ON A DARK STAGE.
By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 127 of Nick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
CHAPTER XX.
THE SECOND ACT.
Klein went on with the business of his part, poking at the property fire—a bunch of red globes buried in a grate of coke. Other characters made their appearance, and the dialogue opened briskly.
Miss Lindner, first to pick up the silver frame, frowned as she delivered her lines. In an undertone, aside to Klein, who was busily engaged in dusting an already spotless piece of china, she said:
“According to the property man, I’ve got a new lover to-day. Did you notice the change?”
She laughed—her back was to the audience—and as Dodge, the character man, entered noisily, she made a face at him. Dodge took his art seriously, and would not “clown” on a scene. Others of the cast, aware of it, “kidded” him at every possible opportunity.
When Dodge stood in front of the picture, addressing it in thunderous rage—as the play demanded he should—Klein watched him narrowly. Nothing happened, and Klein decided mentally that the character man had not noticed the difference between to-day’s photograph and the one used in the previous performances.
By this time Tanner was on the scene, and for possibly ten minutes the dialogue and the action did not concern the photograph. Then Miss Lindner made a hurried exit, and Tanner began a soliloquy.
This was one of the longest speeches in the piece, and the best, and Tanner delivered it with all the power and passion he could command. At the finish, Klein, as the butler, was supposed to enter and announce a visitor, who happened to be Metcalfe.
Just before Klein’s entrance Tanner strode across the floor and picked up the frame. To this he was supposed to deliver the final line, which at the same time supplied the butler’s cue.
“And as for Lord Wellingmay,” he dramatically recited, “let him beware. I am not the man to——” He stopped so abruptly as to cause a titter to run through the audience, who, up to this point had listened, spellbound.
Tanner had picked up the frame at this critical moment and noticed the photograph.
Klein, waiting in the doorway for his cue, felt his pulse quicken. The sight of the photograph—Delmar’s photograph—had caused Tanner to hesitate!
The wait grew longer. Fearful of the delay, and aware that his entrance might set the dialogue moving once more, Klein stepped through the door.
“A visitor, Mr. Lemly!” he announced stiffly.
Klein’s line apparently brought Tanner back to earth again, and with a peculiar frown he turned and took up his cue.
While they were waiting for Metcalfe to enter, Klein spoke aside to Tanner in the way that is quite common on the stage, and which is often done, although the audience has no idea how much private conversation goes on among the actors during a play.
“What made you go up in the air?” he asked—and all the time a voice whispered in his ear: “Tanner’s the man! Tanner’s the man! His actions have proved it!”
Tanner, meanwhile, was fumbling nervously at his collar.
“I guess it—it was my nerves,” he answered. “I’ve been pounding too hard on the next week’s part. It’s frightfully warm here, isn’t it?”
The entrance of Metcalfe interrupted the conversation. The juvenile man dashed in and addressed his opening line to Tanner. Klein withdrew to the background, where he arranged the decanter and the glasses on a tray, preparatory to the next piece of business.
The dialogue between the other men continued. Both poured out their drinks. Metcalfe, posing dramatically before the table, proposed a toast.
But the toast was never drunk. Hardly had the words left Metcalfe’s lips when he reeled slightly; the muscles in his throat contracted violently. The glass slipped from his fingers and crashed upon the surface of the polished table.
A strange hush fell upon the scene, and in the silence the steady hum of the calciums came like the droning of a million bees.
It seemed an age must have elapsed before the strain was broken, but in reality it could not have been more than a few seconds. Yet in that time, swift as it was, and unexpected, too, Klein had discovered the reason for the interruption.
Metcalfe’s eyes, at the moment of the toast, had fallen upon Delmar’s photograph. And the sight of it had robbed him of all speech! He had betrayed even greater agitation than had Tanner. What did it mean? What could it mean, other than——
Like a snapping of a taut thread the tension was broken. Metcalfe, as if suddenly aroused from a stupor, broke into a hard and forced laugh, and he took up the regular lines of the play.
Passing close to him, bearing the tray, Klein noticed that the juvenile man’s fingers were clenched and that he was breathing a trifle faster than normal.
