CHAPTER XIX — A TRIP BY NIGHT, A SUPPER, AND A LATE ARRIVAL
Shortly after sundown that evening, the Rushcroft Company evacuated Hart's Tavern. They were delayed by the irritating and, to Mr. Rushcroft, unpardonable behaviour of two officious gentlemen, lately arrived, who insisted politely but firmly on prying into the past, present and future history of the several members of the organisation, including the new "backer" or "angel," as one of the operatives slyly observed to the other on beholding Miss Thackeray.
Barnes easily established his own identity and position, and was not long in convincing the investigators that his connection with the stranded company was of a purely philanthropic nature,—yes, even platonic, he asseverated with some heat when the question was put to him.
They examined him closely concerning his solitary visit to Green Fancy, and he described to the best of his ability all but one of the inmates. He neglected to mention Miss Cameron. Realising that he would be storing up trouble for himself if he failed to mention his trip to the house that morning,—they were sure to hear of it in time,—he set his mind to the task of constructing a satisfactory explanation. He concluded to sacrifice Peter Ames, temporarily at least. Taking Peter aside, he explained the situation to him, impressing upon him the importance of leaving Miss Cameron and her luggage out of the interview, and to say nothing about the return of "Mr. Perkins."
Fortified by Barnes's promise to protect him if he followed these instructions, Peter consented to tell all that he knew about the people at Green Fancy. Whereupon his new employer informed the secret service men that he had gone up to Green Fancy that morning in response to an appeal from Peter Ames, who had applied to him for a position a day or two before. On his arrival there he confirmed the bewildered chauffeur's story that the whole crowd had stolen away during the night. He guaranteed to produce Peter at any time he was needed, and was perfectly willing to discommode himself to the extent of leaving the man behind if they insisted on holding him.
The officers, after putting him through a rather rigid examination, held private consultation over Peter. To Barnes's surprise and subsequent dismay, they announced that there was nothing to be gained by holding the man; he was at liberty to depart with his employer, provided he would report when necessary.
Barnes was some time in fathoming the motive behind this seeming indifference on the part of the secret service men. It came to him like a flash, and its significance stunned him. They had decided that there was more to be gained by letting Peter Ames think he was above suspicion than by keeping him on the anxious seat. Peter unrestrained was of more value to them than Peter in durance vile. And from that moment forward there would not be an hour of the day or night when he was far ahead of the shadower who followed his trail. There would be a sly, invisible pursuer at his heels, and an eye ever ready to detect the first false move that he made. They were counting on Peter to lead them, in his own good time, to the haunts of his comrades. He could not escape. And he could make the fatal mistake of considering them a pack of fools!
Barnes, perceiving all this, was in a state of perturbation. He had devised a very clever plan for getting Miss Cameron away from the Tavern without attracting undue attention. She was to leave in one of the automobiles that he had engaged to convey the players to Crowndale. It should go without saying that she was to travel with him in Peter's ramshackle car. In case of detention or inquiry, she was to pose as a stage-struck young woman who had obtained a place with the company at the last moment through his influence.
Mr. Rushcroft was not in the secret. Barnes merely announced that he wanted to give a charming young friend of the family a chance to see what she could do on the stage, and that he had taken the liberty of sending for her. The star was magnanimous. He slapped Barnes on the back and declared that nothing could give him greater joy than to transform any friend of his into an actress, and he didn't give a hang whether she had talent or not.
"We'll write in a part for her to-night," he said, "and we'll make it a small one at first, so that she won't have any difficulty in learning it. From night to night we'll build it up, Barnes, so that by the end of our first month your protegee practically will be a co-star with me. There's nothing mean about me, old chap. Any friend of yours can have—"
Barnes made haste to explain that he did not want any one to know that this friend of the family was going on the stage, and that he would be greatly indebted to Rushcroft if he would keep "mum" about it for the time being.
"Certainly. Not a word. I understand," said Mr. Rushcroft amiably. "I've had it happen before," he went on, a perfectly meaningless remark that brought a flush to Barnes's cheek.
It had been Barnes's intention to spirit his charge away from Hart's Tavern under cover of darkness, in company with his other "responsibilities," but the fresh turn of affairs now presented difficulties that were likely to upset his hastily conceived strategy. He had but one purpose in view, and that was to spare her an unpleasant encounter with the government officials,—an encounter that conceivably might result in very distressing complications. He had revealed his plan to her and she apparently was very much taken with it,—indeed, she was quite enthusiastic over the prospect of being whisked unceremoniously to Crowndale, and thence to the home of his sister in New York City, where she could at once put herself in communication with friends and supporters.
