ARTHUR B. REEVE (continued 2)

“I wonder where she could have been?” I speculated. “That road up past the station leads to the turnpike to the city. Could she have been there, or just out for a spin?”

Kennedy shook his head. “If we are going to follow that color-scheme about the country we’ll need to get a car that can travel up to the limit.”

“Well,” snorted Burke, “it does beat all how these dancers can sport cars with special bodies and engines that would drown out the hammers of hell; but—I suppose it would cut down the work of us detectives by half if it weren’t so.”

Hastings said nothing. Perhaps he was calculating the cost of the outfit that had just passed, and wondering whether the bill had been paid by his client—or some one else.

The Walcott car had got away and we were now jolting along in our more modest flivver, eager to get back to the scene of our labors and learn what had taken place in our absence.

Back at the Harbor House Burke’s man, Riley, was waiting, sure enough, with a full budget of news as we entered quietly by another than the main entrance and drew him off in a corner.

“What’s happened?” demanded Burke.

“Plenty,” returned Riley, his reticence before us now overcome. “You remember that dark-skinned fellow?” he asked, excitedly.

“An unnecessary question,” returned Burke. “He has not been out of my thoughts since I left. I hope you’ve watched him closely. We saw Paquita. She must have slipped through your fingers. You’ll have to get a car that can keep up with her, Riley, if we are going to handle this affair successfully.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Riley, evidently relieved that his chief had not administered a severer rebuke. “I was about to tell you of how she slips away from us in that car, sir. Well,” he graced on, as though eager to change the subject, “we have not only found out who that spiggoty chap is, but that he has reported to Mrs. Maddox finally, to-day. It seems as though she has paid him for his work of watching her husband, and now that Mr. Maddox is dead has no further use for him.”

“And he has gone away?” asked Craig.

“No,” replied Riley, quickly, “that’s just the point. Even though she has discharged him—at least that is what it looks like—he is sticking around. At first I thought he was watching Paquita—and he is. But twice I have caught him talking to her. It may be that it’s all right. I don’t get it at all. I can’t make out yet whether he is with her or against her.”

“That’s strange,” agreed Burke, turning to Kennedy. “I don’t understand that. Do you? Do you suppose the fellow has been double crossing Irene Maddox all the time? These divorce sleuths are an unprincipled lot, usually.”

Kennedy shook his head non-commitally. “I think it will be worth looking into,” he considered. “Has anything else happened?”

“Plenty,” replied Riley cheerfully. “Since you went away Shelby Maddox has given up living out on the Sybarite, I understand. He is to live at the Harbor House all the time, and has brought his stuff ashore, although he hasn’t been about much. He is another one who has a speedster that can do some traveling.”

“What do you make of that move?” encouraged Hastings.

Riley shrugged. “Sometimes,” he remarked, slowly, “I think he is watching the others. I don’t know yet whether he does it because he suspects something of them, or because he thinks they suspect something of him. Anyhow, he has brought that Jap, Mito, ashore, too. Is he afraid of him? Has Mito something that gives him a leverage on Shelby Maddox? I don’t know. Only, it’s mighty strange.”

“Has Mito done anything suspicious?” asked Kennedy.

“His whole conduct is suspicious,” asserted Riley, positively. “Why was he in town so late last night? Besides, the fellow is well educated—too well educated to be a servant. No, sir, you can’t make me believe that he is here for any good. He’s clever, too. They tell me he can run a motor-boat or a car as well as the best. And he’s quiet. There’s something deep about him. Why, you can see that he knows that he is being watched.”

“But what has he done?” emphasized Kennedy.

“N-nothing. Only, he acts as though he was covering up something. I know the symptoms.”

I tried to analyze our feelings toward Mito. Was it merely that Riley and the rest of us did not understand the subtle Oriental, and that hence we suspected everything we did not understand? There was no denying that Mito’s actions out on the Sybarite, for instance, had been open to question. Yet, as far as I knew, there was nothing on which one could place his finger and accuse the little man, except his alleged presence in town so late the night before.

