Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

Being the swift adventures of young Dr. Waring, who sought romance and found it in a torn letter and a pretty girl in a green dress

Chapter I An Invitation — Refusals Not Accepted

It was raining, a dull monotonous drizzle. The window panes wept incessantly. A steady stream of water gurgled in the spout and ran into the street, while the high wind rumbled in the chimney and raised its voice in a triumphant whoop as it swirled between the houses.

I sat contentedly in my study toasting my shins before a fire in the grate as I prowled absently through a dozen back copies of the Medical Journal. Clad in an old smoking jacket, a worn pair of trousers and ancient slippers, I was enjoying a luxury for a busy young physician — a night to myself indoors. A night to puff my pipe, to think my thoughts, to read my books. A night—

My mind suddenly snapped back into the world of realities. I heard voices in the hallway. A door closed sharply against the wind. A knock.

“Well?” said I irritably. “What is it?”

“There’s a man out here,” came the voice of Mrs. Barkley, my housekeeper, “who says he must see you immediately. I told him you were out, but he says he knows better, and he won’t leave the house. It’s a matter of life and death, he says, and—”

“Yes, I know,” I growled impatiently. “It’s always a matter of life and death. Well, if he’s as determined as you say I may as well be rid of him quickly. Show him in.”

So much for my evening of peace and contentment at my own fireside. I closed my book, laid down my pipe resignedly, and got up to greet my caller.

He sidled into the room furtively, a small, weather-beaten little man in sodden clothes. His face was long and narrow, and I noticed numerous scars that showed through the sparse gray hair on his bulletlike head.

“Dr. Waring?” he asked, fixing me with eyes like twin gimlets and cocking his head to one side.

I nodded curtly. What could this strange fellow have to say to me? What had brought him to my door on such an evil night? He was not seeking my services for himself, and I felt certain that none of my patients had sent such a ragamuffin to me as a messenger.

“What can I do for you?” I inquired.

The little man stared at me for a moment, then his head turtled toward my housekeeper, who remained in the doorway, looking in dismay upon the pools of water which ran from my guest’s clothing to the fine rug.

“I’d rather talk to you alone.”

A smile fluttered at the edges of his thin mouth as the disdainful woman departed hurriedly.

“Mad, ain’t she?” he asked. “Well, don’t know as I blame her. She probably never saw a scarecrow like me before.”

“What do you want?” I demanded sharply. “Speak up.”

He grinned.

“Ever hear of Bill Copeland, doc? Huh?”

I shook my head.

“You know him, doc. Sure you do. Well, sir, I got a little letter here from Bill and he says it’s right important, a matter of life and death, and he told me to get it to you no matter what happened.”

He shot a skinny hand under his ragged coat and fished out a dirty piece of paper which he handed to me.

“Are you sure you have the right man?” I asked.

A queer little gleam came into my guest’s eyes. It gave his lean face a crafty, dangerous look.

“It’s for Dr. Hugh Waring,” he said, “and that’s you, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

Relief came into the little man’s face.

“Then go ahead and read the letter,” he replied.

I moved over to a lamp, unfolded the paper carefully, and this is what I read:

I looked up from the note.

“There,” said the ragged messenger triumphantly. “Now you remember Bill, don’t you?”

Yes, I remembered Bill. I had found him on one of my trips through the hospital, a dirty, drunken wretch, half dead from the effects of a debauch on rotten whisky. I had talked to him. There was something about him, some wistful appeal in the fellow’s eyes, that got inside of me.

He had been, at one time, a gentleman of some refinement. But he would tell me nothing of his past. I took him out of the ward, got him a bath and a shave, gave him money and sent him forth in search of a job. I made him promise to inform me as to his progress. Six months had passed. Not a word from my protégé.

I decided that my venture in salvaging souls had been the usual failure, the fellow had most likely spent my money on one grand bout and had gone his old evil ways. I had dismissed him from my mind.

Now this letter, brought to me on a stormy night by a derelict who had all but forced his way into ray house. The chances were, thought I, that my friend was down again and sought another lift out of the mire. It was probably a neat ruse to gain my sympathy and pave the way for another loan. I hesitated.

The little man seemed to follow my thoughts, and they made him acutely uneasy.

“Come on, doc,” he urged. “Bill’s on his last legs. He ain’t tryin’ to put anything over on you. He’s got something valuable that he wants to give you. And, believe me, it must be valuable, ’cause Bill guards it with a big pistol and won’t let nobody near it. And at night sometimes he raves about plots and gunmen and sometimes he yells for the police.”

“I do not want any reward for my effort to make Copeland into a human being,” said I. “If it’s money he wants I might stand for a small loan, but I don’t feel like traveling through a rain storm to console him. I will not go.”

“Aw, doc, listen—”

“No.”

My guest’s eyes searched my face for an instant and then his long hand flashed into his bosom and came forth holding a nickel-plated pistol which he pointed at me.

“Doc,” he said softly, “I hate to do this, but Bill says to bring you, whether or no, and if you won’t come of your own accord I’ll have to persuade you, get me?”

“Why the melodrama?” I demanded hotly. “Don’t you realize that I could call for help and have enough policemen here in a moment to make an end of you?”

The little man grinned.

“But you won’t,” said he, “and there’ll be plenty of melodrama around here if you start anything.”

“Put up that weapon,” said I, but the little man only stared at me from his queer eyes and shook his head.

“Well,” I said, “I may as well go willingly, I suppose. Will you trust me out of your sight while I change my clothes?”

“Sure, doc.”

The little man made another motion and the pistol disappeared.

“You see,” he hastened to explain, “I promised Bill I’d bring you back, and I had to make good. Sure, doc, go ahead and get ready. I’ll take your word for it that you won’t call the coppers.”

I changed quickly, and a few minutes later I was driving my curtained roadster through the storm at the direction of my strange guest, who sat hunched at my side.

“Market Street,” he said, and I tinned toward the river front. Darkness was deep over this part of the city, a district of cheap rooming houses and factories. Here and there a line of light edged a shutter, the only relief in the blocks of blind, wet buildings. My powerful headlights picked up a sodden roister or two, a vagrant doubled up in a doorway, a policeman charging through the rain, his black rubber coat gleaming like the hide of a wet hippopotamus.

“Left,” croaked my guide, “and stop under the light.”

The car swayed to a halt beneath a feeble street lamp and we climbed out.

“Not a fancy neighborhood,” grunted the little man. “Follow me.”

We scurried through the rain and turned suddenly into a dark hallway, which we traversed a few paces. Then we climbed a creaking stairway to the second floor. The smell of wet plaster and cooking vegetables assailed my nostrils. My guide was fumbling his way along the landing, then he paused before a door and knocked lightly.

“It’s me,” he said in a low, tense voice.

There came a rattle of chains, the door swung open slowly, and we stepped into the room.

Chapter II Deathbed Reward

Dressed in a dirty flannel night garment, Copeland, the wastrel, lay upon an iron bed, half covered by a greasy, ragged quilt. One look at the fellow told me that he was nearing the last milestone of his life. His burning eyes, sunken cheeks and the little beads of perspiration that shone on his sallow forehead spoke eloquently of the ravages of whisky and drugs.

On a soap box at his side stood a lamp and a bottle, the latter half filled with a dark liquor. Near his other hand was a heavy pistol, and from time to time his long, skinny fingers reached out to caress it nervously.

“Well,” I began impatiently, “what is it you want with me?”

“Lock the door,” said the sick man in a low voice. “I don’t want to take any chances now. I’ve got something here, doctor, something—”

“You are very ill,” I interrupted in my best professional tone. “Perhaps I can do something for you.”

I stepped toward the bed.

Copeland held up a shaking hand in protest.

“It is no use, my friend,” said he with a half smile. “I’m quite beyond any of you fellows. My best medicine is in that bottle there, and every gulp brings me nearer my miserable end. No, doctor, I’ll have none of your remedies. Keep them for your fashionable patients with the big pocketbooks.”

I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. The little man was replacing the chains on the door.

Copeland was talking again now in his quavering, thin voice.

“You saved me once, doctor, put me on my feet and gave me a chance. It is not your fault that this tale does not end differently. Yours was the first human treatment I had in many years. I appreciate it. Now that my opportunity has come I am unable to take it, so I pass it on to you. I will make you a rich man. Rich as you ever will want to be!”

I looked at him sharply. His sunken eyes were gleaming, his lean fingers were clenched, and the perspiration rolled from his face and bared chest, although he shuddered pitifully beneath his scanty coverlet. I concluded that he was delirious and tried to calm him.

“I’m not raving,” he protested. “Listen to me, I beg of you, for I have not long to talk to any man.”

He broke off as a fit of coughing seized and shook his emaciated body.

“The bottle. Hand me the bottle.”

I passed the liquor to him, and a deep drink restored some of his waning strength. He spoke again in the same, quavering, hopeless tone.

“When I was taken to prison for the crime of being unable to care for myself I was placed in a cell with a large, well-dressed young man who questioned me closely about myself and finally, seeming satisfied with my answers, told me that he was carrying important papers which he did not care to have fall into the hands of the police.

“Knowing that he would be searched shortly, he proposed that I hold the documents for him. It was obvious that I was just a bum and the police would pay but little attention to me.

“I accepted the proposition, and he gave me a black capsule about the size of your thumb. It was sealed with wax. ‘Return that to me next week at the Horton House and you will be well rewarded,’ he said. ‘Double cross me and I’ll kill you like a rat.’

“An hour later I was whisked away to the hospital where you found me in the ward. The Lord only knows what became of the big young man.

“Of course, I broke the seal and opened the capsule. I found a half of a letter in it. Nothing that seems to make any sense or be very valuable. But I soon found out that somebody attaches great value to it, for I have been followed day and night. Attempts have been made on my life. I finally eluded them and came here and drank bad whisky until I felt myself slipping. Doctor, there is a fortune in that paper, some place.”

Exhausted by the effort of talking, Copeland sank back on the bed and lay there gasping. Then one shaking hand fumbled in the pocket of his garment and produced a small black capsule which he handed to me.

“There is but one condition.” he whispered. “If it is valuable, and I am certain that it is, see that the man who brought you here to-night is rewarded.”

He fell silent again. Outside the rain pattered on the roof, and the wind that came through the broken pane in the window rustled among the litter of papers on the floor.

The sick man stirred uneasily, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

“Good-by,” he said feebly, “and good luck to you.”

I found my voice.

“See here, Copeland, I don’t want this infernal paper. Why don’t you give it to your friend and let him recover the hidden treasure, or whatever it is?”

The wastrel smiled faintly.