He was looking forward with dubious hopes to a possible extension of his guardianship, involving a voyage across the Atlantic and the triumphant delivery of the Countess, so to speak, into the eager arms of her country's ambassador at Paris. He was now in a state of mind that inspired him with the belief that it would be a joy to die for her. If he died for her, she would always remember him as a brave, devoted champion; she would exalt him; in her tender, grateful heart there would always be a corner for him, even to the end of her days,—even to the end of her days on the throne of her country's ruler. Far better that he should die for her,—and have it all over with,—than that he should live to see her the wife of—But invariably he ceased dreaming at this point and admitted that it would be infinitely more satisfying to live. It was his matter-of-fact contention that while there is life there is hope.
When the hour came for the departure from Hart's Tavern he deliberately engaged the two secret service men in conversation in the tap-room. Miss Cameron left the house by the rear door and was safely ensconced in Peter's automobile long before he shook hands with the "rat-catchers" and dashed out to join her. Tommy Gray's car, occupied by the four players, was moving away from the door as he sprang in beside her and slammed the door. The interior of the car was as black as pitch.
"Are you there?" he whispered.
"Yes. Isn't it jolly, running away like this? It must be wonderfully exciting to be a criminal, always dodging and—"
"Sh! Even a limousine may have ears!"
But if the limousine had possessed a thousand ears they would have been rendered useless in the stormy racket made by Peter's muffler and the thunderous roar of the exhaust as the car got under way.
Sixty miles lay between them and Crowndale. Tommy Gray guaranteed that the distance could be covered in three hours, even over the vile mountain roads. Ten o'clock would find them at the Grand Palace Hotel, none the worse for wear, provided (he always put it parenthetically) they lived to tell the tale! The luggage had gone on ahead of them earlier in the day.
Peter's efforts to stay behind Tommy's venerable but surprisingly energetic Buick were the cause of many a gasp and shudder from the couple who sat behind him in the bounding car. He had orders to keep back of Tommy but never to lose sight of his tail light.
Peter was like the celebrated Tam O' Shanter. He was pursued by spectres. The instant that he discovered that he was lagging a trifle, he shot the car up to top speed, with the result that he had to jam on the brakes violently in order to avoid crashing into Tommy's tail light, and at such times Miss Cameron and Barnes sustained unpleasant jars. Something seemed to be telling Peter that the law was stretching out its cruel hand to clutch him from behind; he was determined to keep out of its reach.
There was small opportunity for conversation. The trip was not at all as Barnes had imagined it would be. After the car had raced through Hornville he decided that it was not necessary to keep Tommy's tail light in view, and so directed Peter. After that conversation was possible, but the gain was counterbalanced by a distinct sense of loss. She relinquished her rather frenzied grasp upon his arm, and sank back into the corner of the seat.
"Oh, dear, what a relief!" she gasped.
"What arrant stupidity," he growled, and she never knew that the remark bore no relation whatsoever to Peter.
He confessed his fears to her, and was immeasurably consoled by her enthusiastic scorn for the consequences of his mistake.
"Let them follow poor old Peter," she said. "We will outwit them, never fear. If necessary, Mr. Barnes, we can travel with the company for days and days. I think I should rather enjoy it. If you can manage to get word to my friends in New York, to relieve their anxiety, I shall be more than grateful. I am sure they will decide that you are acting for the best in every particular. It would grieve them,—yes, it would distress them greatly,—if I were to be subjected to an inquiry at the hands of the authorities. The notoriety would be—harrowing, to say the least. Moreover, the disclosures would certainly bring disaster upon those who are working so loyally to right a grave wrong. They will understand, and they will thank you not only for all that you have done for me but for the cause I support."
"The first time I ever saw you, I said to myself that you were a brave, indomitable little soldier," he said warmly. "I am more than ever convinced of it now."
"The men of my family have been soldiers for ten generations," she said simply, as if that covered everything. "They haven't all been heroes but none of them has been a coward."
"I can believe that," he said. "Blood will tell."
"If God gives back my country to my people, Mr. Barnes," she said, after a long silence, "will you not one day make your way out there to us, so that we may present some fitting expression of the gratitude—"
"Don't speak of gratitude," he exclaimed. "I don't want to be thanked. Good Lord, do you suppose I—"
"There, there! Don't be angry," she cried. "But you must come to my country. You must see it. You will love it."
"But suppose that God does not see fit to restore it to you. Suppose that he leaves it in the hands of the vandals. What then? Will you go back to—that?"
She was still for a long time. "I shall not return to my country until it is free again, Mr. Barnes," she said, and there was a break in her voice.
"You—you will remain in MY country?" he asked, leaning closer to her ear.
"The world is large," she replied. "I shall have to live somewhere. It may be here, it may be France, or England or Switzerland."
"Why not here? You could go far and do worse."
"Beggars may not be choosers. The homeless cannot be very particular, you know. If the Germans remain in my country, I shall be without a home."
His voice was tense and vibrant when he spoke again, after a moment's reflection. "I know what O'Dowd would say if he were in my place."
"O'Dowd has known me a great many years," she said. "When you have known me as many months as he has years, you will thank your lucky star that you do not possess the affability that the gods have bestowed upon O'Dowd."