Klein was off the scene before the curtain of the act, and was touching up his eyes when Metcalfe came into the dressing room.
In a calm and matter-of-fact way Klein sought to bring out the truth of the affair by referring to the incident casually.
“Were you trying to reconstruct the second act?” he asked.
Metcalfe sank down into his chair and removed his wig.
“What are you getting at?” he asked curtly.
“Why, that impromptu scene over the toast,” Klein explained. “It was good as far as it went.”
The juvenile man’s hands were still trembling as he squared himself in his chair preparatory to removing his make-up. “I—I don’t know what—what came over me. My nerves, I guess.”
“You looked as if you’d seen a ghost,” Klein ventured to suggest.
Metcalfe flashed him a quick glance, but Klein, bending over his mirror, pretended not to notice it.
“I—I guess I did see a ghost,” he wavered. “Maybe I am a fool, and all of that, but if——” He hesitated, daubing his cheeks. “Klein,” he began once more, as if determined to relieve his mind of some weight, “I’ve been upset ever since I joined this company. There is something—something I’d like to talk over with you.”
“Fire away,” Klein told him, treating the statement with assumed indifference. “I’m all ears. I suppose one of your mash notes——”
“It is nothing like that, Klein,” Metcalfe interrupted gravely. “I’m serious for once.”
He paused, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat. Klein waited expectantly for him to continue, confident that whatever was troubling the juvenile man would have a direct bearing upon Delmar’s photograph. That the photograph had temporarily upset and confused Tanner was not to be questioned. The excuse he had given Klein was obviously a lie. Then, following this, had come Metcalfe’s dramatic scene, which beyond any doubt had been prompted by the same photograph.
Yet both men avoided the real issue, and both attributed their lack of self-control to a case of “nerves.”
“In the first place,” Metcalfe said, “on the very day I left New York——”
The door of the dressing room was at this present moment thrown open, and Dodge stepped inside. He stood before the occupants with folded arms, glaring from one to another.
“What’s the trouble, Dodge?” Metcalfe asked, sinking back in his chair, plainly annoyed at the interruption.
“Matter? Matter?” Dodge burst out indignantly. “I should think you gentlemen would be ashamed of yourselves!”
“Ashamed?” echoed Klein. “What have we—-”
“I’d like to be stage manager of this company for about five minutes,” the character man interrupted. “That’s what I would! Such outrageous actions as I witnessed this afternoon would not be tolerated for an instant. You gentlemen have absolutely no respect for your profession—none at all. To clown on a scene deliberately is beneath the dignity of a conscientious artist.”
“He’s off,” muttered Metcalfe; then louder: “I suppose when you were with Booth and Barrett——”
“When I was with Booth, young man,” thundered Dodge, his deep voice rolling impressively, “we looked upon our art as a most serious matter. In those palmy days, sir, an actor held himself above such shameful proceedings as clowning. Mr. Booth would no more have allowed it than——”
“When I was playing the leads with ‘Too Proud to Beg,’” mocked the juvenile man, burlesquing the other, “in the palmy days of the melodrama, we were——”
“Say no more,” interrupted Dodge, lifting a hand. “It is not a thing to jest over. An artistic performance should never be marred by impromptu speeches.”
Metcalfe puckered his lips and started to whistle. Dodge glared at him for a second, then almost turned pale under his make-up.
Metcalfe laughed. “Still superstitious, Dodge? Well, don’t take it too hard. Let’s see; to whistle in a dressing room is a sign that the man nearest the door will be whistled out of the company. Isn’t that it?”
But the character man stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
“I guess he took the hint,” Klein said. “To my mind, he is the one bore in the company.”
The call boy’s voice came echoing through the hall:
“Third act! Third act!”
Klein, who was on near the opening of the act, rose to his feet.
“That’s me! I almost missed my entrance last night. If I get in late this afternoon, Bond will fine me. I’ll talk with you later, Metcalfe.”
He hurried out of the room and down the hall to the stage.
CHAPTER XXI.
ENTER THE GIRL.
The following night, Saturday, while the stage crew were setting the second act, Klein strolled into the property room for a “side prop.”
“Where’s my decanter?” he asked of the property man, Kingston.
