Dared for Los Angeles.
By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 134 of Nick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
CHAPTER XIX.
TWENTY PRECIOUS MINUTES.
It seemed to Nash that an eternity passed before he finally brought himself together, groped for the candles, found and lighted them. By this time Miss Breen had come back to the world again, and when he spoke to her she moved, and afterward drew herself erect, leaning against the damp chamber wall.
Nash comforted her as best he could, but she seemed dazed, and unable to understand. Her first coherent words were:
“What—time—is—it?”
Nash showed her his watch. She bent down to it, holding it between her hands, gazing steadily upon the white dial.
“Twenty-five minutes after seven,” she murmured. Nash nodded. Suddenly she lurched to her feet.
“We—we can’t die—like rats in a hole!” she exclaimed hysterically. “Why don’t you do something? Why do you stand like that? I’ll help you! We’ve only thirty-five minutes left!”
A swift throb of pity surged into Nash’s heart. He fancied that horror and fear had driven the girl out of her right mind. Perhaps it was just as well, he reasoned dully, for when the time came——
He steeled himself against the fear that was slowly mastering him. He must not give up until the last minute of the precious thirty-five.
“I’ll try again,” he said aloud. “I feel—stronger now. Hold those candles higher—higher. There—that’s right!”
Once more he tore at the pitiless barrier of stone that shut them in from the stars. His new strength was not imaginary; he moved huge rocks which, a few minutes before, he could not budge. But the struggle was not for long. A great slab of granite met his fingers, and although he exerted every ounce of his strength—until all the muscles in his tired body seemed to tear themselves asunder—the cold, slippery rock refused to give.
He sank down in the mire of the cleared space, breathing heavily. “It’s useless,” he panted. “Might as well tackle a sheet of armor plate.”
The first of the two candles burned down, and Miss Breen dropped it to the floor. The other one was half gone.
“Careful—of the light,” he said, wondering as he said it why he had thought of such a thing. “I haven’t any more matches.”
The minutes ticked away. The water dripped steadily from the roof, splashing on his hands. Fascinated, he stared at the sickly yellow flame that pulsated atop the remaining candle.
Then, with a quickening of his pulse, he jerked himself erect.
“Do you see how that candle burns?” he burst out, his voice ringing strongly. “It wouldn’t last so long if there wasn’t a lot of air.” He sniffed critically. “And it’s fresh and clean, too! Why didn’t I think of it before?”
A new color sprang to the girl’s cheeks as Nash finished. She seemed to sense a triumphant note in his steady voice.
“Here, Miss Breen!” he exclaimed. “Follow me with that candle! Hurry now!”
He led the way to the distant corner, where the cases of dynamite were stacked. Without a word of explanation, he began to pull them down recklessly. Finally he gave a shout.
“An air vent!” he cried. “I thought so. The boys told me something about this crevice—but I didn’t pay any attention at the time. Come along, Miss Breen! We’ll cheat this explosion yet.”
The hole, or, rather, a crevice, ran up at an angle, and was barely wide enough for the passage of a body. Nash took the candle and forced the girl in before him. They crawled slowly and painfully ahead.
A gust of fresh air struck their faces.
“We’re almost there,” Nash shouted. “Don’t stop! Keep up your nerve! You’re doing splendidly, Miss Breen! We’ll have to make a run for it after we get out!”
Miss Breen, who was well ahead, at last uttered a little cry. She was scrambling out into the soft moonlit world.
“There!” Nash drank deep of the air. “It’s all over but the shouting now. One more pull and——”
Miss Breen was standing free now, amid the scrub oak and aspens that grew thickly about the mouth of the hole. Nash himself, his head and shoulders well out of the crevice, and ready to give the final effort that would serve to lift him beside the girl, suddenly felt a weight crush against his legs. For the moment he struggled desperately; then stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Miss Breen asked, frowning. “Why don’t you hurry?” She steadied herself, and stretched out a hand. “Here, take hold. Maybe I can help some.”
Nash took in a deep breath, and put forth a determined effort, but it was a useless exertion. His legs were wedged firmly.