"Don't be too sure of that," he said, and heard the little catch in her breath. He found her hand and clasped it firmly. His lips were close to her ear. "I have known you long enough to—"
"Don't!" she cried out sharply. "Don't say it now,—please. I could listen to O'Dowd, but—but you are different. He would forget by to-morrow, and I would forget even sooner than he. But it would not be so easy to forget if you were to say it,—it would not be easy for either of us."
"You are not offended?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Why should I be offended? Are you not my protector?"
The subtle implication in those words brought him to his senses. Was he not her protector? And was he not abusing the confidence she placed in him?
"I shall try to remember that,—always," he said abjectly.
"Some day I shall tell you why I am glad you did not say it to me to-night," she said, a trifle unsteadily. She squeezed his hand. "You are very good to me. I shall not forget that either."
And she meant that some day she would confess to him that she was so tired, and lonely, and disconsolate on this journey to Crowndale, and so in need of the strength he could give, that she would have surrendered herself gladly to the comfort of his arms, to the passion that his touch aroused in her quickening blood!
Soon after ten o'clock they entered the town of Crowndale and drew up before the unattractive portals of the Grand Palace Hotel. An arc lamp swinging above the entrance shed a pitiless light upon the dreary, God-forsaken hostelry with the ironic name.
Mr. Rushcroft was already at the desk, complaining bitterly of everything seen and unseen. As a matter of habit he was roaring about his room and, while he hadn't put so much as his nose inside of it, he insisted on knowing what they meant by giving it to him. Mr. Bacon and Mr. Dillingford were growling because there was no elevator to hoist them two flights up, and Miss Thackeray was wanting to know WHY she couldn't have a bit of supper served in her room.
"They're all alike," announced Mr. Rushcroft despairingly, addressing the rafters. He meant hotels in general.
"They're all alike," vouchsafed the clerk in an aside to the "drummer" who leaned against the counter, meaning stage-folk in general.
"You're both right," said the travelling salesman, who knew.
"Is there a cafe in the neighbourhood?" inquired Barnes, with authority.
"There's a rest'rant in the next block," replied the clerk, instantly impressed. Here was one who obviously was not "alike." "A two-minutes' walk, Mr.—" (looking at the register)—"Mr. Barnes."
"That's good. We will have supper in Miss Thackeray's room. Let me have your pencil, please. Send over and have them fill this order inside of twenty minutes." He handed what he had written to the blinking clerk. "For eight persons. Tell 'em to hurry it along."
"Maybe they're closed for the night," said the clerk. "And besides—"
"My God! He even hesitates to get food for us when—" began Mr. Rushcroft.
"Besides there's only one waiter on at night and he couldn't get off, I guess. And besides it's against the rules of this house to serve drinks in a lady's—"
"You tell that waiter to close up when he comes over here with what I've ordered, and tell him that I will pay double for everything, and to-morrow morning you can tell the proprietor of this house that we broke the rules to-night."
For the first time in her life Miss Tilly sat down to a meal served by a member of her late profession. She sat on the edge of Miss Thackeray's bed and held a chicken sandwich in one hand and a full glass of beer in the other. Be it said to the credit of her forebears, she did not take even so much as a sip from the glass, but seven sandwiches, two slices of cold ham, half a box of sardines, a plate of potato salad, a saucer of Boston baked beans, two hardboiled eggs, a piece of apple pie and two cups of coffee passed her freshly carmined lips. She was in her seventh heaven. She was no longer dreaming of fame: it was a gay reality. Emulating the example of Miss Thackeray, she addressed Mr. Dillingford as "dear," and came near to being the cause of his death by strangulation.
Miss Cameron submitted to the contagion. She had had no such dreams as Miss Tilly's, but she was quite as thrilled by the novelty of her surroundings, the informality of the feast, and the sprightliness of these undaunted spirits. She sat on Miss Thackeray's trunk, her back against the wall, her bandaged foot resting on a decrepit suit-case. Her eyes were sparkling, her lips ever ready to part in the joy of laughter, the colour leaping into her cheeks in response to the amazing quips of these unconventional vagabonds.
She too was hungry. Food had never tasted so good to her. From time to time her soft, smiling eyes sought Barnes with a look of mingled wonder and confusion. She always laughed when she caught the expression of concern in his eyes, and once she slyly winked at him. He was entranced.
He crossed over and sat beside her. "They are a perfectly irresponsible lot," he said in a low voice. "I hope you don't mind their—er—levity."
"I love it," she whispered. "They are an inspiration. One would think that they had never known such a thing as trouble. I am taking lessons, Mr. Barnes."
She was still warmly conscious of the thrill that had come into her blood when he carried her up the stairs in his powerful arms, disdaining the offer of assistance from the suddenly infatuated Tommy Gray.