The latter motioned toward a shelf. “Up there. I’ve had a new batch of tea put in it.”
Klein took the decanter and started with it toward the door. At the same time he noticed Kingston placing a new photograph in the silver frame used in the coming act.
Aware of the actor’s apparent interest, the property man said, in a disgusted way: “These fool temperamental actors make me sick. Tanner told me I must change the picture in this frame. I told him to go chase himself, but when Metcalfe came along a few minutes later and asked me to do the same thing—well, I thought I’d better give in and not take chances on makin’ trouble.”
“What is the matter with the photograph?” Klein asked casually.
“That’s what I couldn’t get at,” Kingston returned. “The thing ain’t seen by the audience. If it wasn’t for the director stickin’ to what he calls details, I could just as well have stuck in a sheet of cardboard.”
Klein reflected, watching the man insert a new photograph and toss Delmar’s into a drawer.
“Didn’t Tanner or Metcalfe give any reason why they wanted the change made?” he asked presently.
“Nary a one,” Kingston answered. “Oh, I ain’t been around actors for ten years for nothin’. You got to treat ’em like a bunch of kids. If I didn’t change this picture, and one or the other of the fellows went up in the air over it, Bond would lay me out. You see, I ain’t takin’ no chances.”
Klein went on the scene that night still puzzled. The fact that both Tanner and Metcalfe had urged Kingston to remove Delmar’s photograph from the frame suggested to Klein’s mind several possibilities.
In attempting to deceive him, both men had placed themselves in a bad light. It was plain to Klein that the two men had been acquainted with Delmar, in one way or another, and for certain reasons neither of them desired the fact to become known.
Had not Dodge interrupted yesterday, Metcalfe might have cleared up some of the mystery; but later, when Klein broached the subject in a tactful manner—he did not want to give the impression of being too interested—the juvenile man seemed strangely perturbed, and did not appear at all anxious to resume the story.
While Klein was disappointed, he was still far from being discouraged—in fact, he had long ago dismissed the latter word from his vocabulary.
“As Nick Carter would say,” he murmured to himself, as he took his position before the fireplace and waited for the rising of the curtain: “‘The trail is growing warmer every minute.’”
After the fall of the final curtain, a party of young people who had witnessed the performance came back to the stage. Metcalfe, who had been through the second act, guided them around, answering volleys of questions.
To the ordinary person in the audience there is always a certain amount of mystery and glamour connected with the region on the other side of the footlights, and when offered an opportunity to visit this kingdom of canvas and tinsel little time is lost in accepting.
When Klein had finished dressing and was giving a final tug at his cravat, the door of his room was flung open and a bevy of giggling girls, led by Metcalfe, swarmed in.
“Behold Mr. Klein!” cried the juvenile man, making an exaggerated bow. “Our lowly but none the less faithful butler.”
Klein was introduced to all of the party.
“This comes near being a surprise party, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed. “Oh, perhaps, you ladies are making a tour of inspection.”
“Miss Lydecker has come to invite us all to her house,” said Metcalfe enthusiastically.
Klein bowed his personal acknowledgment. Miss Lydecker seemed about the most attractive girl he had ever seen.
On the way out of the theater Klein found himself between Miss Lydecker and her friend, Miss Reed. The latter was considerably the younger of the two girls, and appeared to be at that age when the feminine heart is likely to yearn for the glamour of the footlights.
“I think you made a splendid butler, Mr. Klein,” she said. “Really, I do. I told Helen so when you first came out. Didn’t I, Helen?”
Helen Lydecker nodded.
“Oh, it must be wonderful to be on the stage,” Miss Reed went on, gazing around at the bare walls, her eyes shining. “To think of devoting all the years of your life to such a grand profession! Don’t you just love it, Mr. Klein?”
“I find it interesting,” Klein answered. Swiftly, like a film upon a screen, he recalled the hours he had spent in chilly offices waiting for engagements that never materialized; recalled, too, the nerve-racking rehearsals, once an engagement had been trapped, and the hundred side parts he had learned in a few days, to say nothing of the weary months of one-night stands. All of this he remembered, but still smiled into the girl’s eager face.