“I—I’m stuck, somehow,” he said. “Some loose rock is pressing against my legs.”
“Stuck?” Miss Breen cried aloud. “Oh, not now! Not when we’re all but free. Try hard.”
Nash did not need the girl’s encouragement to urge him to a greater endeavor. Savagely he jerked, but the sharp edges of the rock were cutting into his flesh, and the pain caused by this effort brought a smothered groan to his lips.
“Can’t budge,” he said at last, strangely calm now that he realized his helpless position. “Listen to me, Miss Breen,” he commanded, fumbling for his watch. “You’ve got to run like a March hare.” He peered closely at the watch, barely able to distinguish the hands in the moonlight. “You’ve less than half an hour to get away. This whole mountaintop will go up like a skyrocket in twenty minutes. And if you’re within half a mile——”
The girl’s eyes widened with terror; she was instantly aware of the situation. “But you!” she cried. “You can’t—remain here.”
“We can’t waste time arguing,” Nash answered.
“But—but surely I can do something,” she faltered. “Tell me where the men are. I’ll warn them that you are——”
“It is impossible, Miss Breen. They are over a mile from here, and you can only cross the river at one point. A man used to the trails couldn’t cover the distance under an hour.”
“Then—the wires!” she exclaimed. “I can cut them.”
For the instant Nash entertained that hope. Yet, after reflection he knew such a quest was useless.
“We’ve come out of the chamber on the opposite side of the mountain,” he told her. “You could never in the world find your way around to the mouth of the drift. There are no paths.”
Miss Breen continued to gaze upon him with terror-stricken eyes. The pain in Nash’s legs was becoming more and more severe. He fought back the desire to groan, although he knew his lips were trembling and that his face must be very white.
“For God’s sake, Miss Breen,” he said, “go away from here! There is yet a change that I can free myself before—— Anyway, you can do no good. Go straight down the slope, and turn under the high cliffs below the pipe line.”
She sank down beside him, overcome, as Nash fancied, by the horror of it all. He began to fear that she would have no strength left with which to run.
“What—time is it?” she begged. Yet before he could take out his watch her hand crept into his pocket, removing it.
“It’s a quarter to eight,” she announced. She held the watch in her hands, forgetting to return it.
Nash pleaded with her once more. “You must get away! You must! If the worst should happen—yours would be a useless sacrifice. You can do me no good by remaining. Your own life is——”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” she choked, interrupting him. “I—I am not worthy.”
He stared into her partly hidden face. “Miss Breen,” he commanded firmly, “every minute is precious. Pull yourself together. You must be brave.”
“Yes,” she repeated, “I must be brave.” Never had her voice sounded so strangely. “I’ve been—been a coward all these months. Now—now I’m going to be brave. I’m going to tell you the truth. You’ve sacrificed everything for me. I—I should have known before.” She caught at her breath, and forced back a sob. “Mr. Nash, I—I have been living a lie. I am not merely an Eastern girl out here for my health, as you suspected—as I led you to believe. I—I am a spotter employed by the city of Los Angeles.”
The declaration came like a blow in the face to Nash. For the moment he forgot his pain—forgot the situation—forgot that in a few minutes the whole mountaintop would be a living volcano.
“You—a spotter?” he asked, scarcely believing his ears. And then, feeling a throb of pity for the girl, he changed. “Well, what does it matter? There has been no harm done.”
“But there has been harm done,” she stammered, looking at him with bewildered, misted eyes. “There has been harm done! I—I have informed the authorities at Los Angeles, and—and you are to be arrested before the week is out.”
“Informed the authorities!” Nash could only stare at her. “Arrested?” He started to say something, then hesitated. He fancied, suddenly, that he understood. Miss Breen, breaking under the strain, was bereft of her right mind. Her declarations were but the wanderings of a shattered brain.
He sought to humor her. He must get her away from this spot before it was too late.