“My friend is hardly in a position to be going about such things in person, if you get what I mean. He is slightly known at police headquarters and in other places. You see, he wouldn’t have an outside chance. He couldn’t—”

The words were choked back by another fit of coughing, and when it had passed away Copeland lay still. He looked like a corpse.

“Bill’s about done,” said the little man heavily.

I turned on him.

“Take this thing,” I commanded, thrusting the capsule toward him. “I haven’t any time for this sort of thing. I am a physician, not a dime novel hero.”

The little man shook his scarred head.

“Nope,” he said. “Not for me. I’ll get mine going into other people’s houses, but I’m damned if I’ll monkey with that kind of stuff. I’ve seen ’em after Bill. There’s a lot of trouble connected with that thing some place.”

The sick man’s voice came from the bed.

“Hurry!” he pleaded. “Get away from here. I’ve been watched for days. They’ve found me. I hear them in the hall and on the roof. Always watching! They’ll be back to-night. Get away before—”

His voice trailed away into a thin whisper and died.

“Come on,” said the little man. “I’ll take you down to your machine.”

We tiptoed out of the room and left Copeland mumbling and raving to himself on his filthy couch.

Chapter III Woman in the Case

I drove home through the storm at a furious pace, the black capsule in my vest pocket. Why hadn’t I tossed the damned thing on the outcast’s bed and departed in peace? Why should I risk my life in some outlandish plot hatched by a gang of river front crooks? Here was I, a dignified and able young specialist, prowling around at night with a pair of thugs and allowing myself to be elected chief buccaneer to recover the hidden treasure, despite the machinations of the black-mustached villain.

The whole absurd story reminded me of one of the melodramas that so fascinated me in my younger days. All I needed to complete the picture was a fair-haired heroine, her aged and honorable father and a mortgage on the family homestead. I laughed at the thought and cursed myself for a blooming idiot.

I turned my car into the driveway, left it there and dashed into the house, where I shed my dripping coat and hat. Now to return to my books. I stepped into the study and stood, for a moment, dum-founded.

The place had been ransacked. By the light of the dying coals in the grate I saw that my desk had been pried open, my papers and books were scattered about on the floor, and the doors of the cabinets on the wall were ajar. My eyes went quickly about the room. From beneath the Japanese screen at the left of the fireplace I saw a foot, a very small foot, and a slim, silk clad ankle.

With the blood pounding in my wrists and temples, I closed the door, locked it and dropped the key in my pocket. Then, feeling very much like a motion picture hero, I walked across the room and quietly folded the screen to one side.

A girl stood there, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl, in a bright green evening dress, all covered with some sort of luminous spangles. She seemed paralyzed with fear, unable to command her quivering mouth or her nervous hands that twisted an absurdly small handkerchief.

“Well,” I said pleasantly, “I perceive that the characters in my melodrama are beginning to make their appearance. You, I presume, are the heroine.”

She stared at me from wide eyes, and her distress was evident. Natural, thought I, to be distressed when caught rummaging through a man’s house at midnight.

“On the other hand,” I continued airily, “you may be the villain. We shall see. Now, perhaps, you will be good enough to explain what you are doing here? Don’t be frightened. I would not have the heart to turn such a pretty burglar over to the police.”

The girl’s red lips formed three words:

“Let me go.”

“Why should I? You have broken into my house, searched my desk, surely you don’t expect to depart without even telling me what you are after. Come now, what is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can.”

There was an edge to my voice now. She retreated into the corner and stood there, and at the look in her eyes I resumed my bantering tone.

“What kind of an act is this? How can I save you from the scheming double-dyed monster who undoubtedly pursues you, unless I know the plot? Can’t you see that I am the hero? Give me a chance to do a little heroing.”

The girl smiled. She was relieved. She was glad to see that I did not take the situation too seriously.

“Once again.” I persisted, “would it be impertinent for me to ask what you are doing here?”

She laughed, a charmingly defiant laugh.

“You have something in your possession that does not belong to you. I came to get it. I am afraid that my visit was a — a little premature.”

“So?” said I. “That’s it. Well, well. The plot takes form. You are the agent of the pirates who seek the contents of the black capsule. Hum. I really believe this is going to be worth while.”

I sat down, picked up my pipe, filled it and struck a match.

“Pardon me for not asking you to have a seat.”

“I really prefer to stand.”

I studied my guest carefully through the smoke. What was this girl? I had not decided. She was either a crook with the finesse of a fine actress or a very fine young lady in a devilish situation of some kind.

Suddenly I dropped my bantering.

“Why didn’t they send a man?” I growled. “I would have been delighted to give him a good beating.”

“You look ferocious.”

“Indeed I am.”

She regarded me with a hint of a smile as I puffed on my pipe and racked my brain for a reasonable answer to the riddle. I had concluded that the girl was after the black capsule which reposed in my vest pocket, but it was difficult to connect her with such a story as Copeland had related. Frowzy bums. River front crooks. Dark deeds. Hidden treasure. She looked more like gay parties, dancing, sunlight, music — anything but a silly quest for a document with an unsavory past.

And why, I asked myself, had she been sent to my home? If Copeland’s enemies had trailed me, certainly they would have waited until I had a chance to hide the capsule.

“How did you know I had this thing you seek?” I demanded.

“You are known,” said the girl steadily. She had recovered her poise now. “You are known to have removed a certain person from a hospital. We, that is, I, concluded that he had passed it on to you.”

I fumbled in my pocket and withdrew the capsule.

“Is that what you are after?”

“Yes!” There was an eager light in her eyes. “Give it to me and let me go. Trust me. Believe me, when I tell you that this is none of your affair. Give me that capsule. Keep it and your life will be in danger!”

Danger! I considered carefully, watching the girl, partly in perplexity, partly in admiration and not without flashes of suspicion. Danger! The very word caught at my imagination. I was bored to death by garrulous and complaining old men, asthmatic and gabby women, and homely, squalling infants. Danger! I drew a quick breath. Give me danger and a girl in a green evening dress!

I dropped the capsule back into my pocket.

“I’ll keep it,” I said decisively. “At least I’ll keep it until I find out what this thing is all about.”

Eagerness turned to incredulity in the girl’s eyes.

“You fool!” she blazed at me. “You conceited idiot! Do you think this is a child’s game that you can say smugly, ‘I will keep it?’ You will keep it until it is taken from you. Then you will probably get a bullet for your meddling!”

I was on my feet now. Her open scorn had sent the blood to my head.

“Listen to me, young lady,” I snapped. “I can take care of myself. When you get back to your thieves’ hangout, tell the boss brigand that I have this document and I intend to keep it. Invite him to come and get it, if he has the courage. I may shoot the next thief I find in my house, even if she does happen to be wearing skirts!”

Pale and defiant, she stared at me.

“Don’t put on airs with me,” she said evenly. “I know you. Dr. Waring, for just what you are, a cocaine smuggling, drug-peddling disgrace to your profession. May I go now?”

“You may go when I get ready to let you go,” I retorted savagely. “Answer my questions. I am weary of this horseplay. Quit talking riddles to me and tell the truth if it is in you! Come now, who sent you to my house, and who told you that I am a drug peddler?”

“Do you really want to know?” she asked sweetly.

“Certainly!”

“Then try and find out.”

And before I could stop her, she whirled, dashed to a window, threw it open and stepped out into the rain. A swish of the green skirt and she was gone, leaving me open-mouthed before the fireplace. For a second I stood there, then I hurried to the door, flung it open and gazed out into the darkness, but I could see nothing, and there was no sound save the splatter of the rain.

I laughed grimly and returned to the library, I had ruined my own plot. The heroine had flown, leaving me with the black capsule, and by all the rules of pirate conduct it was for me to search her out, halve her enemies neatly with a broadsword and then collect the treasure or whatever it might be.

I stirred up the fire in the grate and sat down to examine the mysterious capsule. It had been sealed with wax at one time but it was open now and I easily extracted a small piece of greasy paper which I unfolded. It appeared to be a half of a letter. I held it up to the light and read:

Chapter IV Their First Move

I could make nothing of the thing, and after turning the matter over in my head without result I replaced the document in its shell. Where could I hide it? I finally turned out the lights, fearing that I might be watched from without, and dropped the capsule into an empty ink well upon my desk. Then I went off to bed, determined to get a good night’s rest that I might be fresh on the morrow to begin my quest for the girl in the green dress.

But sleep did not come to me easily, and for the first time in my dull, well-ordered life I spent a restless night. Every time I tried to compose my mind there arose before me the picture of the girl behind the Japanese screen, and she flashed upon my memory in a dozen moods, now frightened, then defiant; laughing with the pomegranate-red lips; eager and trembling and again dark-eyed and threatening.

I got up in the black middle of the night and groped for a glass of water. “I know you for just what you are.” Her words rang in my ears. What had she meant? What was I? Nothing. That is, nothing romantic. Just a stodgy doctor, old beyond his years and knowing little of the life that thundered past his very doorstep.

“I hope,” I muttered to myself, “that she really believes I am a drug peddler.”

What was the matter with me? What had this strange girl done to the man who had strove among his books to the exclusion of all other interests? What swashbuckling, adventure-seeking demon had she aroused within me?

I laughed hollowly. I was a fool, a blithering fool, ready to follow strange gods into unknown fields.

The telephone bell rang insistently. I was awake instantly and saw that it was broad daylight.

My ear caught the sound of a strange voice.

“Hello, doctor,” it said. “Don’t fail to read the Globe. Second page.”

“Who the devil—” I growled, but my caller was gone, and in vain did I rattle the receiver. What was this now? What could there be in the morning paper of interest to me?

I was all curiosity and it was not long before I was downstairs in the breakfast room, glancing hastily over the paper while Mrs. Barkley poured my coffee. I soon found what I sought, tucked away in a far corner under an insignificant headline. This is how it went, as I remember it:

That was all. Just three or four lines of type, but to me they told a long story, for now I knew that poor Copeland’s comic opera plot was a very real one after all.

I let the paper fall from my shaking hand.

“I shall be turning my practice over to Dr. Turner for a couple of weeks,” I told Mrs. Barkley as she bustled in from the kitchen with the toast. “I feel myself sadly in need of a rest.”

She eyed me suspiciously.

“And what,” she demanded, “will your dear uncle be saying about that?”

“Damn my uncle,” said I. “If he comes around here while I’m gone, tell him I’m at the races.”

The effect of these words upon the poor woman was ludicrous. It was very much as if my pet dog had reared up on his hind legs and had demanded a cigar. Mrs. Barkley knew that my uncle had paid for my education and, with that as an opening, had appointed himself watchman over my social and business affairs, never allowing me, for a moment, to forget that I was a Waring.