Later, when they had reached the stage door and were climbing into several automobiles standing at the curb, Miss Reed leaned close to Klein and whispered:
“I’m just dying to be an actress. Don’t you think you could help me to get on the stage?”
“I’m afraid any assistance I might offer would be of small benefit,” Klein answered. “Getting a start upon the stage depends on the individual.”
In the automobile Klein was separated from Miss Reed—a condition of affairs that brought no regret—and found Helen Lydecker a delightful substitute.
From her he learned that these Saturday-night dances at her home were regular throughout the season, and that the members of the Hudson Stock Company were always honored guests.
“You see,” she hastened to explain, “I discovered there were no rehearsals on Sunday mornings, so that made it possible for you of the company to remain up a little later on Saturday nights. Oh, I have taken a great interest in theatricals. Father, you know, owns the house in which the company is playing.”
“Your friend, Miss Reed, is also interested in the profession, isn’t she?” Klein returned. They both laughed.
“Miss Reed imagines she has had a great sorrow in her life,” Miss Lydecker said. “It was a love affair, of course.”
“And so she turns to the stage for solace, I suppose.”
“That must be it.”
The three big automobiles had deserted the city streets, and were spinning swiftly along the hard dirt road. Suddenly they swerved and began climbing a slope.
“Our home is quite a distance from the town,” Miss Lydecker remarked, as the machines glided between high iron gates and came to a stop before a big white house. “But it makes it all the more enjoyable.”
Klein helped her out of the motor car. The others, laughing and chattering, hurried indoors. Miss Lydecker motioned him to the far end of the long porch.
“Look!” She stretched out a hand. “Isn’t that wonderful? I often sit here for hours.”
Far below, in the soft, white moonlight, spread the great Atlantic. The booming of the surf came faintly to Klein’s ears; the humid tang of salt air crept to his nostrils and misted against his cheeks.
“It is wonderful,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, he added: “This is my first real glimpse of the Atlantic.”
“You’re from inland, then?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. California claims me. I belong to that sect of egotists known as Native Sons. We are not supposed to hear, feel, or see, once we have stepped across our State line. Naturally, under these conditions, I am of the opinion that there is no ocean except the Pacific.”
The girl smiled and tossed her head. “Will you always hold that opinion, Mr. Klein?”
“I don’t know,” he reluctantly confessed. “I—I believe I am already weakening.”
From one end of the porch ran a narrow footbridge, spanning the lower lawn and ending at a high cliff. Miss Lydecker, noticing Klein’s interest in this, hastened to explain.
“Daddy has built a summerhouse on the very edge of that cliff. Would you care to go out? We call it Eagle’s Nest.”
They ventured out, the girl leading the way. Reaching the cliff, the two stood for a minute in silence, gazing down upon the sea. Only a narrow rail, breast-high, was between them and a sheer drop of a hundred feet.
“Don’t lean too far over the rail,” the girl warned him, half jesting. “One of our men fell here a few years ago.” She shuddered. “I wouldn’t come near the Nest for months afterward.”
Suddenly, above the steady throb of the surf, there came the first sounds of a distant orchestra.
“There!” exclaimed Miss Lydecker; “the first dance! And we’re missing it.”
They ran along the footbridge and across the broad porch toward the big door. Just as they were about to enter, Miss Lydecker stopped short, and a cry came from her lips.
“What is the matter?” Klein asked anxiously.
“Right there!” She pointed a finger.
“What?”
“A man! I saw him slipping along—near those bushes!”
Without another word Klein leaped from the porch and gained the high hedge that ran parallel to the pebbled roadway. He searched both sides for a dozen yards, finally giving up the hunt and rejoining the girl.
“It must have been a ghost,” he told her laughingly.
“I certainly saw some one,” she answered nervously. Then her brow cleared. “How foolish of me! Let’s not waste any more time. The first dance will be over before we get on the floor.”
CHAPTER XXII.
A NEW MYSTERY.
After several dances in the big room cleared for that purpose, the guests were invited to an adjoining room, where supper was served by the hostess and her mother. Tanner, Metcalfe, and other members of the stock company were hovering about Miss Lydecker, drinking impromptu toasts, laughing, and exchanging pleasantries.