“There, there, Miss Breen,” he said. “Don’t worry. Everything will come out all right. Only—only you mustn’t stay here another instant. You must run away—now please——”
“Oh, you don’t seem to understand,” she burst out, almost in a frenzy. “You’re not taking what I say to be serious. Can’t you realize the truth? I have told the authorities—the police—and they were to arrest you. It would mean—mean a long term in prison. And—and I would be the cause of it all.”
The girl’s earnest, almost pleading assertion aroused Nash. She appeared to be telling the truth. And yet——
“What did you tell the authorities?” he demanded.
“That—that you were not following the city specifications.”
Her declaration seemed so absurd that, despite the situation, Nash laughed. If he had a moment since entertained one atom of belief in Miss Breen’s statements, this final declaration killed it. Too well he knew he had followed the specifications from the head office; had double-checked them, assured himself that every figure was right. He would be willing to wager his life that his work—the work he was held directly and solely responsible for—was flawless.
Further argument, he felt, would be useless. The moments were far too precious. So, when he at last spoke, it was upon another subject; one that appeared to him to be more vital.
“What time is it, Miss Breen?” he asked calmly.
Her eyes sought the watch, which she still held. “It—it is ten minutes to eight,” she answered.
“Then you’ve yet time,” he pleaded. “Don’t argue. It won’t do any good. Get away—now, while you can.”
She lifted her eyes from the watch. He fancied her cheeks were flaming with color.
“Is—is the button to be pressed promptly at eight?” she questioned.
“Yes. Those were my orders. You must not——”
“But suppose something happened,” she interrupted, “to prevent the explosion?”
“What do you mean?”
“If the explosion doesn’t occur at eight o’clock—isn’t it probable it will not occur at all?”
“Miss Breen!” he half shouted. “Don’t stay here and waste time with such foolish questions. You——”
“If—if the explosion doesn’t come at eight—it won’t come at all. Isn’t that—right?” she burst out.
“For Heaven’s sake, Miss Breen, get away from here. Can’t you understand? Can’t you see how senseless——”
Miss Breen did a totally unexpected thing. She laughed loudly. Then, even as Nash was staring as upon a mad-woman, she stopped, trembled, and instantly had thrown herself face down to the rocks, pillowing her head in her arms, and sobbing wildly, hysterically, like a frightened child.
CHAPTER XX.
AFTERWARD.
To say that Nash was amazed at this mingled display of tears and laughter, would be putting it mildly. He reached out his arm and attempted to grip hers. But she had fallen just a few inches too far away.
“Miss Breen,” he called. “Miss Breen!”
Her sobbing had stopped as abruptly as it had come. And although she did not answer him, there came to his ears another sound, which like the striking of a gong in a fire house, immediately sent his pulses racing like mad.
Some one was shouting. Lifting his head Nash answered back. Then the still night air was rent by a chorus of maddening yells. Nash could not reason it all out for the moment, but turning his eyes, he saw far below him a dozen men climbing up the slope—and at their head he made out the figure of his subforeman—the man who was to have pressed the button that would have torn asunder the mountaintop.
“Hello!” came the leader’s voice. “That you, Nash?”
Nash answered. Almost instantly, it appeared, he was surrounded by the members of the “coyote” gang.
“We thought something was up,” the foreman was saying, “and thank God there was, too! I pressed the button at eight o’clock—and nothing happened. I knew the battery was O. K., so the only thing I could think of was that the wires had been broken.”
“At—at eight o’clock!” exclaimed Nash. “What are you talking about? It isn’t that time yet.”
“What’s the matter with your watch?” The foreman was laughing. “Why, it’s blamed near nine.”
Nash frowned. “Take care of Miss Breen,” he said. “She’s fainted, I guess.”
One of the men handed him his watch. He looked at it. The hands marked eight-forty. Then, in a flash, he understood. Miss Breen had, for some reason or other, lied to him.
“How in the deuce did you get wedged in here?” the foreman interrupted.
“Miss Breen and I were inspecting the rock chamber. The tunnel caved in—must have cut the wires at the same time. Then I discovered the air vent, and we managed to get out—that is, Miss Breen did. Something’s got my legs in a vise.”