The old man’s idea of letting the world know about the Warings was to cultivate an insufferable stare and to walk like one had a catch in one’s neck.

“Yes,” I went on, “if the old boy makes any inquiries, tell him I left word for him to leap into the nearest ocean.”

“All right, doctor,” soothed Mrs. Barkley. “I’ll do that, sir. You can depend on me.” And she ducked hurriedly through the swinging door into the kitchen. It would not have surprised me if she had called the police.

I finished my coffee and sauntered into my office, where a dozen patients were awaiting me. The regular morning routine began. Mrs. Trimbell relating her imaginary ills; a young mother with a crying baby; a callow youth with a swollen throat; another baby: a garrulous ancient, and, lastly, a fine looking old gentleman upon the arm of his stalwart son. The father was white-haired and thin as a lath. The boy was a huge, barrel-chested fellow of frank countenance and engaging manner.

“My father is suffering from some strange malady,” said the youth in a deep voice. “It has defied all diagnosis, but hope never dies in the breasts of the afflicted. We are praying that you may be able to do something to help him.”

The old man was lowered into a chair and I began questioning him. His answers revealed that he was, indeed, suffering from a rare disease. Here was something, I told myself, that promised to be of extraordinary interest. I made rapid notes of his symptoms.

We were deep in the discussion of his case when the patient suddenly lurched to his feet, his hands fumbling at his throat, and gasped out:

“I believe I’m dying!”

He staggered a few steps toward the door and collapsed lightly in a heap on the floor. His son ran about the office in great agitation, crying loudly for water and, finding none, he dashed into the hall.

I felt of the old man’s pulse. It was quite normal. His wizened face was ruddy. Queer, I thought, as I frowned at him.

Then it came to me. I stepped swiftly over the body and into the hall. Where had the youth gone? I heard the sharp sound of heels overhead. The impudent dog was in my bedroom.

I leaped up the stairs, threw open the door and there he was, humming a snatch of a song as he calmly pulled the drawers from my bureau and dumped the contents in a pile on the floor.

“Well, sir!” said I, my voice rising in anger. “What have you to say for yourself?”

He looked up at me and a malicious grin spread over his broad, good-humored face.

“Hello, doctor,” he replied pleasantly. “I was just doing a little exploring. Sorry to have messed up your room.”

“You’d better be sorry,” I growled, “because you’ll need sympathy when I get through with you.”

Still grinning, he cocked his head to one side and regarded me in mock dismay.

“Tut, tut, my friend. You have a nasty temper. You really ought to do something about it.”

I pointed to the door.

“Get out!”

He dropped a bundle of my shirts and swaggered past me.

“Of course you know what I’m here for?” he suggested. “Might I hint that you should return my property to me and save yourself trouble, or will your violent disposition stand for such an idea?”

“Get out,” I repeated, “and get out quick. I promised a certain lady that I would shoot the next intruder in my home. The only reason I have not kept my promise is that I lack a weapon.”

The huge young man paused on the landing.

“Perhaps you are better off,” he reflected. “Stick to the hypodermic, doctor. It’s easier to handle and less dangerous. You have a way with you, haven’t you? You are really a very clever fellow. I should like to see more of you, and something tells me that I will. By God, I believe I am going to have some fun out of this yet.”

And with that he slapped me cordially on the back, turned quickly and stamped down the stairs, laughing in a great good humor. His robust bellow filled the lower hall. Then the door slammed and he was gone. When I got downstairs there was no sign of the old man. I sat down in my empty office and turned the day’s events over in my mind. It had been a neat ruse. They had taken me in with ease. What would the next move be?

I decided that it was my turn now, so l clapped on my hat and hustled off to see Dr. Turner about taking over my practice and found him, as I had expected, agreeable to the proposition. We soon came to an arrangement that would allow me at least two weeks of freedom.

With that settled, I returned to the house to plan my campaign. The first thing I needed was an assistant. I realized how poorly equipped I was to cope with the ingenious scoundrels who sought the black capsule. Who could help me? There was Higgins, the lawyer. Too cold and businesslike. He would probably want to know how much his fee would be. Young Brillers at the bank might do, but he was tied down with a wife and children.

I cast my mind back to college days. Who was the wildest, most adventurous youngster in the school? I had it. Heywood, the president of my class. A harum-scarum chap he was, and I felt sure that my mystery would appeal to him. I telephoned to the dub and learned that he had last been heard from as a newspaper reporter for the Globe.

“Sort of dropped out around here,” said my informant. “Guess his pocketbook wouldn’t stand it, you know.”

I called the paper and left word with the city editor to have Heywood drop in at my house.

“Something very important,” said I by way of whetting that gentleman’s curiosity.

Chapter V My Choice Was Wise

It was late in the afternoon when Heywood arrived. He came striding into the library and greeted me much as though we had been seeing each other quite regularly. A tall, rawboned man, slightly stooped, and with a prominent nose toward which all his features seemed to run, Heywood had the nervous, eager look of a fellow who was searching for something.

He helped himself to a cigar, took a chair, and gazed at me thoughtfully for a moment. Then he shot out an abrupt question:

“Well, doc, old sawbones, what’s biting you?”

“Bored with life,” said I. “Wearied to death by gabby old women, sad-eyed old men, silly young women, and bawling infants. Sick of the grind.”

Heywood laughed dryly.

“That, I fear, is a universal complaint. Am I the antidote in this case?”

“You are.”

“Hum. Well, it won’t take me long to prescribe my remedy. Banish that worried expression. Grab your hat. We’ll play pop goes the weasel and give this sad burg the once over. Let’s go.”

“I believe,” said I, “that I have something better.”

“Impossible,” he snorted. “A man of your limited experience couldn’t do it. Why, I know every dive in town. I even know a bootlegger who sells stuff guaranteed to improve the eyesight. Beat that if you can.”

“I can,” said I.

“Say.” Heywood sat up in his chair. “Have you really got something serious on your mind? I thought you had got to browsing on our days at school and were looking for a skipping partner. Are you in trouble?”

“Not yet, but I hope to be, before long. Heywood, have you ever tried to solve a crime?”

He gave me a hard look. An abashed grin was upon his face.

“How did you guess that I had turned sleuth? I get all that kind of stuff down at the Globe — murders, suicides, kidnapings, and the like. I’ve untangled some of them, too. It’s quite interesting to see what a little concentration will do. Doc, you and some of the other fellows may be headed toward success, but I am really seeing and enjoying life, although I live like a fireman and work like a dog.”

“Fine,” said I. “Great. You’ll be the very man to help me out.”

“Not so fast,” objected my friend. “What the hell’s this all about? Are you going to buy a pair of rubber heels and turn detective or have you killed somebody?”

“Your first theory is right, Heywood. I’m turning detective for a couple of weeks and you are going to help me solve a fascinating mystery and find a girl in a green evening dress.”

“Well, well,” said Heywood. “Sounds good. Tell me more. What is this dark mystery, and why do we seek a girl in a green evening dress?”

“I’ll begin at the beginning,” said I, and while the sun fell behind a bank of dark clouds and the shadows lengthened across the street, I repeated my experiences with Copeland, his black capsule, the girl who had invaded by home, and the strange pair of visitors who had tricked me so easily that morning.

“So,” I concluded, “I am convinced that this letter means a great deal to somebody, and I am going to find out who it is. I need a vacation anyway. What do you think of it?”

“I think,” said Heywood frankly, “that you are as crazy as a cuckoo clock on daylight saving time. You’re as buggy as they make ’em. This plot is probably some low scheme that you wouldn’t want to be hooked up with in a hundred years. It looks to me like you’ve got a fine chance to get churned up into a merry mess.

“However, I’m with you, hook, line, and sinker.”

He blew smoke rings into the air and then leaned over and peered at me.

“Say, doc, you’re not in love?”

“In love?”

“With the dame in the green dress.”

I laughed and tried to make it convincing.

“Well, hardly. I confess that she attracted me, but I wouldn’t say it was love. She might be a lady safe-blower for all I know.”

“Exactly.” Heywood regarded the end of his cigar. “I was rather alarmed at your enthusiastic description of the lady. You say this girl had no coat?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Hum. She couldn’t get very far prancing the streets in an evening dress without being noticed. That’s as good a place to start as any.”

“Where?”

“Taxicab drivers. She probably walked a block and hopped into a cab. Worth trying. I haven’t got anything to do this evening. Suppose I prowl around and see what I can pick up.”

“Get back by seven and we’ll have dinner and hold a coroner’s inquest,” said I.

“Righto.”

Heywood seized his hat, shook hands hastily and hurried away. I knew by the gleam of interest in his gray eyes that my choice of a helper had been a wise one.

Chapter VI Heywood Proves a Sherlock

There was a look of triumph about him when he returned.

“We are getting along amazingly well, Sherlock,” he said as he took a seat opposite me at the dining table. “I’ve managed to get track of your husky young man and have proved, to my own satisfaction, that it was he who sent the girl to your house.”

“Good,” I approved. “Tell me about it.”

“It was as I surmised. Your girl friend left here, took a taxicab and went straight to headquarters to report her failure. I had no difficulty in finding the chauffeur, and for a five-spot he drove me to the place. It is the home of Charles Blake, diamond importer, a rather imposing residence on the heights.

“I made a few discreet inquiries about Blake. A bad egg. Hardboiled as a dress shirt front. Been mixed up in some shady deals, but never caught with the goods. He has been suspected for a number of years with having some connection with a crowd of jewel smugglers. So, you see, we are going to be in rather fancy company.”

“And the girl?”

It was the question in which I was most interested, but Heywood waved it away.

“Just an agent of Blake’s probably. A mere incident in our story. Understand, I haven’t seen this fellow Blake. Wouldn’t know him from Adam, but it strikes me that he was probably the man who tangled up your shirts to-day.

“We will say it was like this: Blake, with the half of the letter in his possession, was arrested and, fearing that the police would see some significance in the message, intrusted it to Copeland. He learned that you had removed Copeland from the hospital and figured that the vagrant had given you the capsule then and there. He sent the girl to your house, not knowing that you were out calling on Copeland. Follow me?

“Well, between the time you left Copeland’s rooms and got back to your house, other spies had found Copeland and had murdered him in an attempt to get the paper.

“Then they found that they had made a mistake. The girl returned and reported that you had the capsule, so Blake rigged up this sick-father business and had a try for it himself. That’s the way I’ve got it sized up.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said I. “By the way, I presume this letter was written to Blake. You remember, it starts out, ‘ake.’ The ‘b’ and the ‘l’ were torn away. Now as to the man who wrote the letter. How will we get some trace of him?”