From the corner in which we were sitting we could see through an open window the porte-cochère beside the hotel at which guests were arriving and departing.

“Look!” pointed out Riley. “There’s Shelby Maddox now.”

His motor had purred up silently around the corner of the road that led about the shore, and as he pulled up before the door the omnipresent Mito appeared from nowhere. Shelby crawled out from under the steering-wheel and turned the car over to Mito to run around to the hotel garage. For a moment he stood talking to the Jap, giving him some parting instructions, when another car tooted its horn and came up to the steps. It was the Walcott car. Evidently they had not come directly from the station, but had taken a little ride along the shore to get the stuffy air of the railroad train out of Johnson Walcott’s lungs.

It was just the opportunity Shelby wanted. He quickly waved to Mito to pull away and turned to the new arrival, opening the rear door before the officious starter could get to it, and handing out Winifred Walcott most attentively—so much so that he forgot all about his own sister and Johnson Walcott.

He and Winifred stood talking, evidently about Shelby’s own departing roadster, for they were looking after Mito as he shot up the road to the garage.

“Do you guess what they are talking about?” queried Kennedy to me. “I would be willing to wager that I can reproduce at least a part of the conversation. As they watched the speedster get away she spoke first, and he nodded his head in the negative as he replied. She spoke again, and he nodded in the affirmative—and smiled.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“Remember Paquita? So does Winifred. First she asked Shelby if his roadster was hard to drive—or something of the sort. He said it was not. Then she asked whether he would show her some of the fine points of driving it—I am sure that Winifred Walcott can drive, for she looks like that sort of a girl. Shelby fairly leaped ahead like his motor does when he feeds it gas. That was easy long-distance eavesdropping.”

“What are they talking about now?” I demanded, rather spoofing him than serious, for Shelby was standing on the steps yet, quite oblivious to everything about him except Winifred.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, “but I can predict that something will happen in thirty seconds. Look up the road.”

I glanced away. Paquita in her speedster was shooting down as though she had a fourth speed. A second, and she had pulled up, leaping lightly to the ground. She nodded gaily to the starter to take her car for her to the garage, and bounded up the steps, not neglecting to display a generous vision of a trim ankle that almost caused the starter to turn the car up the steps instead of wide from the Walcott car.

Deliberately she passed close to Shelby, as though to show him the contrast between the fluffy little girl of the morning and the motor girl of the afternoon. She smiled sweetly at Shelby, not neglecting a quick glance of superciliousness at Winifred, such as only a true actress can give.

At that moment Irene Maddox appeared in the door, to greet Johnson and Mrs. Walcott. Paquita had not seen her, nor if she had would she probably have avoided the dramatic meeting.

For an instant the two women were face to face. Men would have been at each other’s throats in a brutal grip. Paquita was no less brutal. Without turning an eyelash she looked steadily into the face of the woman who had been so grievously wronged, and for all the surprise or emotion she displayed she might have been gazing at a bisque ornament. Irene Maddox, stately in her black suit of mourning, drew herself to her full height and the color in her cheeks deepened as her eyes flashed at the other woman.

Paquita swept on gaily. She was supremely happy. She had gone up-stage and had thrown two bombs.

From our coign of vantage I saw that another was watching. It was our sallow-faced friend, who smiled darkly to himself as he watched, then, a moment later, was gone, observed by none of them.

Paquita had passed. One might have easily paraphrased “Pippa Passes,” and it was not God who was in his heaven, either, nor was all right with the world.

The group at the porte-cochère glanced at one another, and for the moment each was reminded of his own particular hate and rivalry. Shelby was plainly chagrined. He had been getting along famously with Winifred, when a cold shower had been plunged over him. Irene Maddox had received a sharp reminder of her trying position. Frances Walcott was again a Maddox, unsoftened by the tragedy. Winifred listened while Shelby tried to finish what he had been saying, but nothing was the same as before. Only Johnson Walcott seemed able to remain the unconcerned outsider.

All turned into the hotel now, and as they separated and disappeared I wondered whether Paquita had been trailing about and had deliberately framed the little incident. What was the meaning of the continued observation by the man of the sallow face?