"Rehearsal at eleven sharp," announced Mr. Rushcroft, arising from the window-sill on which he was seated. "Letter perfect, every one of you. No guessing. By the way, Miss—er—'pon my soul, I don't believe I got your name?"
"Jones," said the new member, shamelessly.
"Ah," said he, smiling broadly, "a word oft spoken in jest—ahem!—how does it go? No matter. You know what I mean. I have not had time to write in the part for you, Miss Jones, but I shall do so the first thing in the morning. Now that I see how difficult it is for you to get around, I have hit upon a wonderful idea. I shall make it a sitting part. You won't have to do anything with your legs at all. Most beginners declare that they don't know what to do with their hands, but I maintain that they know less about what to do with their legs. Fortunately you are incapacitated—"
"Perhaps it would be just as well to excuse Miss Jones from rehearsal in the morning," broke in Barnes hastily. "She is hardly fit to—"
"Just as you say, old chap. Doesn't matter in the least. Good night, everybody. Sleep tight."
"I sha'n't sleep a wink," said Miss Tilly.
"Homesick already?" demanded Mr. Bacon, fixing her with a pitying stare.
"Worrying over my part," she explained.
"Haven't you committed it yet? Say it now. 'It is half past seven, my lord.' All you have to do is to remember that it comes in the second act and not in the first or third."
"Good night," said Miss Cameron, giving her hand to Barnes at the door. She was leaning on Miss Thackeray's arm. He never was to forget the deep, searching look she sent into his eyes. She seemed to be asking a thousand questions.
He went down to the dingy lobby. A single, half-hearted electric bulb shed its feeble light on the desk, in front of which stood a man registering under the sleepy eye of the night clerk.
After the late arrival had started upstairs in the wake of the clerk, Barnes stepped up to inspect the book. The midnight express from the north did not stop at Crowndale, he had learned upon inquiry, and it was the only train touching the town between nightfall and dawn.
The register bore the name of Thomas Moore, Hornville. There was not the slightest doubt in Barnes's mind that this was the man who had been detailed to shadow the luckless Peter. Only an imperative demand by government authorities could have brought about the stopping of the express at Hornville and later on at Crowndale.
Barnes smiled grimly. "I've just thought of a way to fool you, my friend," he said to himself, and was turning away when a familiar voice assailed him.
Whirling, he looked into the face of a man who stood almost at his elbow,—the sharp, impassive face of Mr. Sprouse.
CHAPTER XX — THE FIRST WAYFARER HAS ONE TREASURE THRUST UPON HIM—AND FORTHWITH CLAIMS ANOTHER
"That fellow is a rat-catcher," said Sprouse. "What are you doing here?" demanded Barnes, staring. He seized the man's arm and inquired eagerly: "Have you got the jewels?"
"No; but I will have them before morning," replied Sprouse coolly. He shot a furtive glance around the deserted lobby. "Better not act as though you knew me. That bull is no fool. He doesn't know me, but by this time he knows who you are."
"He is trailing Peter Ames."
"Ship Peter to-morrow," advised Sprouse promptly.
"I had already thought of doing so," said Barnes, surprised by the uncanny promptness of the man in hitting upon the strategy he had worked out for himself after many harassing hours. "He goes to my sister's place to-morrow morning."
"Send him by train. He will be easier to follow. There is a train leaving for the south at 9:15."
"You were saying that before morning you would—"
"Be careful! Don't whisper. People don't whisper to utter strangers. Step over here by the front door. Would you be surprised if I were to tell you that his royal nibs is hiding in this town? Well, he certainly is. He bought a railway ticket for Albany at Hornville the day he beat it, but he got off at the second station,—which happens to be this one."
"How can you be sure of all this?"
"Simple as falling off a log," said Sprouse, squinting over his shoulder. "The Baroness Hedlund has been here for a week or ten days. The Baron wasn't so far wrong in his suspicions, you see. He lost track of her, that's all. I happened to overhear a conversation at Hart's Tavern between him and his secretary. I have a way of hearing things I'm not supposed to hear, you know. By a curious coincidence I happened to be taking the air late one night just outside his window at the Tavern,—on the roof of the porch, to be accurate. I told Ugo what I'd heard and he nearly broke his neck trying to head her off. O'Dowd and De Soto rushed over to Hornville and telegraphed for her to leave the train at the first convenient place and return to New York. She was on her way up here, you see. She got off at Crowndale and everybody supposed that she had taken the next train home. But she didn't do anything of the kind. She is a silly, obstinate fool and she's crazy about Ugo,—and jealous as fury. She hated to think of him being up here with other women. A day or so later she sent him a letter. No one saw that letter but Ugo, and—your humble servant.