Heywood bowed over his steak.

“I have anticipated you, my friend,” he smiled. “The letter mentions stuff. Since Blake is an importer, stuff would probably be jewels of some kind. The letter is signed ‘Joshua Ba.’ I picked up a city directory and looked under jewelers. There I found a man named Joshua Barton. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to suppose that he is the writer of the letter?”

“It would. What’s our next move?”

“Well, to-morrow I’ll dig around in the police department among some friends of mine and try to get a line on what Blake has been up to lately. This capsule is undoubtedly connected with some of his schemes. If we can hit the right one, the rest will be easy. Then we’ll give Brother Barton a look, see what kind of a bird he is and try to figure out his connection with Blake.

“If we uncover anything, all well and good. If we don’t, we’re up a tree.”

We finished our meal in silence. I found myself thinking of the dark-haired invader who had temporarily changed my scheme of life.

“I don’t believe it,” I said suddenly.

“Don’t believe what?” demanded Heywood. He looked at me like a startled hawk. “Why, it’s all as plain as the nose on your face. Of course, we don’t know what the letter means, but we’ve got a good line on—”

“I didn’t mean that,” I confessed. “I was merely thinking aloud. I don’t believe the girl is crooked. There is something queer there, Heywood. She had a look about her that got inside of me. I tell you it’s—”

“Rats,” said Heywood. “Nice girls are usually found prowling around a man’s house at midnight, aren’t they? Forget it, doc, old boy. She is probably twice as crooked as a pretzel.”

Chapter VII The Night Attack

But I found myself unable to forget it as Heywood had advised and long after he had gone, I sat before my fire, trying to find some plausible excuse for the girl in the green dress, some explanation that would reveal her as the innocent victim of the plotters. Each time my mind went around the cycle of events and came back to the same starting point, always confronted by this one question:

If the girl was not a member of Blake’s crowd why had she not spoken? Why hadn’t she allowed me to protect her from whatever it was she feared?

Perhaps, I told myself, she had been watched from outside by another one of the conspirators.

The clock struck eleven. My efforts had come to nothing. I found myself wondering what part of the drama was being unfolded at Blake’s house this night. Why not go and see? Give old Heywood a surprise and some information on the morrow. I set my jaw resolutely. I would do it.

A few minutes later I was backing the roadster out of the garage. It was another vile night. Great oily black clouds rolled in from the river and the air was heavy with the threat of the storm to come. I settled my chin deep into the collar of my coat, headed the car toward the heights and stepped on the accelerator.

I parked my car a block from the house which I readily recognized from Heywood’s description. A yellow moon peeped from between the rifts in the clouds that swept majestically across the sky and in the dim light I could see the broken sidewalk that ran past Blake’s home. The street, lined with great maple trees, had been a fashionable one in its day, but it had fallen upon evil times and was now the host to innumerable cheap boarding houses.

Blake’s place stood a little distance from the road in the center of a generous but unkempt yard. It was dark and forbidding. There was no sign of life.

I groped my way up a side drive and found an opening in the hedge. The moon had buried itself behind an ink-black cloud and the darkness was intense, for which I was grateful. I stumbled through a small garden and finally brought up against the rear wall of the house. It was then that I caught sight of a narrow ribbon of light which came from beneath the window curtain of a back room.

My breath whistled between set teeth. So far so good. Step by step I edged toward the window. From the river came the far-off rumble of thunder. I hoped, fervently, that the gods would dispense with any display of lightning. It would surely betray me.

I applied my ear to the window. Within a woman was speaking in a vibrant, passionate voice.

“What are we going to do now?” she demanded. “The success or failure of our whole venture depends upon getting the letter away from that fool of a doctor. Why are you waiting? Suppose he goes to the police? Then where will we be, my chesty one? Where?”

A man laughed. It was a hearty. Boastful bellow. Surely this was the same fellow who had ransacked my room.

“He won’t go to the police,” he assured. “He’s sitting tight to see what happens next. Blake will take care of him nicely. We want to get the capsule from him quietly. Can’t afford to have too much fuss about it, for the idiot has probably talked and violence would lead to much trouble. Patience—”

“Bah!” cried the girl. “We have no time for patience. Let us strike now!

“What is the matter with Blake?” continued the petulant feminine voice. “Has he quit us?”

The man’s reply, soothing in tone, was unintelligible to me. I must see these people. They had spoken of Blake. If the man was the chap who had visited me that day, then he was evidently not Blake. That would be my first information for the cocksure Heywood.

I glanced about me and saw that there was a smaller window high up in the wall. It had no curtain, but its panes were of colored glass. I peered at them closely. The uppermost piece was of plain glass. Perhaps I could see through it into the room.

“Worth trying,” said I, and felt my way along the wall until I came to a small porch. I climbed up on its rickety railing and stretched my neck until I thought it would crack. I could just see the tops of the heads of the two persons in the room. One was the girl in the green dress and the other was the huge young man who had tried to trick me out of the capsule.

I let myself down from the porch cautiously. There was nothing more to be gained by staying there, and I confess that I was getting increasingly uneasy. I started back through the garden the way I had entered. The rolling of the thunder grew louder and a vivid flash of lightning split the sky, outlining the trees, the walk and a sun-dial in clear relief. Then utter darkness. Another flash. I halted in my tracks, my heart pounding wildly.

Through the garden, like the shadows of doom, three men were approaching me, silently and quickly, with jaws out-thrust and arms swinging menacingly. I had no time to take in their features as they converged on me in the gloom.

Well, here was something that I could understand. Here was no mystery of tom papers and puzzling conversation. This meant fight and my overwrought nerves welcomed the combat. I was a big, strong fellow for all my bookish ways, and I told myself that these thugs would know, when the battle was over, that they had been to the wars.

“Come on,” said I. “Let’s go!”

They came. I perceived, by the grace of another flash of lightning, that they were unarmed. Perhaps they feared to arouse the neighborhood by firing at me and then again perhaps they wanted me with a whole skin.

I had no time to dwell upon the subject. I heard the swift pat of a foot on the hard wet ground before me and my right fist lashed out into the darkness. Ah! My knuckles sunk, with a satisfying bite, into the cheek of one of my assailants and he went rolling into the muck of the garden.

“One down!” I howled above the noises of the gathering storm.

The other two charged at me in determined fashion. A heavy fist caught me behind the ear and the force of the blow spun me around like a top. I kept my feet and shook the cobwebs out of my brain. Then I lowered my chin behind my left shoulder and drove a terrific blow into the face of a huge man who arose at me out of the darkness. He folded up like one of those old-style opera hats and I booted him out of the way savagely.

The fellow I had knocked into the garden returned to the fray. Two against one. It was not hopeless. The man I had smashed in the face would fight no more this night. He was done.

We stalked each other in the dark. One of the thugs worked his way behind me and before I could turn on him he hurled himself at my legs. Down we went into the mud in a tangle of flying arms. I managed to grasp one of my opponent’s arms, locked my leg about it and began to slowly twist his wrist. It was a wrestling bold and a torturous one.

“Quit kicking, you fool,” I growled. “I’ll break your arm in two.”

My victim groaned.

“Hey, Alf,” he called in an agonized voice, “drive a knife into this devil. He’s killing me.”

“Can’t,” said Alf laconically out of the dark. “Hold on. I’ll get him in a minute.”

With a farewell twist that sent a shudder through the body of the man on the ground, I released him and hopped to my feet. I would have a better chance there.

“Now, Alf, my boy,” said I. “Let me get my hands on you and this fight is over.”

“Think so?” he sneered. “You may find that I’m not so easy as those two bums. You’ll have to prescribe for yourself when I get through working on you.”

With that he charged at me with both arms swinging. I sidestepped him quickly and dug two vicious blows into his ribs.

“Not bad,” commented Alf as he swung around and charged again. “Not half bad for a bloomin’ pill roller.”

Another streak of lightning shot across the angry sky and I got a momentary glimpse of our battle-field. There was the man called Alf, a heavy, hulking beetle-browed ruffian. The victim of my wrestling hold was getting to his trembling legs and in the mud of the garden the unconscious villain lay face downward.

The flare had no sooner faded than Alf’s big fist crashed into my chin and I slid to the ground. Badly shaken, I struggled to my feet and evaded him until my head cleared. Then we closed in.

“Might as well settle this now as to fight all night,” I snarled.

“Sure,” said Alf amiably as he swung and missed a fierce right to my head.

I shifted him into position, passed my arm around his face and locked my fingers. It was now or never with me. I must either injure Alf so badly as to put him out of commission or come out loser, for it was plain to me that I lacked the stamina to batter such a brute down in a finish fight.

Throwing every ounce of strength I possessed into the effort, I hurled him from his feet and we landed heavily on the ground, my arm still locked around his head. Then I began to tighten my hold, and though he kicked and struggled mightily, I managed to retain my grasp. I gripped him until I thought my arm would break upon his hard skull.

His struggles became weaker and weaker. Now was the time to drop him and flee for my life. That would be the wiser course, I decided, but before I could act the back door of the house banged open and a square patch of light fell into the yard. The man with the injured arm had gone for help and the rescue crew, composed of six or seven hefty fellows, was running toward me. All of them were carrying clubs and knives.

It was all up with me. That was plain. I tightened my hold viciously, I would make my friend Alf feel like he had thrust his head into a vise.

Now the crowd was upon me. I dropped Alf and lumbered to my feet waiting dourly for the attack. The first man who leaped at me got a solid punch in the eye and he fell back with an exclamation of pain.

“Well, by God, if it isn’t the demon doctor himself!”

The huge youth was speaking and I whirled to confront him. A final swing at his square chin would not be amiss.

Then a blow from a club knocked me to my knees. Another blow and I was down. They swarmed over me.

Now I was being carried away, floating easily between many dark figures. Faintly I heard the complaining voice of Alf.

“Blake,” said my late opponent with a string of oaths, “is a damned liar. He said this guy was a sawbones who couldn’t lick anybody. I’ll say this bimbo can trim any three men in the crowd.”

I laughed insanely.

And after that I knew nothing.

Chapter VIII The Chief Buccaneer

There was the smell of damp stones mixed with the savory odor of cooking. Also there was the swirling sound of running water. A man laughed boisterously and the measured tread of many feet intruded upon my bewildered senses.

Then I realized that I was lying upon a bed and I sat up. As I did so, I turned sick and dizzy and the strange place began to reel before my eyes. My hand went to my head and came away covered with blood, my hair was matted and my face felt stiff and swollen.

I got to my feet and looked about me. I was in a small room with stone walls and one heavily barred window. It was furnished with a narrow bed, a pine table, a chair and a candle. Over it all hung the heavy atmosphere of disuse.