Just then one of the boys came through the lobby, where we were sitting in the angle, calling “Mr. Sanchez! Mr. Sanchez!”

From around the angle, where he could not have seen us, appeared the sallow-faced individual who had so disturbed our thoughts. He took the telegram which the boy carried, tore it open, and read it. As he did so his face, lined with anger, happened to turn in our direction and he saw us. Without appearing to notice us, he slowly tore the telegram as well as the envelope and stuffed the pieces into his pocket. Then he turned and coolly sat down again as though nothing had occurred.

“At least we know that one of his names is Sanchez,” commented Kennedy. “I’d like to see that message.”

“You’re not likely to see it now, unless we can pick his pocket,” returned Burke. “Don’t look around. There comes Mito.”

The Japanese padded silently past, unconcerned, casting no look at either our party or Sanchez. But I knew that his beady eyes had already taken us in. I felt that he was watching us. But was it for his own or some one else’s benefit?

I determined that, given an opportunity, I would try to find out two things—what the telegram contained and why Mito had been in town the night before.

It was the dinner hour, and the guests of the Harbor House, either singly or in groups, were stringing into the brilliantly lighted dining-room, where the orchestra had already tuned up. We moved over, nearer the door, as Shelby Maddox, all alone, placed his hat on the rack and entered, allowing the head waiter to seat him.

“Let us go in and observe them,” decided Kennedy. “Hastings, you brought us out here. It will look queer if we all go in together. So I think that you, Burke, and Riley had better sit at another table in another part of the room; then we won’t appear to be all together and we may get more, too.”

Accordingly, Hastings, Kennedy, and I entered, and by a little manœuvering managed to get ourselves placed by a window where we could see pretty much everything that went on.

Winifred Walcott was already there, at a table with her brother, her sister-in-law, and Irene Maddox. They did not seem to be talking much. I wondered what could be the matter. Perhaps it was fancy, but it seemed as if the two older women were not quite so friendly as they had been when I saw them in the automobile in the morning. Johnson Walcott also said little, but appeared to be engrossed in reading the despatches from Westport in the papers. None of them ate as though they enjoyed it, and all seemed preoccupied, especially Winifred, who let dish after dish go untasted. What had she on her mind? Was it solely Paquita?

I looked over at a table on the other side of the room where there was a lone diner, Shelby Maddox. He, too, was preoccupied. He had placed himself so that he could catch the eye of Winifred whenever she chose to cast it his way. But though he was never off guard, she did not choose. Something, too, was seriously affecting his appetite. As far as food was concerned, his presence was a mere formality.

“There’s something strange going on in that family,” I commented at length.

Hastings smiled dryly. “They can’t agree, even on a tragedy,” he returned. “What you have seen so far to-day was merely a lull in the storm. And now, if that is complicated by outsiders—well, we shall need all Mr. Kennedy’s acumen if we are to untangle the snarl.”

Kennedy appeared oblivious to the compliment, which was something for Hastings to pay, for very little in this mundane sphere met the approval of his legal mind. Craig was studying a large mirror at the end of the dining-hall thoughtfully. I turned and placed myself as nearly as possible in the same angle of vision.

“Please, Walter,” he cautioned, “your head is opaque—I mean to the human eye, old man.”

My one glance had been sufficient to whet my curiosity. By means of the mirror he could see around an “L” in the dining-room, and there, at a little table, alone, was seated Paquita. She had chosen the coign of vantage quite apparently because it put her in range of Shelby, without its being apparent to the other guests. But Shelby was busy. He had not even noticed Paquita, in his eagerness to catch the crumb of a glance from Winifred’s table.

Not being able to watch Paquita without interfering with Kennedy, and finding the strained relations of the others rather tiresome, I glanced out on the veranda by the window where our table stood. Some one was pacing quietly up and down. Almost with a feeling of certainty I strained my eyes in the darkness.

“That Sanchez is outside, watching everything,” I called Craig’s attention.

He nodded.