Luckily the men were prepared for trouble, and they had brought some tools. So, after fifteen minutes of hard work, Nash was released. His legs were cut and cramped, but otherwise he was uninjured.
As soon as he had restored the circulation to his stiff legs by walking around for a minute or two, he concerned himself with Miss Breen. She was still in a dead faint.
“Plucky girl,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t faint until it was all over. And a spotter, too.” He looked down into her white face. “Wonder why she lied to me about the time?”
An idea did come to him that might have explained this last, and, although he would have liked to believe it, the thing seemed all but impossible.
“We’ve got to get Miss Breen home,” he said, speaking abruptly to the foreman. “Get two of the boys to rig up a stretcher.”
“Where does she live?” inquired the other.
“Elkhorn Ranch.”
“So?” The foreman looked surprised. “That’s where Macmillan stayed. Some folks from there came in about seven o’clock to claim his body.”
Nash frowned. Macmillan living at the same ranch as Miss Breen! Perhaps this explained something definite as to the cause of that certain night’s affair.
Fifteen minutes later Miss Breen came to. She was still very weak, and Nash did not question her, much as he would have liked to do so. Instead, he gave her in charge of two of the boys, who carried her down the slope where the ponies had been left. Here she was lifted to a saddle, and supported on both sides, while the journey toward the Elkhorn Ranch was begun.
Nash, meanwhile, indifferent to the strain he had been under, and to the questions which still puzzled him, immediately issued orders, and the remaining group of men, led by himself and the foreman, tramped over the hill and down the opposite side to where the tunnel mouth yawned.
It took the best part of an hour to remove the débris from the drift, and to repair the broken wire. With this completed, they went down to where the horses were grazing, and were shortly on their way to camp.
“We’ll postpone the fireworks until to-morrow night,” Nash said, in answer to the foreman’s inquiry.
The foreman apparently was realizing what a narrow escape Nash had suffered this night, and the single incident that had prevented the explosion.
“Good Lord!” he muttered, while he and Nash were riding side by side. “Think of what might have happened—had that wire been intact! The more I think of it the weaker I get.”
“You’d never have found a piece of me,” Nash answered. “Nor of Miss Breen, for that matter. What a disappearance!”
“Who is this—Miss Breen?”
“Well,” Nash answered frankly, “as long as you have been doing your work faithfully, I might as well confess. She’s a spotter.”
The foreman swore. “A spotter?”
“Yes. But somehow I never feel afraid. Never have. Oh, I know how the majority of men feel about such things. Spotters represent all that is undesirable to them—and they take the easiest method of ridding themselves of so-called trouble-makers. Seems foolish to me. A man who is doing his work right should not fear inspection.”
“Don’t you?” asked the foreman.
“Why should I? Camp Forty-seven is run on the square. My books are always open. I’m willing that the whole engineering board should come here and make a personal examination.”
The foreman turned and glanced swiftly, curiously, into Nash’s face. “There’s no danger of such a thing happening, is there?”
“It isn’t probable,” Nash answered. “Why?”
The foreman shrugged and laughed. “Oh, nothing. Of course, I’m not worrying—it isn’t my place to do so. You’re the responsible party here, and you’re too clever a man to leave such things as—as footprints or thumb marks about.”
“You are not insinuating that I might——” began Nash.
“Certainly not!” exclaimed the other, interrupting. “But often a spotter—particularly a woman, is likely to get a line on some things that ought to be—well, kept under cover.”
They had reached camp by this time, and when the foreman finished with his declaration, he laughed again, and turned into a dark side street.
“See you later, Mr. Nash,” he called back.
Nash continued alone up the main street of the camp, pondering over the man’s conversation.
“He knows something—or thinks he does, anyway,” Nash muttered to himself. “If I wasn’t absolutely sure of myself——” He stopped, laughing at his own suspicions. “Nonsense. I’ll see that fellow in the morning, and find out just what he’s aiming at.”
CHAPTER XXI.
MORE COMPLICATIONS.
The day following, however, Nash found so much additional work laid out for him that all other matters, especially those of a personal nature, were relegated to the background.