I staggered to the window and looked out upon the river. It was daylight, early morning I judged, for the cold mists were just rising from the waters. I must be on one of the several little islands which dotted the surface of the stream just below the city.

My prison appeared to be an old null. I looked at the bars and smiled grimly. They were new. Blake and his crew must have anticipated my visit or the place had been used to hold others who did not fit in with his schemes.

Close beside my prison and separated from it only by a small courtyard was another building of stone. It, too, had barred windows and a heavy door. Another jail? I was looking at it rather unsteadily when the door swung open and the girl in the green dress stepped out.

She wore a dark cloak about her shoulders, but her head was bare and her dark hair shone in the gray light. Walking swiftly to the river’s edge, she suddenly flung herself to her knees and raised her eyes in supplication to the sky.

She was praying and as her lips moved, the tears coursed down her cheeks and fell upon the cold stones. Then she suddenly buried her face in her arms and her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

I paced the room in agitation and dismay. What new turn of events was this? Why did this self-possessed young woman now weep her heart out? I returned to the window and tried to call to her, but my voice was but a dismal croak. Feeling cold and sick I lurched to the door and, much to my surprise, found that it was open.

Clinging to the banister for support I made my way down the stairs to a hallway on the first floor. There were no windows here, and I paused for a moment until my eyes were accustomed to the gloom. Then I began feeling along the wall for the doorway which would let me into the courtyard where the girl lay weeping.

I had walked but a few steps when I became aware of the presence of another person, a lean, dark man who was staring at me from a corner.

“Somewhat the worse for wear, eh?” asked the man. He bit off his words venomously.

I held myself as stiffly upright as my sagging knees would permit and stared back at him. He was a lithe, young fellow of glowing vitality and a quick eye, dressed in a black, loose-fitting suit, a white silk shirt and a flowing bow tie.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“I?” The man threw back his head and bared his teeth in a sardonic smile.

“Yes, you. Are you the chief buccaneer? If so, turn me loose or it will be much the worse for you.”

The smile left his face. The dark eyes burned into me.

“We’ve had enough from you,” he snarled. “My name’s Blake and no second-rate sawbones can horn into my business and get away with it.”

He moved toward me across the hall, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, his slim body tensed for combat.

And in the dim light I saw that he carried a long, flamboyant-bladed knife.

Chapter IX To Save a Man

So it was all up with me. The fact dripped like acid into my weary brain as Blake came bounding across the hallway with the knife in his hand. I knew that I did not have the strength to keep him off, for it was all I could do to maintain my precarious balance much less fight an active, armed man.

I did manage to evade his first rush and plunged with heavy, uncertain steps into a corner. Blake was drawing back for another blow when a woman’s voice, full of scorn, said:

“Blake, you coward! Would you knife a helpless man?”

It was the girl. She thrust herself between me and the man with the knife.

“Don’t be a fool, Sonia,” growled Blake. “Keep out of this. Your precious doctor won’t be hurt. I was just demonstrating what might happen to him unless he is reasonable.”

“Yes, I know,” said the girl wearily. Her face was white and tired-looking.

Blake faced her, hands on hips, and in a low voice dripping with cold contempt said:

“It seems to me that it was you who urged violence in this matter. Now you call me a coward for following the plan which you suggested. I can’t understand you, Sonia.”

And with that he glided off down the hall like some evil shadow and disappeared.

“Thanks, my friend,” I whispered weakly.

“Come.” said the girl sharply. “You have lost much blood and are very sick.”

She led me, stumbling helplessly, back to the room where I fell upon the bed. Then she procured a pan of hot water and gently bathed the cut in my skull and bound it with a clean cloth. Her quick, white hands smoothed my damp hair.

“Why,” I asked presently, “did you step between me, your enemy, and Blake, your friend?”

She smiled and told me to lay quiet, warned me that I was badly hurt and needed rest, but I would not be put off. My brain was seething with a dozen questions and I did not intend to lose this opportunity to have them answered.

“What place is this?” I insisted. “And why have I been brought here?”

“I believe I warned you, doctor, that you were playing a dangerous game,” she said coldly. “You refused to heed my words. You could have saved yourself all this by surrendering the capsule.”

“What is that letter to you? What sinister plot is behind this?”

She tried to quiet me again, but the excitement of the chase was in my blood now and I would not stop.

“Answer me,” I cried. “I know far more about this business than you imagine, and I’ll use my information as I see fit unless you lay your cards on the table.”

With that her reticence broke down and she began to talk freely, twisting her hands nervously in her lap as she spoke. The capsule meant everything to her, she said. More than life itself. She must have it. Blake, her good friend, had agreed to help her recover it and it was his agents who had been set to watch Copeland.

“And who murdered the poor fellow?” I interjected, but she chose to disregard my remark.

“Give me the capsule,” she pleaded, “and you will never regret it. You will help right a great wrong and will save an innocent young man from years in prison.”

“Did you know,” I said softly, “that only half of the letter is in that capsule?”

“What!” her eyes were wide with astonishment and dismay. “No! No! It must all be there. Doctor, you are mistaken!”

“And did you know,” I continued sternly, “that the letter was written to your very good friend who just attempted to stick a knife into me?”

“Oh, that cannot be true!” she cried, white to the lips. “Blake would not betray me! I cannot believe that.”

I was on my feet at this, my battered face close to hers.

“Sonia, he is deceiving you. I don’t know how, but in some manner you are being made the cat’s-paw in a game played by thieves. Come now, answer that question I asked you in my library the other night. Who told you that I was a drug-peddling rascal?”

“Who?” Her dark blue eyes were fixed on me with disturbing intensity. “Does that matter? You are, aren’t you? You seek this paper so that you might use it for your own selfish ends, do you not? You are in this game for what you can get, I take it, and what difference does it make who told me your purpose?”

“It makes a lot of difference to me,” I snarled. “I’m not after anything. I’m here because I was fool enough to believe that you looked like a girl in distress and I thought that I might be able to help you. Blake has told you these lies so that you would not have any objections to whatever they might decide to do to me. It was Blake who told you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied slowly.

“Just as I thought. Now get this straight, I’m a fool of a doctor who accidentally fell heir to your capsule. I don’t care a whoop about it. My curiosity was aroused. You appeared to need assistance. Understand?”

She looked at me with eyes full of inquiry and indecision.

“Oh, I can’t understand anything,” she cried. “I don’t know where to turn. What reason would Blake have to keep this letter from my hands?”

“Reason enough,” I growled, “Unless I miss my guess, he’s in love with you and that letter proves, as sure as I am standing here, that he is a scoundrel.”

I sank back upon the bed, wearied by the effort to talk.

“Sonia,” I said finally, “I once read this advice to a lady who wanted a man to serve her on a dangerous mission: ‘Give him a potion, one part confidence, one part pride, and one part just compensation and he will lay the moon at your feet.’

“And I, Sonia, ask for only the first two. No matter how hard you have tried to make me believe that you are a part of this scheme, I know you are not I know that circumstances must have forced you under the control of Blake, sent you to my home and brought you here.

“What is it you seek? Tell me and I swear that I will aid you to the limit of my ability. I will cheerfully give you the half of the tom letter and will ransack the country for the missing part. But first you must give me the truth.

“There is nothing to prevent you from being frank with me, is there?”

She stood looking down at me and I could see that my words had made a great impression on her.

“There are some things that I will not tell to a living soul,” she said at last, “but I will admit that your surmise as to my presence in your home and here is true. The letter of which you possess a part explains a crime for which an innocent man must suffer.

“He was just a boy, a student in Paris, when an unscrupulous man hired him to carry a package to the United States. He accepted and when the boat landed at New York he was arrested and searched. The package was found upon him. It was opened and found to contain stolen diamonds worth a fortune.

“The youth was sentenced to two years in Leavenworth for smuggling, but when his time is up he will be taken back to Paris to be tried for the theft. The possession of the gems is enough to convict him. It means twenty-five years in a French dungeon.

“That, my curious friend, is why I seek the letter. Do you understand now?”

“Yes,” said I, “It makes a number of things clear to me. For instance, Joshua Barton is the man who wrote the letter and Blake is the fellow who received it. Probably they are the thieves who stole the diamonds.”

“Do you know Barton?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“He is a thief and a cheat.” It was said bitterly. “Yet he is so fortified with money and a fine reputation that it is impossible for a friendless woman to make a case against him.”

With gesture of unutterable weariness she turned to go, but I raised up on one elbow and called her back.

“Sonia,” said I, “what is in the next building that makes you weep so bitterly.”

In the doorway she turned on me, drew a swift, nervous breath and stood there rigidly. Her face was blanched, her eyes terror stricken. One look at her and I was instantly sorry that I had spoken.

“Don’t talk about that,” she replied in a voice that trembled, “and if you get out of here, stay away from that building. Promise me.”

“Well, I—”

“Promise!”

“I promise.”

She left the room and this time I did not try to stop her. Instead I lay back on my pillow and thought of the things she had said. Barton, whoever he was, must be a thorough thief and Blake was probably his accomplice.

But why was Blake now making such a desperate effort to recover the paper? And what did its message mean? My thoughts ran back over its words; they sounded harmless enough. Yet they must have some hidden meaning to make a young girl associate herself with brigands, lead men to commit murder, and cause the kidnaping of a respectable young physician.

With an oath to see the adventure through to the end, I dismissed the matter from my mind and speedily went to sleep, and when I awoke, hours later, the helpless feeling had passed away and I was quite myself once more. I lay upon my couch stretching my legs and flexing my arms when the girl returned, carrying a small glass of whisky which I emptied readily.

“That,” she said as she watched me drain the tumbler, “is the potion you spoke of this morning.”

“Do you mean it?” I asked her,

“I have been thinking over what you said,” she replied, withdrawing her hand. “You must leave here. Listen to me carefully. Later to-night I will lift the bar which locks your door from the outside. Make your way to the wharf. You will find boats there. Get away! Your life is in danger.”

“But Sonia—”

“Do as I say. I can’t explain now. Something has happened.”

“I can’t leave you here,” I protested.

I was on my feet now and she walked up to me and placed her hands upon my shoulders.

“You are a brave fellow, doctor,” she said. “Good luck to you.”

And with that she hurried toward the door.

“One question, Sonia,” I begged. “This fellow in the prison. Are you — in love — with him?”

She paused and gave me a hard look from her deep eyes. Then she smiled demurely.

“Yes,” she said simply. “I love him very much.”