At the other end of the dining-room Burke and Riley were quite as busy as we were, observing how those whom we were watching acted when they were all together.

The Walcott party finished dinner first and soon afterward rose and left the room. Down in the Casino there was dancing every night, but, of course, they did not go there. Instead, they chose a secluded corner of the porch at the Lodge. Though there was no lost cordiality, apparently they did not want to separate. At least they had their conflicting interests in common.

Shelby needed nothing but a finger-bowl in order to finish his dinner, and left hurriedly, much to the astonishment of the waiter.

Burke and Riley had already gone out and had disappeared when we followed shortly.

Prompted by Kennedy, Hastings sauntered around to the end of the porch which the Walcotts and Mrs. Maddox had occupied. Shelby Maddox had already joined them, unable to keep away from Winifred longer.

One could feel the constraint of the party, although to an outsider it might readily have been accounted for by the tragedy. However, we knew by this time that there was something deeper.

Shelby was apparently endeavoring to overcome the impression which the appearance and smile of Paquita had produced, but I could see that Winifred was not yet entirely mollified.

The Maddox party welcomed us—not cordially, but at least not coldly, for it was no part of their character ever to betray their real feelings before one another.

As we drew up chairs I could feel the close scrutiny to which we were being subjected.

“Well?” queried Shelby at length, after we had talked about several inconsequential things, “what have you found out, Hastings?”

He said it in a tone that was meant to imply that he knew that some kind of investigation was on. Was it bravado?

“Oh, several things,” returned Hastings, turning to Kennedy as if to leave the answer to him.

“For one thing,” shot out Kennedy, taking advantage of the opportunity, “we have determined that your brother died from the effects of a poisonous gas—I won’t say yet what it was or how administered.”

The light from a window was shining full on Shelby’s face as Craig said it, and he knew that we were all watching intently the effect it would have.

“Is that so?” he replied, with an interest this time unfeigned. “I suppose you know who did it?”

“I have an idea,” replied Kennedy, “a theory on which I am proceeding. But it is too early to talk about it yet.”

If Shelby had been trying to “pump” us he was getting something to think about, at least. I felt sure that Craig was telling the family this much in the hope that it would spur them to some action, or at least reach ears that would be affected.

It was while Kennedy was talking that I noticed that Winifred showed her first real interest in what was going on about her. She was about to ask a question when the sound of footsteps on the veranda interrupted. If I had wondered what the cause of the coolness between Shelby and Winifred was I had here a partial answer at least.

Again, as though to foment trouble, Paquita crossed the veranda and walked slowly down the steps to the Casino, whence floated the rhythmic strains of the orchestra. Though she did not know it, she produced the result she sought. A few minutes later Winifred excused herself to retire to her room, her question still unasked and unanswered.

Shelby bowed a reluctant good-night, but I could see that inwardly he was furious. And I felt impelled to ask myself, also, why Paquita was so apparently dogging Shelby’s every step. Could it be that the notorious little heart-breaker was actually in love with him—or had she some darker motive?

VIII

THE PULMOTOR

Shelby was plainly angry and disconcerted. For the moment he seemed to hesitate between hurrying after Winifred and striding down the steps toward Paquita, as though to demand an explanation of her haunting appearances and disappearances.

In the moment that elapsed during his indecision he seemed to think a second time and to check both impulses. Better, he evidently considered, to affect to ignore the matter altogether.

Still, he could not conceal his chagrin. Nor was it lost on the others. The Maddox family were watching one another like hawks. Each knew that the other knew something—though not how much.

Winifred’s desertion seemed to throw a damper on the entire group. As for Shelby, life had lost its attraction for him with Winifred Walcott gone. He was about to make some excuse to leave the party, then decided that perhaps he might better stay. If anything was going to be said or to happen, at least he would learn it. Meanwhile I noticed that Johnson Walcott was covertly observing Shelby, who seemed to be aware of the scrutiny of the brother of the girl with whom he was in love. I felt that Shelby would not antagonize Walcott at least.

“Then you are getting closer to the truth of the death of my brother?” inquired Shelby.