"I happened to be the one to go to Spanish Falls for the mail that day. The postmark excited my curiosity. If I told you what I did to that letter before delivering it to Mr. Loeb, you could send me to a federal prison. But that's how I came to know that she had decided to wait in Crowndale until he sent word that the coast was clear. She went to the big sanatorium outside the town and has been there ever since, incognito, taking a cure for something or other. She goes by the name of Mrs. Hasselwein. I popped down here this afternoon and found out that she is still at the sanatorium but expects to leave early to-morrow morning. Her trunks are over at the station now, to be expressed to Buffalo. I made another trip out there this evening and waited. About eight o'clock Mr. Hasselwein strolled up. He sat on the verandah with her for half an hour or so and then left. I followed him. He went to one of the little cottages that belong to the sanatorium. I couldn't get close enough to hear what they said, but I believe he expects to take her away in an automobile early in the morning. It is a seventy mile ride from here to the junction where they catch the train for the west. I'm going up now to make a call on Mr. Hasselwein. Would you like to join me?"
Barnes eyed him narrowly. "There is only one reason why I feel that I ought to accompany you," he said. "If you have it in your mind to kill him, I certainly shall do everything in my power to prevent—"
"Possess your soul in peace. I'm not going to do anything foolish. Time enough left for that sort of thing. I will get him some day, but not now. By the way, what is the number of your room?"
"Twenty-two,—on the next floor."
"Good. Go upstairs now and I'll join you in about ten minutes. I will tap three times on your door."
"Why should you come to my room, Sprouse? We can say all that is to be said—"
"If you will look on the register you will discover that Mr. J. H. Prosser registered here about half an hour ago. He is in room 30. He left a call for five o'clock. Well, Prosser is another name for Ugo."
"Here in this hotel? In room 30?" cried Barnes, incredulously.
"Sure as you're alive. Left the cottage an hour ago. Came in a jitney or I could have got to him on the way over."
Barnes, regardless of consequences, dashed over to inspect the register. Sprouse followed leisurely, shooting anxious glances up the stairs at the end of the lobby.
"See!" cried Barnes, excitedly, putting his finger on the name "Miss Jones." "She's in room 32,—next to his. By gad, Sprouse, do you suppose he knows that she is here? Would the dog undertake anything—"
"You may be sure he doesn't know she's here, or you either, for that matter. The country's full of Joneses and Barneses. Go on upstairs. Leave everything to me."
He strolled away as the clerk came shuffling down the steps. As Barnes mounted them, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Sprouse take up a suitcase near the door and return to the desk, evidently for the purpose of engaging a room for the night.
Before going to his room, he strode lightly down the hall in the direction of room 30. There was no light in the transom. Stepping close to the door, he listened intently for sounds from within. He started back almost instantly. The occupant was snoring with extreme heartiness.
A glance revealed a light in the transom of room 32. As he looked, however, it disappeared. Abashed, he turned and went swiftly away. She was going to bed. He felt like a snooping, despicable "peeping Tom" caught in the act.
He had been in his room for twenty minutes before he heard the tapping on his door. He opened it and Sprouse slid into the room. The instant the door closed behind him, he threw open his coat and coolly produced a long, shallow metal box, such as one finds in safety vaults.
"With my compliments," he said drily, thrusting the box into Barnes's hands. "You'd better have the Countess check them up and see if they're all there. I am not well enough acquainted with the collection to be positive."
Barnes was speechless. He could only stare, open-mouthed, at this amazing man.
"Grip 'em tight," went on Sprouse, grinning. "I may relieve you of them if you get too careless. My advice to you is to hide them and keep your lips closed—"
"My God, Sprouse, have you been in that man's room since I saw you down—"
"I forgot to say that no questions were to be asked," broke in the other.
"But I insist upon having everything cleared up. Here am I with a box of jewels stolen from a lodger's room, God knows how, and in danger of being slapped into jail if they catch me with the—"
"All you have to do is to keep quiet and look innocent. Stay out of the hall to-night. Don't go near the door of No. 30. Act like a man with brains. I said I would square myself with you and with him, too. Well, I've done both. Maybe you think it is easy to give up this stuff. There is a half million dollars' worth of nice little things in that box, small as it is. I went to a lot of trouble to get 'em, and all I'll receive for my pains is a thank you from Mr. Thomas K. Barnes, New York."
"I cannot begin to thank you enough," said Barnes. "See here, you must allow me to reward you in some way commensurate with your—"
"Cut that out," said Sprouse darkly. "I'm not so damned virtuous that I have to be rewarded. I like the game. It's the breath of life to me."
"The time will surely come when I can do you a good turn, Sprouse, and you will not find me reluctant," said Barnes, lamely. He was completely at a loss in the presence of the master-crook. He felt very small, and stupid, and inadequate,—as one always feels when confronted by genius. Moreover, he was utterly stupefied.
