private office with me and I'll explain to your satisfaction."
While Barrison had been examining the papers, however, the little South American señor had been craning upon tiptoe to peep over his shoulder. De Gutierrez saw at the bottom of the documents a bold, dashing signature which was not that of Henry Seymour.
"Pardon, señores," he cried, springing forward in a quick, impulsive way, "but I do not think the gentleman can explain. He admits that the papers are not made out in his own name, and he does so with reason. Why? Because they are made out in mine, and I am the rightful owner of the properties!"
"What!" shrieked Seymour, leaping to his feet, almost beside himself with fury, "You dare to claim my deeds? Who are you?"
The dark little man never flinched.
"Ramon de Gutierrez, at your service," he replied; then, turning to Barrison: "Is not that the name given in the papers?"
"It certainly is the name," admitted the gambler hesitatingly; "and I'll agree that such was the name the gentleman was introduced under. Do you claim "—turning to the stranger—"that Mr. Seymour has stolen these papers from you?"
"I claim nothing," replied Gutierrez, "I only assert that the lands are rightfully mine."
"He's a liar and a swindler. Tot," raged Seymour, "I bought those lands myself, when I was down in that country three years ago, and used that name for purposes of my own. I have here a certificate showing that the Ramon de Gutierrez mentioned in the deeds is none other than myself."
He drew a folded paper from his pocket and waved it in the air.
Quick as a flash the South American sprang forward and snatched it from his hand. Seymour jumped to recover it, but struck a chair and fell sprawling.
Just then there came a crash at the doorway, and a rush of feet upon the stairs.
"Raided!" cried out a dozen frightened voices, and with the words the electric lights snapped out, and the room was plunged into inky blackness.
As Billy Brueton groped his way toward the door, where a determined district attorney with a score of blue-coated officers was lustily hammering for admission, he heard at his elbow an appealing voice which caused him to gasp in astonishment.
"For heaven's sake, Mr. Brueton," it pleaded anxiously, "help me out of this scrape. I could never endure being taken to the police station in this rig."
The words were scarcely spoken before the door gave way, the lights flashed on once more, and Brueton saw looking out of the face of Don Ramon de Gutierrez a pair of very embarrassed and frightened eyes which he recognized as those of Janet McCrea.
At the same moment he saw with a feeling of intense relief that the detective who was piloting the party of raiders was a man he knew well and for whom he had done many favors.
"Paterson," he said, springing toward him, "you know me, and you know I never play here. Neither does this friend of mine. We have simply been looking on. Let us out, won't you?"
The detective winked; but he good-naturedly gave way, and the two raced down the stairway and out through the shattered entrance.
As they fled, they could hear the hoarse voice of Seymour bawling from the upper room: "Where's that cursed South American? He has stolen valuable papers from me!"
Along the street Billy and his companion walked for half a block in a silence so thick that it could be felt. Then the furniture manager, with ostentatious disapproval visible in every line of his figure, called a cab and placed the senor in it. He gave Miss McCrea's Harlem address to the cabman and started to turn away.
"Oh, but aren't you coming, too?" said a small voice from within the recesses of the vehicle. "Please do; I want to explain."
Billy, with an air of resignation, complied; but for quite a space he vouchsafed no remark to his companion, contenting himself by sedulously gazing out of the window.
At length he turned to her severely.
"I thought you wanted to explain this disgraceful masquerade," he said, in tones of judicial coldness, "I am ready to listen to any excuse you have to offer."
Instead of explaining, however, or indeed of displaying any contrition, the bogus De Gutierrez broke into a peal of rippling laughter.
"Oh, you are so funny," she exclaimed, "when you attempt to be stern. Be good now, and like your own self, and I really will tell you all about it."
She was manifestly so elated, and in such dazzling spirits for all her perilous adventures, that it must have been a veritable St. Anthony who could have resisted her. Before he knew it, Brueton was joining feebly in her mirth and begging her to satisfy his curiosity.
"You see," she began jubilantly, "I have accomplished all I wanted to, and—"
"You have?" he broke in, with a return of his ill humor, "Then you must have wanted to—"
"Keep still!"—impatiently, "Can't you see that I am just dying to tell all about it, and how can I, when you keep making silly interruptions? Now listen.