“Step by step,” replied Kennedy. “I am trying now to reconstruct what might have been hidden in his private life.”

Irene Maddox gave a quick glance at Kennedy. The others were silent. It was a queer family. There was no word of grief for Marshall Maddox. Each seemed merely to consider what bearing the tragedy might have on his own fortune.

A moment later Walcott excused himself, pleading that he had some letters to write, and passed slowly down the porch in the direction of the office and writing-room. His wife, however, and Irene Maddox showed no disposition to move. None of us said anything about the incident, but I know that I did a lot of wondering why the mere appearance of Paquita seemed to break up the party each time as though a shell had burst. Was there something lying back which neither Kennedy nor myself knew anything about? Was it more than revenge or jealousy?

As for myself, somehow I had become mightily interested in the drama of the little Mexican dancer and Shelby, whatever it might be. How did Sanchez complicate it? Could it be that Burke was right and that he was an international crook? Besides, Mito was on my mind now more than any of the Maddoxes in the group, anyhow.

Accordingly, I leaned over and whispered to Kennedy. “I’d like to follow that girl Paquita and watch her a bit.”

“Very good, Walter,” he whispered back. “See if you can find her. I want to stay here with Hastings and talk to them. Molasses will catch more flies than vinegar. I will stick along until there is an open break.”

Glad of the release he had given me, I made some excuse to the party, and without seeming to do so wandered off from the Lodge toward the Casino in the direction taken by Paquita. As I approached the Casino, which was now ablaze with lights and gaiety, I paused outside in the shadow to survey the long line of snowy white tables on a balcony whose outlook was directly on the dark-blue waters of the bay and out between the two necks of land into the Sound. It seemed a veritable fairy-land.

One after another, I scanned the faces of the parties at the tables in the hope of catching a glimpse of Paquita, but she was at none of them.

As I stood in the shadow of a clump of shrubbery I was suddenly aware that some one had crossed the thick grassy carpet and was standing almost directly behind me. I turned to find Burke.

“I don’t suppose you have seen that Jap, Mito, about?” he asked, modulating his voice.

“No,” I replied. “I just came down here. Kennedy and Hastings are on the porch with the Maddoxes and I thought I might do some investigating on my own account. Why? What has Mito been doing?”

Burke shrugged. “Perhaps nothing—perhaps much. Riley and I have been strolling about the outside, on a chance. Once we found Mito sitting apart, apparently looking out over the harbor, although I am sure that that was not all he was doing. For when he saw Paquita coming down the path, almost before we knew it he had given us the slip in the darkness. I think he had been waiting for her to appear.”

“Where is she?” I asked. “It was really to follow her that I came down here.”

Burke nodded toward the dancing-floor of the Casino. “I suppose she is in there,” he replied. “At least she was a moment ago. I would feel a great deal safer in putting my finger on her than on that Jap. He is eely. Every time I think I have caught him he gets through my grasp. It may be that he is only a faithful servant to his master, although I would like to be convinced of it. All the time that you and Kennedy were up there on the veranda he was watching. I don’t know what Paquita did, but when she walked down he spotted her in a moment—and was gone.”

“That’s just the point,” I hastened. “She didn’t do a thing except pass near us and bestow a sweet smile on Shelby. It’s the second time since we got back from the city. I can’t make out what she is up to, unless it is to separate the lovers.”

“I think I shall try to see Kennedy,” concluded Burke.

“All right,” I agreed as he turned away. “You’ll find him at the Lodge on the porch. I am going to stay here awhile and see what Paquita does. How about Sanchez?” I recollected.

“Nothing at all,” imparted Burke as he left me. “Since dinner he seems to have dropped out of sight entirely.”

Burke having left me, I sauntered into the light, and, being alone, chose a table from which I could see both the dancers and the gay parties at the other little round tables.

Intently my gaze wandered in toward the dancing. The lively strains of a fox-trot were sending the crowded couples ricocheting over the polished floor. It was a brilliant sight—the myriad lights, the swaying couples, the musical rhythm pervading all.