"That's different. If I ever need a friendly hand I'll call on you. It's only fair that I should give you a tip, Barnes, just to put you on your guard. I've lived up to my word in this business, and I've done all that I said I would. From now on, I'm a free agent. I want to advise you to put that stuff in a safe place. I'll give you two days' start. After that, if I can get 'em away from you, or whoever may have them, I'm going to do it. They will be fair plunder from then on. Notwithstanding the fact that I put them in your hands to-night,—and so wash my own of them temporarily,—I haven't a single scruple about relieving you of them on some later occasion. I may have to crack you over the head to do it,—so a word to the wise ought to be sufficient. If you don't guard them pretty closely, my friend, you will regain consciousness some day and find you haven't got them any longer. Good night—and good-bye for the present. Stick close to your room till morning and—then beat it with her for New York. I give you two days' start, remember."
He switched off the light suddenly. Barnes gasped and prepared to defend himself. Sprouse chuckled.
"Don't be nervous. I'm merely getting ready to leave you with your ill-gotten gains. It isn't wise, you see, to peep out of a door with a light in the room behind you. Keep cool. I sha'n't be more than a minute."
There was no sound for many seconds, save the deep breathing of the two men. Then, with infinite caution, Sprouse turned the knob and opened the door a half inch or so. He left the room so abruptly that Barnes never quite got over the weird impression that he squeezed through that slender crack, and pulled it after him!
Many minutes passed before he turned on the light. The key of the box was tied to the wire grip. With trembling fingers he inserted it in the lock and opened the lid.... "A half-million dollars' worth of nice little things," Sprouse had said!
He did not close his eyes that night. Daybreak found him lying in bed, with the box under his pillow, a pistol at hand, and his eyes wide-open. He was in a graver quandary than ever. Now that he had the treasure in his possession, what was he to do with it? He did not dare to leave it in the room, nor was it advisable to carry it about with him. The discovery of the burglary in room 30 would result in a search of the house, from top to bottom.
Cold perspiration started out on his brow. The situation was far from being the happy one that he had anticipated.
He solved the breakfast problem by calling downstairs for a waiter and ordering coffee and rolls and eggs sent up to his room. Singularly enough the waiter solved the other and more disturbing problem for him.
"SOME robbery last night," said that worthy, as he re-appeared with the tray. Barnes was thankful that the waiter was not looking at him when he hurled the bomb, figuratively speaking. He had a moment's time to recover.
"What robbery?" he enquired, feigning indifference.
"Feller up in one of the cottages at the sanatorium. All beat up, something fierce they say."
"Up in—Where?" almost shouted Barnes, starting up.
The man explained where the cottages were situated, Barnes listening as one completely bereft of intelligence.
"Seems he was to leave by auto early this mornin', and they didn't know anything was wrong till Joe Keep—he's driving a Fierce-Arrow that Mr. Norton has for rent—till Joe'd been settin' out in front for nearly half an hour. The man's wife was waitin' fer him up at the main buildin' and she got so tired waitin' that she sent one of the clerks down to see what was keeping her husband. Well, sir, him and Joe couldn't wake the feller, so they climb in an open winder, an' by gosh, Joe says it was terrible. The feller was layin' on the bed, feet an' hands tied and gagged, and blood from head to foot. He was inconscious, Joe says, an'—my God, how his wife took on! Joe says he couldn't stand it, so he snook out, shakin' like a leaf. He says she's a pippin, too. Never seen a purtier—"
"Is—is the man dead?" cried Barnes, aghast. He felt that his face was as white as chalk.
"Nope! Seems like it's nothing serious: just beat up, that's all. Terrible cuts on his head and—"
"What is his name?" demanded Barnes.
"Something like Hackensack."
"Have they caught the thief?"
"I should say not. The police never ketch anything but drunks in this burg, and they wouldn't ketch them if they could keep from stumblin'."
"What time did all this happen?" Barnes was having great difficulty in keeping his coffee from splashing over.
"Doc Smith figgers it was long about midnight, judgin' by the way the blood co'gulated."
"Did they get away with much?"
"Haven't heard. Joe says the stove pipe in the feller's room was knocked down and they's soot all over everything. Looks like they must have been a struggle. Seems as though the burglar,—must ha' been more'n one of 'em, I say,—wasn't satisfied with cracking him over the head. He stuck the point of a knife or something into him,—just a little way, Joe says—in more'n a dozen places. What say?"
"I—I didn't say anything."
"I thought you did. Well, if I hear anything more I'll let you know."
"Anything for a little excitement," said Barnes casually.
He listened at the door until he heard the waiter clattering down the stairway, and then went swiftly down the hall to No. 30. Mr. Prosser was sleeping just as soundly and as resoundingly as at midnight!
"By gad!" he muttered, half aloud. Everything was as clear as day to him now. Bolting into his own room, he closed the door and stood stock-still for many minutes, trying to picture the scene in the cottage.