She finally broke away from them and came over to where Klein was chatting with Miss Reed.
“I was just telling Miss Reed,” Klein said, “how careless the majority of you girls are with your jewels.”
“You don’t suppose for one minute, Mr. Klein, that we would keep them locked up when so many gallant men are about!” Miss Lydecker exclaimed. She fumbled at a big brooch pinned on her bodice. It was a wonderful piece of workmanship, fashioned of diamonds and other precious stones, and cunningly wrought in the shape of a lotus flower.
“Daddy gave me this last week, and told me never to wear it except on state occasions,” Miss Lydecker announced. “It has been in our family several generations, and——”
Metcalfe interrupted at this moment. “Playing favorites so early in the evening, Miss Lydecker?” he asked.
“I’ve just been given a warning,” she said.
“A Black-hand letter?” asked Tanner, who had strolled up.
“Hardly as bad as that. But as usual it fell upon deaf ears.”
Several other men came up at this moment, and the conversation was abruptly shifted. Klein watched as Miss Lydecker walked away, surrounded by a group of admirers.
Perhaps five minutes elapsed. None of the guests had left the room—of this Klein was positive, since he was sitting nearest the door—and the incessant chatter rose and fell like the murmur of surf on a distant shore.
The men were allowed to enjoy cigars, and the room was soon filled with drifting smoke. Tanner, evidently at some one’s request, stepped to the nearest window and opened it.
“There!” he exclaimed. “That’s better.” He drew in a deep breath. “Isn’t the sea air refreshing?”
He sat down on the arm of Klein’s chair. “Do you know it is three o’clock?”
“I’d forgotten about the time,” Klein answered. “I suppose we ought to be home.”
“Dress rehearsal to-morrow night, remember,” Tanner cautioned. “Bond raked me over the coals to-day. I’ve got sixty sides for next week, and I’ve hardly glanced at the script. It is up to me to pound all day to-morrow.”
Miss Lydecker came over and joined them. “The party is breaking up. I’ll have the cars sent around,” she said.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Miss Lydecker,” replied Tanner. “What a hostess you are!”
“You must not forget next Saturday night,” she cautioned both of the men. “We’re going to have a real party. It’s my birthday. Daddy has promised me an orchestra from New York.”
“You could not keep us away,” murmured Tanner.
Klein, who had been watching her closely, suddenly spoke. “I notice, after all, Miss Lydecker, that you have taken heed of my warning.”
“What warning?” she asked, frowning.
“About the brooch. You have put it away.”
The girl’s hand went quickly to her collar, and instantly she paled. “The—the brooch,” she gasped; “it’s—gone.”
“You didn’t take it off yourself?” cried Klein.
“No,” she faltered; “I—I—it’s lost.”
“Good Lord!” broke from Tanner’s lips.
“You haven’t been out of this room since you spoke with me last, have you?” inquired Klein.
She shook her head.
“Then it must be in here—some place!”
Tanner gripped Klein’s arms. “Do you think some one might——”
“We’ll have to find that out,” said Klein. “I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour. Not one of the guests passed out; I’m positive of that.”
Tanner’s eyes narrowed as he caught Klein’s meaning. “I understand. We’ll keep them all here until——”
A few minutes later the whole room was made aware of the discovery. The girls huddled together in a frightened group, while the men gathered around Tanner and Klein.
“I saw the brooch barely fifteen minutes ago,” Klein said, addressing them. “And Miss Lydecker has not been out of this room. The brooch must be in here.”
Under his direction the room was gone over, inch by inch. Nothing was found. After that, at Tanner’s suggestion, each of the men submitted himself to a search. Tanner allowed Klein to search him, and then the process was reversed. Following this, Klein assured himself that none of the other men present had the jewel upon him.
Klein walked over to Miss Lydecker and spoke to her. “Don’t give up so readily, Miss Lydecker. Your brooch cannot be far away. Every man here, I am sure, will make a determined effort to——”
“What—what’ll daddy say?” she moaned. “He told me not to wear it.”
“Cheer up!” exclaimed Klein. “I’ll wager you’ll be wearing it before next Saturday night.”