The “coyote” was exploded at eight o’clock that night, and Nash sought his cabin an hour later, dead tired, but with the satisfaction of knowing the carefully planned drift and rock chamber had accomplished the purpose intended. The double explosion had ripped off the mountaintop in the twinkling of an eye. A hundred men in a hundred days could not have duplicated the performance.
The job had been watched with a great deal of interest by the engineers and foremen on the other sections of the aqueduct, and Nash received a dozen telephone calls congratulating him on the success of the undertaking.
He was just back in his quarters, when a knock sounded on his door, and, opening it, he allowed a surprised exclamation to escape him.
“Miss Breen! Come right in.”
The girl obeyed him. She was dressed in her usual riding habit. Her face did not have the usual color and life, and her eyes were far from being alive and sparkling.
“Mr. Nash,” she began hurriedly, ignoring the chair he had pulled out, “I’ve come to warn you. You—you must get away before morning.”
“Get away?” Nash frowned, then laughed. “And why?”
“Are you never going to take me seriously?” she demanded, almost bitterly. “Have you forgotten what I told you—last night on the top of the mountain?”
“I’ve not forgotten,” he answered; “but I half fancied you were out of your head at the time.”
“I told you that the authorities at Los Angeles were coming here—to arrest you. I meant it. They will be here the first thing in the morning. That is why I rode from the ranch to-night. You must not remain here.”
“Miss Breen,” he said quietly, “I cannot run away—I would not run away. What you have said about my not following the city specifications is absurd. I can prove it to you. Let the authorities come. I will welcome any investigation they may make.”
His calm voice seemed to puzzle her. She stood in the center of the room, nervously fingering her heavy gloves.
“I am betraying my trust—in warning you,” she wavered. “Why do you hesitate? You can easily ride into San Fernando, and take the early train up to Frisco. It may mean years of imprisonment if you remain in this camp.”
“Believing me guilty, Miss Breen,” he ventured curiously to ask, “why are you doing this?”
The first color came to her cheeks. “Because—I hate to think—I——”
“Why did you not try to aid me the other night? The night I was about to capture the man who had smashed our water mains? Why did you cry out that my gun was unloaded—and allow him to escape?”
“I—I—— Oh, I did not understand at the time. I had met Mr. Macmillan at the ranch. He told me so many lies—lies about you. I was foolish, and believed them. That is why I was startled when I met you that first day on the trail—the day my horse ran away. He told me there was crooked work going on in the camp—and said you were responsible. So when I saw him that night I felt sorry for him. I called out and allowed him to get away.”
Nash shook his head. “He did not get away—far,” he answered. “I suppose you heard about——”
She nodded. “Yes. They brought his body to the ranch to-night.”
“Macmillan was an old subforeman in this camp when I came here,” Nash explained. “I was put to work under him. We had an argument, and I proved him to be in the wrong. Mr. Hooker, then the foreman of the camp, discharged him, and gave me his position. That explains his hatred of me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have believed a word of his story—had I not discovered the truth myself,” Miss Breen broke out impulsively. “I liked you from the very first. You seemed to be built of different stuff from most men. I couldn’t believe that you would——”
“That I would what, Miss Breen?” demanded Nash.
“That you would cheat your own city—the city you loved so well. Why, I remember that day you pointed out the work to me—and seemed so proud, so enthusiastic over the construction.”
“How have I cheated my city?” His tone was more of a command now, and he felt the hot blood mounting to his face. “How have I cheated my city, Miss Breen?”
“Do you remember the day I examined the steel siphons—the day you were showing me around the camp?”
“Yes.” Nash instantly recalled to mind the interest Miss Breen had shown in the work, and the unusual questions she had asked.
“The steel in those siphons is but seven-eighths of an inch in thickness,” she declared. “The specifications call for one and one-eighth inches.”
“Impossible!” Nash exclaimed. “That I should make such a mistake as that is preposterous. I have my specifications on file.”