No stretch of the imagination was required to establish the facts. Sprouse had come to him during the night with Prince Ugo's blood on the hands that bore the treasure. He had surprised and overpowered the pseudo Mr. Hasselwein, and had actually tortured him into revealing the hiding place of the jewels. The significance of the scattered stove pipe was not lost on Barnes; it had not been knocked down in a struggle between the two men. Prince Ugo was not, and never had been, in a position to defend himself against his wily assailant. Barnes's blood ran cold as he went over in his mind the pitiless method employed by Sprouse in subduing his royal victim. And the coolness, the unspeakable bravado of the man in coming direct to him with the booty! His amazingly clever subterfuge in allowing Barnes to think that room No. 30 was the scene of his operations, thereby forcing him to remain inactive through fear of consequences to himself and the Countess if he undertook to investigate!
He found a letter in his box when he went downstairs, after stuffing the tin box deep into his pack,—a risky thing to do he realised, but no longer perilous in the light of developments. It was no longer probable that his effects would be subjected to inspection by the police. He walked over to a window to read the letter. Before he slit the envelope he knew that Sprouse was the writer. The message was brief.
"After due consideration, I feel that it would be a mistake for you to abandon your present duties at this time. It might be misunderstood. Stick to the company until something better turns up. With this thought in view I withdraw the two days' limit mentioned recently to you, and extend the time to one week. Yours very truly, J. H. Wilson."
"Gad, the fellow thinks of everything," said Barnes to himself. "He is positively uncanny."
He read between the lines, and saw there a distinct warning. It had not occurred to him that his plan to leave for New York that day with Miss Cameron might be attended by disastrous results.
On reflection, he found the prospect far from disagreeable. A week or so with the Rushcroft company was rather attractive under the circumstances. The idea appealed to him.
But the jewels? What of them? He could not go gallivanting about the country with a half million dollars' worth of precious stones in his possession. A king's ransom strapped on his back! He would not be able to sleep a wink. Indeed, he could see himself wasting away to a mere shadow through worry and dread. Precious stones? They would develop into millstones, he thought, with an inward groan.
He questioned the advisability of informing Miss Cameron that the crown jewels were in his possession. Her anxiety would be far greater than his own. There was nothing to be gained by telling her in any case; so he decided to bear the burden alone.
The play was not to open in Crowndale until Tuesday night, three full days off. He revelled in the thought of sitting "out front" in the empty little theatre, watching the rehearsals. At such times he was confident that his thoughts would not be solely of the jewels. He would at least have surcease during these periods of forgetfulness.
He spent the early part of the forenoon in wandering nervously about the hotel,—upstairs and down. The jewels were locked in his pack upstairs. He went up to his room half a dozen times and almost instantly walked down again, after satisfying himself that the pack had not been rifled.
Exasperation filled his soul. Ten o'clock came and still no sign of the lazy actors. Rehearsal at eleven, and not one of them out of bed.
Peter came to the hotel soon after ten. He had forgotten Peter and his decision to send him down to the Berkshires that day, and was sharply reminded of the necessity for doing so by the appearance of the man who had registered just before midnight. This individual strolled casually into the lobby a few seconds behind Peter.
He acted at once and with decision. The stranger took a seat in the window not far away. Barnes, in a brisk and business-like tone, informed Peter that he was to leave on the one o'clock train for the south, and to go direct to his sister's place near Stockbridge. He was to leave the automobile in Crowndale for the present.
"Here is the money for your railroad fare," he announced in conclusion. "I have telegraphed Mrs. Courtney's man that you will arrive this evening. He will start you in on your duties to-morrow. I understand they are short-handed on the place. And now let me impress upon you, Peter, the importance of holding yourself ready to report when needed. You know what I mean. Remember, I have guaranteed that you will appear."
The stranger drank in every word that passed between the two men. When the one o'clock train pulled out of Crowndale, it carried Peter Ames in one of the forward coaches, and a late guest of the Grand Palace Hotel in the next car behind. Barnes took the time to assure himself of these facts, and smiled faintly as he drove away from the railway station after the departure of the train. Miss Cameron, her veil lowered, sat beside him in the "hack."
For the next three days and nights rehearsals were in full swing, with scarcely a moment's let-up. The Rushcroft company was increased by the arrival of three new members and several pieces of baggage. The dingy barn of a theatre was the scene of ceaseless industry, both peaceful and otherwise. The actors quarrelled and fumed and all but fought over their grievances. Only the presence of the "backer" and the extremely pretty and cultured "friend of the family" in "front" prevented sanguinary encounters among the male contenders for the centre of the stage. The usually placid Mr. Dillingford was transformed into a snarling beast every time one of his "lines" was cut out by the relentless Rushcroft, and there were times when Mr. Bacon loudly accused his fiancee of "crabbing" his part. Everybody called everybody else a "hog," and God was asked a hundred times a day to bear witness to as many atrocities.
Each day the bewildered, distressed young woman who sat with Barnes in the dim "parquet," whispered in his ear:
"Can they ever be friendly again?"
And every night at supper she rejoiced to find them all on the best of terms, calling each other "dearie," and "old chap," and "honey," and declaring that no such company had ever been gotten together in the history of the stage! Such words as "slob," "fat-head," "boob" or "you poor nut" never found their way outside the sacred precincts of the theatre.