Chapter X Two Coups in One

Midnight. The full moon, riding high in a cloudless sky, cast its yellow light into my prison and threw grotesque shadows upon the bare walls. For the twentieth time that night I left my bunk and stole to the door and tried to open it. This time it moved silently outward. Sonia had kept her promise.

I stepped out into the hallway and felt my way slowly down the stairs. I hoped to get out of the place without being noticed, but if Blake came upon me, I told myself that he would get the surprise of his life. I was far from the helpless man he had encountered that morning. My head was clear, my eyes were bright, and my brain was alert.

Opening the door that looked upon the courtyard I peered out cautiously. There was no one in sight. This Blake was a confident fellow. I found myself admiring the cool bravado of the man. Apparently he did not deem it worth while to have a watchman upon his river castle.

I crossed the yard quickly, gained the welcome shadow of the smaller building, and began to work my way around it toward the river where I hoped to find a boat. I had taken a few steps when I was halted by a low moan that came from within the building. A moment later the heavy silence of the island was broken by the most peculiar wailing cry that has ever struck my ears. I stood motionless, cold chills running down my spine.

It is not easy for me to describe that awful shriek. It was not the cry of a person in physical pain, but rather the agonized, sobbing wail of some one suffering great mental anguish. Whether it was man or woman I could not tell.

I stood stock-still and waited. Once more the cry arose from within the building and this time it ended in a long-drawn note of despair. This was followed by a weird rattling of chains. I hesitated, not knowing what to do next. The words of the girl in the green dress came back to me:

“Don’t go near that building!”

In the uppermost story of the mill a light flashed on and I saw the shadows of two figures upon the drawn window shade. They were probably coming to investigate. It was high time for me to be off. I slid around the corner of the building and took to my heels, scuttling into a dense clump of bushes that lined the crooked path to the river.

I soon came to the wharf, a small but substantial affair which had the look of having been recently constructed. Three rowboats were swinging in the current at its lower end and I had just indulged in a smile at the ease with which my escape had been managed when my ear caught the sound of heavy footsteps and a man hove into view. He came upon the wharf and began to stamp to and fro, singing all the while in a deep, robust voice:

I smiled again. Here was real luck. The singer of ribald songs was the huge youth who had ransacked my room. I had a score to settle with him.

Looking hastily about me I seized a stout piece of wood that was on the ground and balanced it in my hand. It would do very nicely, I told myself, as I moved toward the singing sentry. When I came to the edge of the wharf I flattened myself close to the timbers and waited until he had walked within a few feet of me and had turned back; then I hopped from my hiding place and followed him stealthily.

As he swung about again he faced me, eyes wide, mouth agape. For an instant we stood there; then his big hand went toward his belt, but he was far too late. I laughed as I brought the club down upon his head, and the force of the blow pitched him from his feet and sent him sprawling upon the boards. In the next few moments I did some fast work.

I loaded the big young man into one of the boats, after separating him from a wicked-looking pistol, cut the other two boats adrift and then shoved out into the river, pulling at the oars with all my strength. The current was strong and I was carried downstream with every stroke, but I did not mind. I could always walk back.

In the bottom of the boat my guest stirred and blinked at me from glassy eyes.

“What the hell?” he mumbled. “Put me back on land before I break you into nine pieces.”

I laughed in his face.

“You wanted more of my company,” said I. “Well, you’ve got it. Now roll back in that boat and shut up or I’ll shoot you with your own pistol and drop your damned carcass overboard.”

He passed a hand over his head. It came away covered with blood, and he let his fingers trail idly in the water.

“Blake will have me by the ears for this,” he groaned. “The fool. Why didn’t he keep a better watch on you?”

“What do you want me to do?” I growled. “Weep crocodile tears for you.”

He subsided into the stern of the boat, where he sat watching me with a puzzled frown between his bloodshot eyes. I pulled lustily on the oars for a half an hour before I was rewarded by feeling the boat ram into the soft mud of the shore. I got out first, warning my prisoner to keep his seat, pulled the craft up on the bank and ordered him to stand up.

“Now there’s an interurban line up here about a mile.” I said, “and we’re going to get a car back to the city. Get one thing through your head before we start. I’ll be right beside you with this cannon. One offside motion and you’re all through. Understand?”

Swaying weakly on his feet, the fellow grinned at me and nodded his head,

“Sure, doc, I get you. You mean you’ll drill me if you get an excuse.”

“That’s it,” said I. “Let’s go.” And we moved off. I kept my hand upon the reassuring butt of the automatic.

Chapter XI Our Hostage

That first gray light that comes just before dawn was in the sky when I marched Blake’s henchman down a side street to the modest flat where Heywood had his bachelor quarters. We made a strange pair, he with his rumpled, baggy clothes and the dried blood upon his square face; I hatless and with a dirty bandage wrapped around my head.

We had come by a devious route, for I had the wits to know that we would be stopped by the first policeman as objects of suspicion. The game would certainly be up if I were caught roaming the streets in company with a criminal and with a loaded pistol in my pocket.

The big young man leaned against the porch railing while I held my thumb upon the bell of Heywood’s place. It seemed like an hour before the window on the second floor flew open and my friend’s head appeared.

“What’s the racket down there?” he demanded.

“Open up, Heywood,” said I. “This is your pal the doctor with excess baggage in the form of one of Blake’s bullies.”

“Thank God,” said Heywood fervently, and slammed the window. In a moment he was at the door, and shortly thereafter we were talking over our pipes, with the prisoner neatly trussed with a clothesline and deposited upon Heywood’s bed.

“I was worried about you, sawbones,” Heywood confessed. “I tracked you as far as Blake’s house and there you disappeared like smoke. I was afraid to call the police and break into the house. Thought I might gum up the works. So I just rocked along, hoping that you would turn up. Well, let’s have it. Who gave you that glorious red, yellow and blue eye?”

I sketched the events of my capture by Blake’s men and of my escape from the mill, hot forgetting what I had learned from the girl in the green dress.

“Barton, then, is our mark,” I concluded. “We must find some way to sew him up and make him give us the details of the conspiracy.”

Heywood shook his head solemnly.

“Not a chance, my friend,” he retorted. “I’ve combed Barton’s life from the age of five to the present age of fifty, and if he’s phony he’s a wizard at covering up. Not one single crooked move have I been able to find.

“Barton is a deacon in the church, a vice president of the Chamber of Commerce, a friend of the needy, a good father and a loving husband. He lives as straight as a string. I’ve given him a good going over, and I’m convinced that we are on the wrong track.”

“We can’t be,” said I stubbornly. “The girl swears he wrote the letter.”

Heywood shrugged.

“She may be fooling you. Suppose she wanted to gain your sympathy. You put Barton’s name in her mouth. Why wouldn’t that line of talk do as well as any other? Suppose she wanted to keep you off the real trail?”

“That is possible,” I admitted, “but hardly probable. Remember, after she told me her story she unlocked the door and let me get away.”

“True. Well, let’s sleep on it. Now, what about the capsule? If it’s in your house we better get it. Blake and his boys are sure to make another try for it.”

“It’s there,” I whispered. “In the inkwell on the big desk in my library. I’ll give you the key and you can get it later.”

“Settled. Next order of business: Who is Blake holding prisoner in the building beside the mill, and why?”

“I give that one up,” said I, and we puffed our pipes and racked our brains, but arrived at no conclusion that sounded reasonable. Finally we turned to other things.

“What about big boy in there?” I asked, waving toward the room where the man lay bound and gagged. “What will we do with him?”

Heywood laughed sourly.

“I’ll show you what to do with that bird. Let him lay there. To-morrow we’ll take his finger-prints and I’ll sneak down to police headquarters and see just who and what he is. If we can get something on him perhaps he’ll loosen up with some real information. That looks like our best bet. Personally, I don’t believe we can make any kind of a case against Barton.”

“I suppose I am allowed to disagree with you?”

“Surely.”

“Well, I do. It is my hunch that Barton is the brains of this whole thing, whatever it may be, and I believe we can find some way to smoke him out.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Heywood good-naturedly. “Let’s turn in and get some sleep.”

We loaded the big young man on a camp cot in the kitchen, and Heywood insisted upon giving me his bed while he bunked on a small couch in the little living room. I was properly grateful, for I was thoroughly exhausted. A moment after I got into the bed I was sleeping a sound, dreamless sleep.

We did not get up until noon. Heywood fried bacon and eggs, while I said good morning to our prisoner and found him in a surly mood. He had recovered somewhat from the blow on the head and, apparently, the realization of the night’s events had not improved his humor. He scowled at me darkly when I untied one of his arms to allow him to eat.

“You’ll pay for this, my friend,” he said. “I’ll make you regret that you ever meddled in this affair.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted cheerfully. “Right now you are the one to regret that you ever got tied up with a pair of dirty crooks like Barton and Blake. What part did you have in the theft of the jewels and in the murder of Copeland?”

“I’m not talking,” said the giant sourly. “Don’t try to question me. You can’t get to first base.”

Heywood turned to us with a frying pan in his hand.

“Oh, you’ll talk all right, my pretty bird,” he assured. “I’ll get all the way around the bases on you and you’ll be damned glad to talk. Here, eat this. The food will be pretty rotten where you are going.”

“What do you mean?” growled the youth. He ignored the plate which Heywood held out to him and stared belligerently at the reporter.

“Eat,” commanded the latter, “before I take this stuff away from you and eat it myself.”

We watched him as he grudgingly ate his meal, then we retied him, took our own food and left the room.

“Did you notice,” said Heywood as we ate, “that the big boy was considerably disturbed when I hinted that he was about to go some place.”

“Yes. What do you make of that?”

“He’s crooked. Got a record, I’ll bet, and shaking in his boots for fear that we’ll get a line on him.”

When breakfast was over Heywood got out a pad of ink and a piece of cardboard, and, after many dire threats, succeeded in taking our prisoner’s finger-prints.

“What’s the matter with you?” the reporter taunted as he worked. “Afraid, aren’t you? If you were on the level you would be glad to have us identify you, but since you are as crooked as a hound’s hind leg it hurts, doesn’t it?”

The big young man snarled a profane answer, and Heywood nonchalantly shoved him back onto the cot.

“Lay there and shut up,” he said, “and when I come back you’ll talk or we’ll turn you over to the police.” He turned to me. “Let me have the key to your house. You stay on the job here and see that our desperate friend don’t run away with the kitchen stove. I won’t be gone long.”

“Agreed,” said I, “and while you’re at headquarters see if you can get the record on the jewel theft. I know you haven’t got much to go on, but somebody around there should know the details.”

Heywood was getting into his coat.

“By the way.” He turned with his hand upon the doorknob and smiled owlishly. “Did you get the name of the poor, unfortunate lad who is serving the two years in prison?”