He crossed the room, and took down the board upon which he kept the statements pinned. “Here is the last order from headquarters,” he said. “Hooker brought them to me over a month ago.” He ran his finger down the line of quotations. “Here—siphon steel for Soledad Cañon——”
He stopped, frowning; then he peered nearer. Miss Breen had followed him, and was looking over his shoulder.
“It says one-and-one-eighth-inch steel,” she declared.
“But—but something’s wrong. These are not the specifications I was given. They’ve been changed.”
“Changed? How?”
“I don’t know—unless——” Nash suddenly clenched his fingers. These were not the specifications given him by Hooker; he could swear to that. These were not the orders he had pinned to his board a few weeks previous. Who had changed them? And why?
Some one was passing the cabin, whistling. Nash hurried over, and jerked open the door. The man outside was one of the foremen.
“I say, Macklyn,” Nash called, “you’ve been around here all day, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Seen any one around my cabin?”
Macklyn studied for the interval. “Can’t say as I have—that is, nobody but Hooker.”
“Hooker?” Nash repeated sharply.
“Yes. He was around here this afternoon. Saw him go into your cabin—and then come out again in about ten minutes.”
Nash closed the door, and turned to face the girl.
“Those specifications were changed this afternoon,” he announced firmly, grimly. “And Hooker is the man who changed them.”
CHAPTER XXII.
A BOOK OF VERSES.
Miss Breen waited a considerable time before she spoke. Nash was so engrossed with his own thoughts that he did not wonder at it.
“Why would Mr. Hooker change the specifications?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t understand what motive might prompt such a thing,” Nash admitted.
“You are in full authority here, aren’t you?” Miss Breen inquired.
Nash nodded. “Absolutely.”
“And this Mr. Hooker always brought you the orders from Los Angeles?”
“Yes. He was acting as a sort of secretary to Sigsbee.”
“This Mr. Sigsbee is one of the aqueduct board,” Miss Breen said. “He also interested himself in Camp Forty-seven. I was given particular orders to watch the work on this camp. I believe he was suspected of crooked dealing.”
“I know he was,” Nash admitted. “It was being carried on while I was under Hooker. I discovered the payroll padding. When I threatened to disclose matters, Sigsbee asked me to call at his Los Angeles office.”
“What happened there?”
“I was given full charge of the camp.”
“And also the full responsibility,” Miss Breen added suddenly. “If anything went wrong, you would be held to account.”
Nash admitted the truth of her statement.
“Didn’t it appear to you that Mr. Sigsbee’s offer at that time was rather—unusual?”
“Yes. I had expected to be discharged. But Sigsbee seemed to be so anxious for me to accept—so sorry that the crooked work had been unearthed. He declared that from then on Camp Forty-seven was to be the model for all others on the construction right of way. He wanted me to run it on that basis, and promised that he would stand by me to the last.”
Miss Breen listened, her face very grave. Finally she said:
“Did you know that Sigsbee was interested in a steel company?”
“I recall now that he mentioned something of the sort,” Nash answered, a sudden suspicion entering his mind.
“I was in Los Angeles day before yesterday,” Miss Breen said. “It was then I notified the authorities. Yesterday I learned that Sigsbee had left for San Francisco, and intended taking a trip to Honolulu. I wondered at the time—now I have ceased to.”
“What do you mean?” Nash demanded, startled by her tone.
“Just this.” Miss Breen spoke rapidly, and with confidence. Apparently she had a more intimate knowledge of Sigsbee than Nash first imagined. The few remarks Nash had dropped had helped to cement together her story. “Camp Forty-seven has long been under suspicion. Sigsbee must have been alarmed—and the first thing he sought to do was to throw all the blame upon another’s shoulders. You happened into the game at an inopportune moment. He closed your mouth by putting you in charge here. Then, to help matters along, he arranged these false specifications, which you blindly followed. He knew discovery was certain, and planned for it. It has happened. Sigsbee is cleared of all blame. Everything will be shifted upon your shoulders, Mr. Nash. The false specifications are missing—the real ones are here. Sigsbee will swear, and Hooker will undoubtedly back him up, that these correct ones were the only ones sent. They’ve dropped you into a cage, and you have sprung the trap.”