Mr. Rushcroft magnanimously offered to coach "Miss Jones" in the part he was going to write in for her just as soon as he could get around to it.
"No use writing a part for her, Mr. Barnes, until I get through beating the parts we already have into the heads of these poor fools up here. I've got trouble enough on my hands."
And so the time crept by, up to the night of the performance. Miss Cameron remained in ignorance of the close proximity of the jewels, and the police of Crowndale remained in even denser ignorance as to the whereabouts of the man who robbed Mr. Hasselwein of all his spare cash and an excellent gold watch.
Hasselwein's story was brief but dramatic. He was recovering rapidly from his experience and the local newspaper, on Tuesday, announced that he would be strong enough to accompany his wife when she left the "city" toward the end of the week. (Considerable space was employed by the reporter in "writing up" the wonderful devotion of Mrs. Hasselwein, who, despite the fact that she was quite an invalid, conducted herself with rare fortitude, seldom leaving her husband's room in the hospital.)
According to the injured man, his assailant was a huge, powerful individual, wearing a mask and armed to the teeth. He came in through an open window and attacked him while he was asleep in bed. Notwithstanding the stunning blow he received while prostrate, Mr. Hasselwein struggled to his feet and engaged the miscreant—(while the word was used at least twenty times in the newspaper account, I promise to use it but once)—in a desperate conflict. Loss of blood weakened him and he soon fell exhausted upon the bed. To make the story even shorter than Prince Ugo made it, not a word was said about the jewels, and that, after all, is the only feature of the case in which we are interested.
Barnes smiled grimly over Ugo's failure to mention the jewels, and the misleading description of the thief. He was thankful, however, and relieved to learn that the one man who might recognise Miss Cameron was not likely to leave the hospital short of a week's time.
No time was lost by the Countess in getting word to her compatriots in New York. Barnes posted a dozen letters for her; each contained the tidings of her safety and the assurance that she would soon follow in person.
Those three days and nights were full of joy and enchantment for Barnes. True, he did not sleep very well,—indeed, scarcely at all,—but it certainly was not a hardship to lie awake and think of her throughout the whole of each blessed night. He recalled and secretly dilated upon every sign of decreasing reserve on her part. He shamed himself more than once for deploring the fact that her ankle was mending with uncommon rapidity, and that in a few days she would be quite able to walk without support. And he actually debased himself by wishing that the Rushcroft company might find it imperative to go on rehearsing for weeks in that dim, enchanted temple.
It was not a "barn of a place" to him. It was paradise. He sat for hours in one of the most uncomfortable seats he had ever known, devouring with hungry eyes the shadowy, interested face so close to his own,—and never tired.
And then came a time at last when conversation became difficult between them; when there were long silences fraught with sweet peril, exceeding shyness, and a singular form of deafness that defied even the roars of the players and yet permitted them to hear, with amazing clearness, the faintest of heart-beats.
On the afternoon of the dress rehearsal, he led her, after an hour of almost insupportable repression, to the rear of the auditorium, in the region made gloomy by the shelving gallery overhead. Dropping into the seat beside her, he blurted out, almost in anguish:
"I can't stand it any longer. I cannot be near you without—why, I—I—well, it is more than I can struggle against, that's all. You've either got to send me away altogether or—or—let me love you without restraint. I tell you, I can't go on as I am now. I must speak, I must tell you all that has been in my heart for days. I love you—I love you! You know I love you, don't you? You know I worship you. Don't be frightened. I just had to tell you to-day. I could not have held it back another hour. I should have gone mad if I had tried to keep it up any longer." He waited breathlessly for her to speak. She sat silent and rigid, looking straight before her. "Is it hopeless?" he went on at last, huskily. "Must I ask your forgiveness for my presumption and—and go away from you?"
She turned to him and laid her hand upon his arm.
"Am I not like other women? Have you forgotten that you once said that I was not different? Why should I forgive you for loving me? Doesn't every woman want to be loved? No, no, my friend! Wait! A moment ago I was so weak and trembly that I thought I—Oh, I was afraid for myself. Now I am quite calm and sensible. See how well I have myself in hand? I do not tremble, I am strong. We may now discuss ourselves calmly, sensibly. A moment ago—Ah, then it was different! I was being drawn into—Oh! What are you doing?"
"I too am strong," he whispered. "I am sure of my ground now, and I am not afraid."
He had clasped the hand that rested on his sleeve and, as he pressed it to his heart, his other arm stole over her shoulders and drew her close to his triumphant body. For an instant she resisted, and then relaxed into complete submission. Her head sank upon his shoulder.
"Oh!" she sighed, and there was wonder, joy—even perplexity, in the tremulous sign of capitulation. "Oh," came softly from her parted lips again at the end of the first long, passionate kiss.