"Seymour is no one else than Cornelius Van Dorn, who is supposed to have died. He went to South America, you remember, after the defalcation, and there, under the name of Ramon de Gutierrez, be invested his stealings in mahogany lands, which since that time have increased enormously in value. It is from these that he has been drawing his splendid revenues."
"But what became of the brother who went in search of him?" questioned Brueton bewilderedly. "I thought he was the one we knew as Seymour?"
"That is what I am just coming to. It was this brother, unfortunately, who died, and not Cornelius. They did not look unlike, especially after Cornelius had shaved off the heavy beard which he used always to wear; so the plan presented itself to this schemer of sending back word that it was himself who had fallen victim to the yellow fever, and then, by impersonating his brother, returning home in perfect safety."
"Oh, I see," broke in Brueton excitedly, "and it was for the purpose of making his bluff good that he accepted a job as a jeweler."'
"Exactly."
"But," objected Billy reflectively, "how in the world did he ever pick up the trade. Cornelius Van Dorn didn't know anything about jewelry work, did he?"
"Of course he didn't. So he had to employ a regular jeweler to do the work for him at night. Everything he could not. shunt off on his assistant he look-home with him to fix, under the excuse that he could not find time to attend to it in his regular hours."
"Aha! So that explains the mystery of the clock-box?"
"Certainly."
"And Seymour, then, is not the thief, after all?"
"Not the store thief, no; but he is the thief who stole my property and my mother's, and now, thanks to this little paper "—and she drew from her bosom the certificate she had snatched from Seymour, and waved it exultantly—"we can prove our claim, and recover from him what rightfully belongs to us.
"All of which being true," she questioned banteringly, "do you think. Mr. Brueton, that I have fairly explained my disgraceful masquerade'?"
AT closing time in Markle Brothers' store the next evening the two proprietors of the establishment were seated in the manager's private office.
Mr. Leopold Markle usually appeared as different in manner and demeanor from his brother as he was in physical characteristics, for he was short, stout, and rosy, the apotheosis of hemming good-nature; but this evening his round, smiling face was clouded, and there was an air of unwonted concern about his whole expression.
Jasper, on the other hand, was in exceptionally high spirits. In fact, for some unrevealed cause, the two brothers seemed for the time being to have exchanged their dispositions.
Leopold Markle really had very little to do with the actual management of the store. He was the nominal head of the firm, and, having the larger financial interest of the two, insisted, of course, upon being consulted before any important step was undertaken; but it was upon Jasper that the executive conduct of the business devolved.
They were not, however, discussing business details to-night. Both seemed rather to be waiting for some event to occur; and so they remained for the most part in silence, Leopold seated moodily in a chair, while, the other paced up and down the room, occasionally smiling to himself or gaily humming snatches of a chorus from a popular comic opera.
At last Jasper snapped open his watch.
"Time's up," he said shortly, and with that touched a button on his desk.
"Tell Miss McCrea to report," he ordered, when the boy appeared in response.
Three minutes later Janet, who had evidently been expecting the summons, knocked at the door and was admitted.
Jasper Markle took upon himself the role of spokesman for the firm.
"Miss McCrea," he said somewhat pompously, "you will remember that three weeks ago I called you in here, and gave you until to-night to clear up the mysterious robberies which have proved so aggravating to us. May I ask if you have accomplished anything in this direction?"
"Yes," said Janet simply. "I have discovered the thief."
Both men started incredulously.
"Oh, you have?" ejaculated Jasper sneeringly, "Got him under arrest, I suppose?
"No, not yet. I will leave it to you to decide upon the advisability of that step."
Something in her tone caused the man to turn around and look at her intently. Then his lip curled again in contemptuous unbelief.
"Whom do you suspect?" he asked mockingly.
"Let me give you my evidence first, Mr. Markle," she replied; "and then you can decide better whether or not my suspicions are justified."
"That's right, Miss McCrea," broke in Leopold, "Go ahead and tell your story in your own way. We will listen to you."
"Let us consider, then," she began, "the important fact that these robberies were always committed on the day that a clock was to be regulated in the department set down for plunder."
The derisive smile deepened on Jasper Markle's face.
"Seymour, eh?" he interrupted.