“I did not.”

“Of course,” he said maliciously, “that would have been bad judgment on the lady’s part. Too easy to trace, eh?”

“Get out,” said I bluntly. “You are the original cynic.”

Chapter XII Big Hutch, Bad Man

After Heywood left I dozed comfortably in a chair for an hour, with my pistol handy beside me, and awakened considerably refreshed. My mind immediately returned to the question of trapping Barton into revealing some connection with the black capsule. I picked up a telephone directory and looked for his number. There it was:

I called and asked for Barton’s private office.

“Is Mr. Barton in?”

“No, he is out on business right now. This is his secretary. Can I do something for you?”

This was just what I had hoped for.

“Yes,” said I. “This is the Globe. In connection with a business story we are printing, we were trying to recall when Mr. Barton made his last trip to Paris. Could you tell me?”

“In September — last September.”

“Thank you.” I hung up the receiver. So far so good. There was nothing to do now but await Heywood’s return. If the facts he brought back with him fitted my half of the puzzle then nothing could shake me in the belief that Joshua Barton, respectable though he might be as far as appearances went, was, in truth, the member of a criminal organization.

I fell now to wondering what Blake had done when it was found that I had made my escape from the island. Had they fled, fearing that I might return with the police, or had they stood their ground on the theory that I would play the game out by myself? And Sonia, where was she? How would I find her again to give her the letter?

I dozed again and did not awaken until Heywood came stamping into the room, swinging his arms and grinning from ear to ear.

“We’ve got ’em?” he exulted. “We’ve got ’em now! Your little lad in the kitchen is bad medicine. His name is Hutchins. Big Hutch they call him down at headquarters, a stick-up man and a killer.

“He was in the holdover on suspicion about the same time that your friend Copeland was pinched, and, unless I miss my guess, he’s the bird that gave Copeland the capsule. But that isn’t all. No, sir. I’ve got a woman who identifies Hutchins’s picture as the fellow she saw go into Copeland’s room just after you and the other guy left. What do you think of that?”

“Huh,” I said. “Looks very much like we’ve got a murderer on our hands. Did you get the capsule?”

“Sure did. It was waiting for me, snug as a bug in a rug.”

“And the information on the Paris robbery?”

“Easy. Easy as pie. It was quite a famous case. All the boys knew about it. There was an Englishman named Denton living in Paris. He had an immensely valuable collection of diamonds. A crowd of thieves broke into his place, held him up, blew his safe and escaped with the best of his stones. They got away clean.

“The Paris police traced the gems to an American, but before they could grab their man the stuff had been passed on to another fellow. They finally narrowed their search down to a youngster named Drummond, but he beat them to the gun and got on a boat bound for the United States, so they cabled to customs authorities at New York and had Mr. Drummond plucked when he landed. The stuff was found on him.

“He hadn’t declared the jewels, so the customs agents sent him over the road for two years for smuggling. When he gets out the French are going to make a try for him. If they get him back to Paris he’ll get plenty.”

“The robbery occurred in September, I suppose,” said I.

“It did,” agreed Heywood. “But how you knew it is one on your uncle.”

“I knew it, because Joshua Barton was in Paris in September.”

“What?”

“Absolutely. I just called his office and his secretary assured me that Mr. Barton had a fine time in Paris in September. Do you still think he’s the lily-white gentleman?”

“Well, of course, it looks bad, but just because a man was in Paris doesn’t convict him of robbery.”

“No, it doesn’t, but it convinces me that he’s in on this some place.”

Heywood was pacing the floor nervously.

“We can work on that later,” he flung out. “I’m beginning to believe you are right on Barton. God, what a story it would make. I’m getting as jumpy as an alley cat. Scared green that the lid will fly off this thing some place before we get it rounded up. Let’s talk to Hutchins and see what he has to say for himself.”

We went into the kitchen, where our prisoner was lying motionless upon his cot. I lifted him into a sitting position, and Heywood thrust a lean forefinger under his nose as he began to talk.

“Listen to me, Hutchins,” he said coldly. “We know all about you. We know you gave Copeland the capsule, and that you followed him to his lodgings and murdered him. We’re disposed to be reasonable. Come across and we’ll make it easy for you. Hold out on us and I promise that you’ll get the limit.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Hutchins cautiously. “And how can I tell that you won’t double cross me?”

“You’re in no position to worry about that,” snapped Heywood. “Who gave you that capsule?”

Hutchins squirmed within his bonds. The perspiration stood out on his forehead.

“I told you I’d make you sweat,” said Heywood, grinning. “Well, how about it? Do you care to speak up or not?”

“Blake,” growled Hutchins. “Blake gave me the capsule.”

“Why?”

“He... ah... you see—”

“Why?”

“Because he had a row with somebody and this fellow had tried to get the letter away from him.”

“Who was the fellow?”

“I don’t know. Blake never told me. Just said to take the thing and keep it until he wanted it again. Then when I lost it he told me to get on the job and recover it.”

“Do you know Joshua Barton?” I interrupted.

“No.”

“You are a liar!” barked Heywood vehemently. “Doc, call the cops. We’ll turn this dog over to them and see that they hang him. I’ll teach him to sit up there and tell me a string of bald-faced lies.”

I turned to leave the room, but came back when Hutchins begged piteously for another chance.

“I know Barton,” he pleaded, “but I ain’t got a thing on him. I just went up to his place for Blake one time and got a package, that’s all.”

“That’s enough,” said Heywood grimly. “Now, did you kill Copeland?”

Hutchins’s face twisted into a sour smile.

“Say,” he protested, “you don’t expect me to answer that one, do you?”

“All right, we’ll pass that. Did you take any part in a jewel robbery in Paris?”

“Never been in Paris in my life.”

“What has Blake got in that building near the island mill?”

“I don’t know. He won’t tell and nobody is allowed to go into the place but the girl.”

“Who is she?” I demanded quickly.

“I don’t know that, either. She’s hot after that letter, but I guess she wants it for Blake.”

“That’ll be about all for the present,” said Heywood. “Now Hutchins, I’m going to turn you over to a nice, jovial policeman who has killed about six gangsters in his day and he will take you to an outlying station where you will be booked under a phony name until we work this thing out. If everything turns out well, you may get off lightly. At any rate, the best thing you can do is to take things calmly and hope for the best.

“Come on, doc, we’ve got a lot of business to attend to.”

When we got into the living room, Heywood said:

“I’m not bluffing about the cops. Friends of mine have agreed to hold Hutchins for us until we either succeed or fail in getting Barton and Blake. What’s our next move? We have two ways to go. We can try to pin something on Barton and then go after the gang or we can raid the island now and trust to luck on finding some evidence. What do you say?”

“I’m in favor of going after Barton. If we can trap him, nail him with the goods, the entire plot will blow up. Blake is no fool. If he doesn’t leave the island he will at least cover up. We might catch him, but what could we prove? We don’t even know what it’s all about.”

“Um.” Heywood sat down and filled his pipe. “Say, doc, you wouldn’t care to see this girl, what’s her name, in the hands of the police, would you?”

“I don’t believe it would make much difference. If her story is straight, and I believe it is, she would be released quickly enough.”

I had not told Heywood that I intended to turn the letter over to Sonia. I knew he would laugh at me, calling me a softhearted fool who was being taken in by a clever adventuress. Heywood, you know, had not seen the look in that girl’s eyes when she told me her story. Even if he had, I doubt if it would have had any effect.

“Look here, Heywood,” I said after a moment. “I’ve got an idea that might work and wind up the whole thing in a hurry. That’s what you want. Do you know any crooks?”

“A few,” said my friend laconically. “I don’t know many that I’d trust very far.”

“You don’t have to trust them very far. Do you know one with sufficient reputation to command the attention of Barton?”

There was a glint of interest in Heywood’s eye as he sat straight in his chair and grinned at me.

“I believe I do,” he said slowly. “Doc, I begin to see your point. I beg your pardon. I thought you were a pill roller without a sign of imagination. Oh, man! If something like that would work, it would be the greatest story this town has ever seen in print.”

“It’s worth trying,” said I; and we fell to planning the downfall of Mr. Joshua Barton, pillar of the church and vice-president of the Chamber of Commerce.

Chapter XIII Alias “A Crook”

Eight o’clock. Dressed in a fresh suit of clothes and clean linen and with my hair plastered down over the cut in my head. I sat in a taxicab, speeding toward that sedate and conservative part of the city where Joshua Barton had his home. Heywood had done his work well.

I was assured of an audience for, once again, I was in the role of a law-breaker, for I had been recommended to the diamond merchant as a clever and dangerous jewel thief who possessed something to sell. The something was a string of flawless pearls that reposed in my breast pocket. They belonged to Heywood’s aunt, and what a devil of a time he had talking her out of them for use in the last chapter of our adventure.

“Here yuh are.”

The driver pulled the door open, I alighted and paid him and he whirled away, leaving me on the curb surveying the great home of the Bartons. It was an ancient place. The heavy blinds, the deeply recessed door, the worn stoop were all sadly eloquent of generations gone by. The age of this melancholy mansion could not have been less than a century and it looked twice as old.

My hand instinctively went toward the butt of the automatic in my hip pocket as I rang the bell. The door swung open silently and I was admitted by a stone-faced butler who relieved me of my hat and stick and glided away to inform his master of my presence. He was back in an instant.

“This way, sir.” He guided me over a soundless velvet carpet into the library where a feeble fire in the grate and one heavily shaded lamp furnished a subdued light.

Joshua Barton sat in a chair beside the fireplace. He hopped spryly to his feet as I entered.

He was a man of fifty, perhaps, under middle height, rather fat, smoothly shaven. His gray hair was closely clipped and his features, though regular, were pasty and almost expressionless. A very colorless fellow, I thought, except for his eyes. They were green and bright and were shaded by the longest, sly lashes that I have ever seen upon a human face. He was dressed in somber black, relieved by a foxy waistcoat of figured silk.

Barton bowed cautiously, rubbing his small, flabby hands together.

“Good evening,” he said biandly. “Won’t you sit down. Over here by the fire where we can talk in comfort.”

When we were seated. Barton said:

“You come, ah, very highly recommended. Very highly indeed. Nevertheless I must tell you that in dealing with me it will be worth your while to keep your own counsel. We... ah... that is, I — have a way of rewarding those who keep faith with me. I also have a failing for doing a little something for anybody who is so foolish as to attempt to play me false. Understand? I’m sure you do.”