Before she had half finished, Nash understood the situation. It came to him swiftly, brutally. Sigsbee’s fawning and Hooker’s honeyed words had been the strings with which he had been led into the trap.
“You’re right, Miss Breen,” he said finally. “I’m caught—and all but helpless. I have not one thing to prove that I——”
The girl interrupted with a cry. “Oh, why, why didn’t I wait until I knew for sure!” she stammered. “I took everything for granted. I thought you guilty. Oh, you can’t remain here, Mr. Nash. I am to blame for it all. You cannot stay here.”
“But wouldn’t it be an admission of guilt to run away?” he asked. “Of course it would. And I don’t intend to do so.”
“Oh, but what chance have you against Sigsbee and his political influence?” she cried.
“I’ll make a chance,” he answered firmly. “I’m innocent. I’ve tried to do what was right. Things can’t be as black as they look.”
Miss Breen walked up and down the floor for an interval; then she stopped.
“There’s one way out of this affair,” she ventured, “and just one.”
Nash nodded. “You mean—we’ve go to get those false specifications! Isn’t that it?”
“Yes. We’ve got to get them. But that does not mean,” she said, changing her tone, “that you are to stay here. You get away before morning. I will try to find Hooker and the papers. Once I have them I will let you know. Then you can return.”
Nash shook his head gravely. “Impossible!”
“Oh, why do you act so foolish?” she demanded. “It may be months before we can locate those specifications. Meanwhile they will hurry the trial, and you’ll be sentenced.”
“I am innocent. What have I to fear?”
“It is the innocent man who always suffers,” she answered bitterly.
“This isn’t New York, Miss Breen,” Nash replied. “They do things differently out here. I’m not afraid.”
Miss Breen sank helplessly to a chair. “Why do you always prate about the East and the West?” she exclaimed. “A crooked job is a crooked job, whether it is staged in Los Angeles or New York. Sigsbee is a shrewd man, and he has laid a shrewd trap. Yet you’re willing to bow submissively, and——” She stopped suddenly.
During her speech her eyes had been upon the crudely built bookcase. Abruptly she drew nearer, forgetting apparently to continue what she had started. Her arm shot out, and she plucked, from the row of other books, the dainty, leather-bound copy of Kipling’s “Barrack-room Ballads”—the book given to Nash by the tramp in Central Park.
She opened it and rapidly thumbed the pages, stopping at the one across which was written a name.
“Where—where did you get this book?” Miss Breen demanded, her voice sounding husky.
Nash smiled. “Why, that book of poems? A panhandler gave it to me one day in Los Angeles,” he replied. “Said he had found it on a bench.”
“In—in Central Park?”
“Yes.”
Her face was curiously white and drawn now. Nash took a step nearer.
“Why are you so interested?” he asked.
“This book—belonged to my brother,” she wavered. “I gave it to him—it was the last thing I——”
“Your brother?” Nash was dumfounded. Many times since the first discovery of the name written in the little book he had turned to it curiously; pondered over it, wondered how and in what way Walter Trask’s volume had crossed the width of the continent to find a lodging place on a bench in Los Angeles. “Walter Trask—is your brother?” he said slowly.
Miss Breen nodded. Her eyes were clouded with tears.
“But the name—how——” began Nash, puzzled.
“My name is Ethel Trask,” she replied. “Because I was—was in this business. I used the other—Miss Breen. I had meant to tell you before.”
“But your brother, Miss Breen—I mean, Miss Trask,” Nash questioned anxiously. “Was he an engineer on the New York Aqueduct?”
“Yes. He worked there—until his death.”
Nash caught his breath—but so light was the act that the girl did not appear to notice.
“Dead?” he asked. “Walter Trask—dead?”
Miss Trask nodded. Nash stood looking down at her, preparing himself for the final question:
“How did he meet his death?”
“He was killed in a brawl.” Miss Trask spoke slowly, painfully, as if the recollection was a bitter one. “One of the other engineers—shot him.”
TO BE CONTINUED.