"I have not said so. I simply point out the fact that it was either Seymour or some other person who knew Seymour's habits and believed that such a method of procedure would direct suspicion toward Seymour and away from the real culprit.
"Moreover, the thief, whoever he was," she continued, "plainly had access to all of the departments in the store, and could visit them unquestioned. There are three persons in this establishment who have that privilege, and only three. Thus, the scope of our inquiry must be narrowed to this trio."
Jasper gave a slight but perceptible start at her words.
"What puzzled me most, however," she went on, apparently unheeding, "was the question as to the disposition of the goods, how they were taken out of the store. As you are no doubt aware"—turning to him—"I believed for a time that it was by means of a clock-box; but I have since changed my opinion. I now know that the booty was first concealed in the storage vault directly underneath this office, and was then removed by way of the exit to the rear court."
"How can you prove this?" snarled Jasper Markle.
"If you will move your desk, Mr. Markle, and disclose the trapdoor you have had cut there, leading to the vault, I think we shall recover without any difficulty the diamond sunburst which was taken from the jewelry department today, and which is now in the vault awaiting removal. Shall we try the experiment?" she asked pleasantly.
Jasper Markle only cast one look of baffled rage at her, and subsided into his chair.
Leopold smiled.
"Go on, Miss McCrea," he said encouragingly, "This is all extremely interesting."
"There is little more to add, Mr. Markle," she responded, "When I had fixed the identity of the thief, I at first believed that his acts were committed unconsciously, and while in a state of somnambulism. I have since decided, however, that the store was robbed by a person in full possession of all his waking senses, and for a distinct and definite purpose. Shall I explain my theory?"
The elder brother nodded; the younger made no sign of having heard the question. He seemed completely engrossed in his own bitter reflections.
"Well, then," said Janet, "let us suppose that two brothers own a certain business—for instance, a department store, and have in their employ a detective, whom one of them likes, but against whom the other cherishes a certain prejudice.
"The former is forever sounding the praises of his favorite, until at last the latter, becoming wearied of such continual and, as he thinks, unmerited laudation, declares that he will fix up a series of robberies which he avers the detective will never be able to uncover.
"To clinch his assertion, he offers to bet ten thousand dollars that the supposititious crimes will not be traced to their real source within a period of three months.
"The elder brother accepts the wager, and free scope is given to the other to lay his plans. He effects his purpose so cunningly that for a long time he is able completely to mystify the detective and direct her suspicions against two totally innocent men—innocent of this charge at least. In the end, however, she is successful; and as a result"—rising and bowing to Leopold—"I suppose I may congratulate you, Mr. Markle, on being ten thousand dollars richer than you were an hour ago!"
"Marvelous!" exclaimed old Leopold, "Marvelous! I hardly dared hope that you would do it when I learned how shrewdly Jasper had managed the affair; but I see now that my original faith in your ability was not misplaced. You are right in every particular, save that the wager was for twenty thousand instead of ten."
"Yes," added Jasper Markle, who had recovered from his temporary discomfiture, and now came forward to offer his congratulations, "it is marvelous. I take back every word I ever said against you, Miss McCrea. I am the loser by this transaction; but I'll swear it is worth the money to find out that we have such a treasure in our employ.
"There need be no question of our severing relations now, Miss McCrea "—with a smile, "I assure you we shall be only too delighted to retain you in our service."
"Well, I don't know," hesitated Janet doubtfully, "that I am altogether willing to retain you as my employer."
"What's that?" demanded old Leopold, starting up from his seat, "You are not thinking of leaving us? Why, my dear Miss McCrea, don't let this stupid joke induce you to do anything of that sort."
"No; it isn't that," she faltered; "but—"
"If it is a question of salary?" broke in Jasper urgently, "let me tell you that we recognize the worth of your services, and there shall be—"
"No," she said again, and this time it was decisive, "To tell you the truth, I have accepted another position."
The two men looked at each other, thunderstruck by this unexpected announcement.
"Another position?" repeated Jasper. "May I inquire the name of the firm?"
"Well," replied Janet demurely, "there is no particular secret about it, so I may as well tell you. After the 18th of next month I shall be Mrs. William Brueton!"
"And, by George," thundered out old Leopold, "I'll be darned if you shan't have the whole twenty thousand dollars that I won for a wedding present."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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