Miss Lydecker finally calmed herself, and offered a limp hand to the departing guests. The machines drew up at the door, and the girls and their escorts silently took their seats.
“Don’t worry too much,” Klein said, smiling into her white face; “things may brighten to-morrow. Good-by.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE ARDENT SLEUTH.
Irving Hamilton Tod, man of means and colt reporter for the New York Morning News, realized, after his painful interview with the warden at the Newport jail, that for the second time in almost as many days he had been outwitted.
The warden at the jail had never heard of a detective by the name of Jarge. Where, then, had this black-eyed sleuth disappeared to, and what had been his object in lying? Had he taken Klein back to New York?
With a dozen other questions hammering at his brain, Tod walked slowly back to the hotel. Passing the telegraph office recalled to his mind the hopeful message he had sent to Reed, the city editor. It was like salt to an open wound.
“Reed will hand me another laugh,” he muttered dismally. “Fate’s against me, sure.”
He dragged himself through the hotel lobby; then, catching sight of a swinging door and hearing the tinkle of glasses, he determined to do a very unusual thing.
“I’ll take a good, stiff drink before I eat,” he said to himself, with an air of martyrdom.
He pushed his way into the bar and gulped down a high ball. His lagging and depressed spirits seemed started on the upward climb. He encouraged them by repeating his order. Just as he finished tipping up the second glass a hand fell upon his shoulder.
“Hello,” he said, whirling, “who are you?”
A flushed and grinning face was lifted to his own.
“I remember you,” the intruder stated very clearly, blinking his eyes. “Your friends left you at the dock last night, didn’t they?”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Tod, as the truth dawned upon him. “You’re the cabby who——” He stopped, and his heart began to pound swiftly. What luck this was!
“What are you drinking?” he asked, motioning to the alert barkeeper.
When the drinks were before them, Tod resumed his talk. “Where did you take my friends last night, cabby?”
The cabby grinned, tossed off his drink, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“Take ’em? Well, at first they wanted the police station—then they wanted the railroad station. So I took ’em there!”
“To the railroad station?”
“Just that. I’m thinkin’ it was funny—but it ain’t my place to ask questions. Just so long as I gets my fare, what’s the odds!” He paused and bestowed a longing glance upon the bottle in front of him.
“Fill it up again,” Tod said quickly.
“Thanks, I’ll just do that.” The glass was filled and pressed to his lips.
“Did you notice what train my friends took?” Tod inquired.
“They didn’t both take the same train,” was the unexpected answer. “I—I was hangin’ around waitin’ for a fare, so I watched.” The cabby chuckled to himself. “No, sir, they didn’t! One of ’em takes the four o’clock for Fall River and the other gets on the express for Boston.”
“Good Lord!” burst from Tod. Then, after an effort to control his voice, he asked: “Which one took the express for Boston?”
The cabby’s head was rolling unsteadily from side to side. “Which—which one? Now jus’ let me see.” He weighed the question for a moment.
“One of the men wore a badge. You saw it, didn’t you?” broke from the expectant Tod.
“Sure, I saw it,” returned the cabby, wagging a forefinger in the air. “And he—and he was the fellow what took the—the Fall River train.”
“The man with the badge took the Fall River train?”
“Sure.”
“Then the other man went to Boston?”
“Sure.”
This final announcement sent Tod’s heart galloping. His wide, blue eyes, once so clouded, brightened like an April sky after a shower. “Thanks! Have a couple more on me!” he said, tossed a bill on the bar, and darted out through the swinging doors into the lobby.
In another minute he had paid his bill at the desk and was hurrying down the street toward the railroad station. The clerk had informed him that a train left for Boston in five minutes.
“Everything isn’t lost, after all,” he told himself exultantly. “What a fool I was to be discouraged so soon! Klein’s in Boston, and I’ll get him before the week is out!”
And so enthusiastic did he become over the glowing prospects ahead of him, that he completely forgot that he had neither bathed nor shaved nor had his breakfast.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. AMOS JARGE.
Two days previous to the mysterious robbery at the Lydecker home a slim, black-eyed stranger, alighting from the local train at Hudson, inquired of the cabman who drove him up to the business section the location of a certain real-estate firm.