“Quite,” said I. “This is purely a business proposition with me. I have a string of pearls that I cannot dispose of just now. Neither can I afford to keep them. You can put them away or let them go through some quiet channel just as you see fit. In any event, you may be certain that I will keep my mouth shut. I would probably take a long trip as the guest of the State if my connection with this thing became known.”

“Exactly,” beamed Barton. “You are a man of good sense. And then, of course, you would be foolish to attempt to fasten anything upon me. Would it... ah... be too much to ask you if you have ever been convicted of a crime?”

“Yes,” I replied shortly. “I am on the books.”

“Excellent,” sighed the gem dealer frankly. “Then I do not need to point out that your word would be of no value against mine.”

“None,” said I with just a trace of bitterness.

“Come, come, my friend,” laughed Barton, “that is but a trick of fate. I shall treat you fairly. Now let me see, ah, whatever it is you have to dispose of.”

There was a greedy light in the eyes that followed my hand into my inside pocket as I withdrew the pearls. I dropped them to the table top where they lay shimmering. For just an instant Barton smiled, then his face became a mask again.

“Very ordinary,” said he.

“I beg your pardon,” I retorted smoothly, “they are very fine pearls.”

I made as if to pick them up.

“Don’t be hasty. Don’t be hasty. They will do very nicely. Now, ah, how much do you think you should be paid for your, ah, work?”

“I’ll take two thousand dollars.”

“I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”

“No.” I thought it well to bargain with him. Where was Hey wood? I fidgeted nervously in my chair. Suppose he failed to appear?

“Too much,” Barton was saying. “When you consider the danger of selling them, I should make a very small profit. I will give you seventeen hundred, ah, on the chance that there will be other things and that I may be favored with, ah, your company again. Understand?”

“There will be others,” said I grimly, “unless something happens to me. For these, however, I will take two thousand dollars or nothing. I know they worth much more.”

“You are a hard bargainer. All right. I will give you what you ask.”

He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a fat wallet.

“A check wouldn’t do, of course.”

“No. I’ll take mine in cash.”

He counted the money out carefully. I was breathing hard with excitement. Where was Heywood? My ear caught a faint creak as though the library door was being opened. I did not dare to turn around.

“Fourteen hundred, fourteen fifty, fifteen hundred—” Barton’s thin voice droned on.

Then there came a rustle behind me and Heywood, with a jovial grin upon his face, stood in the light of the library lamp.

“Well, Barton,” he said. “You’ve cooked your goose at last.”

The jeweler, hands poised in midair, gazed at him and his Adam’s apple danced nervously up and down in his fat throat.

“Who are you?” he finally managed to gasp.

“Me?” echoed Heywood jauntily. “Why, I’m a little detective from headquarters. I tagged your friend up here and found just what I expected. You know, we’ve had an eye on you for some time. You and your crooked partner, Blake.”

“Blake’s no partner of mine,” croaked Barton.

I leaped to my fet.

“Listen to me, Corrigan,” I snarled, “you haven’t got a damned thing on me. I’m just sitting here. Barton’s got the pearls and he’s got the money. I’m as clean as a whistle. You can’t hold me.”

“Stow it,” said Heywood shortly. “We don’t care a whoop about you, anyway. You’re small fry, my boy. What we want is the goods on this fleshy old thief here and this time we’ve got him and got him right. Get your hat, Barton, you’re going for a ride!”

The jeweler made a low mourning noise in his chest and his puffy little hands fluttered to his perspiring forehead.

“For God’s sake,” he begged, “can’t we do something about this? Isn’t there any way I can square it up? Think of my wife and children and my business!”

“You’ve got one chance,” snapped Heywood. “Just one. Come clean on that Paris robbery and I’ll make it easy for you. Otherwise, up you go for buying these stolen pearls. Ten years, probably.”

Barton’s pasty face was sunk low upon his chest.

“What do you want me to tell you?” he asked in a whisper.

“I want you to tell me how you engineered that Paris job, how you hired the boy to smuggle the gems into this country and where you planned to dispose of them.”

“What can they do to me for that?”

“Not much. They’ll never be able to get you back to France. You’ve got too much money and too many friends. You can say that you did not know the diamonds were stolen and you may get off with a heavy fine on the smuggling charge.”

Barton held his head in his hands.

“It will ruin me,” he groaned swaying in his chair. “It will wreck my reputation.”

“That’s too bad,” said Heywood dryly. “You have my sympathy.”

“Suppose I refuse?” Barton looked up at his tormentor and there was misery and indecision in his eyes. “Suppose I refuse to convict myself?”

Chapter XIV The Other Half

“Then,” said Heywood in a voice I that dripped honey, “I will back a patrol wagon up to your door in the plain sight of all your august neighbors, haul you down to headquarters and formally charge you with smuggling, robbery, and the reception of stolen property.”

“My God!”

“I’m waiting.”

Barton wrung his flabby hands and I could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for the fat old crook, although I knew that he did not deserve it. Heywood evidently read my thoughts, for he turned to me and said:

“Tough on you crooks when you get caught. It’s fine as long as you win, but when you lose, it’s hell, eh? Then you come sniveling for sympathy.”

And he winked at me and smiled.

Barton was talking now in a choked, halting voice.

“It was like this,” he said. “Blake, who had been in Paris, learned of these diamonds and hired a man to steal them for him. He came to me with the proposition of getting rid of them. I had done the same thing before, in a small way. I was a fool to listen to him, but I did. I went to Paris and got in touch with the thief, paying the price that Blake had agreed upon for the stones. After I got them I was afraid to try to bring them back.

“Blake had argued that I would never be suspected, but I felt that I was being watched every minute and I almost went crazy with the strain, expecting to be arrested every time I ventured out of the hotel.

“Blake sent a man to me and suggested that if I had lost my nerve I could line up somebody to carry the stuff to New York for me and I found this kid Drummond. He didn’t know what was in the package and he didn’t have sense enough to suspect. He was nabbed and sent to prison.

“I had written to Blake about the arrangement that I had made and the letter went out on the day before Drummond sailed.

“Blake was wild when he found what had happened. When I got back he came here and we had a violent quarrel. He blamed me for the miscarriage of his plans and threatened to ruin me by using the letter I had written to him. He demanded that I pay him the equivalent of his share in the theft and I refused. We fought. I am an old man, but I managed to tear half of the letter out of his hand before my butler arrived and threw him out of the house.

“From that day to this I have known no peace. My God, it’s been terrible. Terrible! I’m glad it’s all over — glad—”

His voice died away to a whisper and he sat shaking like a man with the ague.

“I’ll take your part of that letter,” said Heywood cheerfully.

“What do you want it for?”

“Documentary evidence that you and Blake framed this deal,” said the reporter. “Do you want to leave this lad Drummond to rot in a cell?”

“No, no,” muttered the gem dealer, “that boy’s conviction weighed heavily upon my mind. I... ah... often thought of giving myself up, of making—”

He broke off suddenly, took a key from his pocket with a palsied hand and opened a drawer of his desk. For a moment he pawed through a mass of papers, then he brought forth the torn half of the note.

“Here,” he said dully, “take it.”

Heywood took the paper, looked at it, and then fished the capsule from his vest pocket. He extracted Blake’s portion of the letter and laid the two together upon the desk.

Looking over his shoulder, I read:

“That settles that,” said Heywood. “Barton, I know you aren’t going to run away so I’m going to leave you right here until we get Blake and his gang rounded up. If everything breaks well you may get a chance to turn government witness and save your hide. As for this fellow here, I’ll take him down to headquarters for safe keeping.”

And so we marched out of the fine library of Joshua Barton, leaving the old man hunched over his huge desk, down the worn stone steps and up the avenue.

“Doc,” said Heywood when we had turned the corner. “You are a great little actor.”

“You’re not so rotten yourself,” said I. “Are your men ready?”

“Eight policemen and two Secret Service operatives await us at the Ferry Street dock. They have a launch, automatic rifles, a machine gun and a flock of tear bombs. It looks like a big evening. Let’s go.”

Chapter XV Keeping Promises

Heywood and I sat in my library. Outside the autumn day waned with pensive grace. I had not seen much of him during the long, hot summer, for he had been out of the city on an assignment and I had dawdled about the beach resorts in half-hearted fashion. But the golden fall had brought us both back and we had spent this whole afternoon drinking and smoking and talking of our great adventure.

“I suppose you knew they convicted Blake to-day,” said Heywood.

“Yes,” said I. “There was a story in the papers.”

“Queer, brazen fellow. Stuck it out to the end and never batted an eye when the judge gave him ten years. Acted just like he did the night we swooped down on his island. Remember?”

“I’ll never forget it. Was Barton a witness for the government?”

“Yes, he was there. Looked a hundred years old. Had to be helped to the stand, and his testimony was so faint that it couldn’t be heard three rows back. That’s the last of it, I guess. Hutchins in the penitentiary, Blake on his way, Barton broken and old, Drummond pardoned, and the girl in the green dress—”

He broke off and looked at me shrewdly.

“You never heard from her?”

“No,” said I. “The last I saw of her was on the island. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I just had a hunch that perhaps you had found her and she hadn’t— Well, hang it, you know what I mean. I thought maybe she wasn’t up to expectations.”

“I’ve never seen her, Heywood.”

“Just as well that you didn’t. If I may be frank, I’ll say that I always thought she was a member of Blake’s gang, regardless of what kind of a yarn she told you.”

I smiled, but I am afraid that it was not very convincing.

“Wrong, Heywood. She was Drummond’s fiancée in search of the letter to get him out of prison. Romantic, what?”

“Romantic if true. She must have been in pretty good with Blake, though. Remember, she was the only person allowed to enter the mysterious building near the mill. How do you explain that?”

“I’ve never been able to explain it,” I growled. “That’s the only unsatisfactory part of the whole affair. Why a man should have a place all fitted up with padded walls is quite beyond me.”

“Queer,” said Heywood, “damned queer. Oh, well, some day Blake may take a notion to talk and we’ll unravel the whole thing. What a story that would make.”

It was at this juncture that Mrs. Barkley sidled into the room and extended an envelope toward me.

“It was left here a minute ago by a messenger boy,” she explained. “He said he was to tell you it was important and that you were to read it right away.”

I took the envelope.

“Heywood,” said I when I had finished reading, “I hate to leave you when I have not had the pleasure of your company for so long, but an important matter has arisen which cannot wait. It is what you might call a crisis.

“In other words, Heywood, old fellow, I’m about to put on my hat and dash out to propose to a young lady who once wore a green dress and played burglar in my library.

“If you will wait here long enough, you can be my best man, if any. And while you are waiting, here is something you might amuse yourself by reading.”

And I tossed the letter to him.

“It’ll be worth waiting to see you with a wife,” he sighed.