As the result of his visit there the stranger engaged an office in the most prominent business building in the town, and upon the glass door, so that all who passed might read, was lettered:
Amos Jarge.
Private Detective Agency.
On the Monday following the robbery the portly form of Mr. Lydecker might have been seen entering the elevator of the same building. And directly behind him, also entering the elevator, came hurrying another man. Apparently preoccupied, this latter stepped upon Mr. Lydecker’s heels. Instantly he drew back with profuse apologies.
“A thousand pardons, sir! I—I——” He broke off abruptly and held out his hand. “Why, Mr. Lydecker! This is, indeed, a surprise.”
Mr. Lydecker’s brow cleared and he accepted the hand.
“Bless my soul! What are you doing in Hudson, Mr. Jarge?”
Jarge laughed. “I had quite forgotten that you lived in this city,” he declared. “Let me see, the last time we met was——”
“On the Fall River boat,” interrupted Mr. Lydecker. “I can never forget that incident! You returned my daughter’s jewels to me; don’t you remember?”
“Quite so.” Jarge nodded slowly. “Of course, of course! That was during the time of my employment with the Fall River Company. Since you have recalled it, I remember the incident perfectly.”
They had stepped out of the elevator now and were standing in the hall.
“Then you are no longer in the services of the——” Mr. Lydecker began.
“I resigned a month ago,” Jarge interrupted. “I have since started in business for myself. I have opened a chain of offices between Boston and New York.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Mr. Lydecker. “And where——”
“Straight ahead of you, sir.” Jarge waved indifferently toward a door at the end of the hall. “That is my headquarters for Hudson and the surrounding district.”
Mr. Lydecker followed the hand, and read the black letters on the glass door of the office.
“Well, well,” he remarked, “this is pleasing news. I sincerely trust you will find success in your new venture, Mr. Jarge.”
“Thank you. I believe I have made a good beginning.” He paused reflectively, as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away. “And now, if you will pardon me, Mr. Lydecker,” he announced, “I will be hurrying back to my desk. There are so many details to arrange and so much——”
“Certainly, certainly,” broke in the other. “I understand, of course. And—and possibly, later on, I might have a little work for you myself, Mr. Jarge.”
The detective nodded in a disinterested manner. “I shall be pleased to handle it. Good day, sir.”
Jarge swung briskly away, and Mr. Lydecker watched as the door closed behind him. Then he walked down the hall.
“A very smart and intelligent man, this Jarge,” he told himself. “I think I will make no mistake in hiring him.”
The next day Mr. Lydecker called at Jarge’s office, only to be met by a curt and busy stenographer with the announcement that the detective was out on an important case, and would not return before the next day.
On the following afternoon Mr. Lydecker was again unfortunate, and learned from the same busy and curt stenographer that Mr. Jarge was still engaged and was not expected in the office until Friday at the very earliest.
So, on Friday, Mr. Lydecker called up Jarge on the telephone and asked for an appointment.
The detective happened to be in his office at the time.
“I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you, Mr. Lydecker,” he said. “I’m pressed with other business. Wouldn’t some day next week answer just as well?”
“I must see you to-day,” insisted the other. “It is a very important matter.”
“Perhaps one of my assistants can be of service to you,” Jarge went on to say. “I can arrange to have——”
Mr. Lydecker demurred at once. “I must take this up with you personally, Mr. Jarge. I am willing to pay extra for the favor. But it must be arranged before to-morrow.”
“I don’t see just how——” Jarge began, only to be interrupted by:
“Let me see you for five minutes. I can explain my case and you can judge for yourself. You can surely grant me that much time, Mr. Jarge.”
The detective hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Very well, Mr. Lydecker,” he answered reluctantly. “I can allow you five minutes. I will be in the office at eleven o’clock sharp.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Jarge. I shall be there on the hour. If you only knew how——”
But the detective had already hung up his receiver. So the perturbed Mr. Lydecker was forced to do the same.
Promptly at eleven o’clock Mr. Lydecker stepped nervously out of the elevator on the sixth floor of the business block, and, walking to the far end of the hall, entered the office of Mr. Amos Jarge, private detective.
TO BE CONTINUED.