Sure enough, there was Paquita. I could pick her out from among them all, for there was none, even among these seasoned dancers, who could equal the pretty professional.

Dancing with her was a young man whom I did not recognize. Nor did it seem to matter, for even in the encore I found that she had another partner. Without a doubt they were of the group of the younger set to whom Paquita was a fascinating creature. What, if anything, her partners might have to do with the Maddox mystery I was unable to determine, though I inclined to the belief that it was nothing. Sophisticated though they may have thought themselves, they were mere children in the hands of Paquita. She was quite apparently using her very popularity as a mask.

From my table on the terrace over the bay I caught sight of a face, all alone, which amazed me. Johnson Walcott was quite as much interested in Paquita as any of the younger set.

It was too late for me to move. Walcott caught sight of me and soon had planted himself in the chair opposite.

“What do you make of that girl?” he asked, finally, as though frankly confessing the object of his visit to the Casino.

I was on guard. I did not want to admit to any of the family that neither Kennedy nor myself had fathomed her. “I don’t know,” I replied, carefully avoiding the appearance of having come down solely to watch her. “She seems to be quite interested in the Maddox family.”

Walcott laughed as though to indicate to me that he understood that I knew the scandal. Just then Paquita caught sight of us together. I thought she seemed distrait. She rose and a moment later disappeared through the French window.

Inwardly I cursed Walcott for his intrusion at that moment, for under the circumstances I could not abruptly jump up and leave him to follow her. Yet it was just that second in which she was gone.

The dancing seemed to have no attraction for her to-night. Evidently there was something lying back in her strange actions. More than likely she had come down to the Casino for the sole purpose of passing Shelby again when Winifred was present.

As soon as I conveniently could I managed to detach myself from Walcott, but, as I had expected, by the time I got around to the French window through which Paquita had gone she was nowhere about.

What of Sanchez? Where was he? I loitered about for a moment, then slowly mounted the steps that led back to the Lodge, intending to rejoin Kennedy and Hastings.

When I reached the porch again all were gone. Shelby had got away, and the others had either gone to their rooms or to the more lively corridor of the hotel. I looked about, but could see neither Kennedy nor Hastings. They, too, seemed to have disappeared on some mission.

What I would do next I did not know. Suddenly there flashed through my mind the thought of the high-powered car that the policeman had told Burke of seeing near the Maddox Building the night before.

I wondered whether there might not be some clue that I might obtain from the garage back of the Lodge. There must be at least two speedsters there, Paquita’s and Shelby’s. Perhaps there were others. At least I might find out whether either of them had been out the night of the murder. Having nothing better to do, I determined to make a little tour of investigation in that direction myself.

As I made my way to the rear of the hotel I saw that there were indeed two garages, one large one that was most generally used and a smaller one that looked as though it might have been built as an afterthought to accommodate an overflow of cars. The smaller one was near and I determined to examine it first. It was dark, too, as though not being used except over week-ends, when the hotel was crowded.

Almost before I was aware of it it seemed as if I saw a figure flit past a window. Perhaps it was my imagination. At any rate I would not have conscientiously sworn to it, for my attention at the time was directed at the other, lighted, garage.

The impression was enough, however. I quickened my pace until I came to the dark building. Mechanically I tried the door, fully expecting that it would be locked. To my surprise, it was open, and before I realized it I had swung the door and my foot was on the threshold.

“Who’s—”

The words were scarcely out of my lips when a spit of fire in the blackness of the interior replied. For a moment my head seemed in a whirl. Sight and hearing left me.

That is all I remember.

An hour later, vaguely, indistinctly, as though far away, I heard a familiar voice calling me.

It seemed to be far off, and I struggled after it, blindly groping. There seemed to be something over my face, something that covered my eyes. I felt that if I could only get it off I would be all right. But try as I would, I had not the strength.

Still, I was encouraged. The voice seemed nearer, more distinct. Was it Kennedy’s? It sounded strangely like it.

I clawed again at the thing that seemed to keep me from him. To my surprise it came off itself, leaving me blinking in a flood of light.

“Walter—are you all right?” I now heard the voice distinctly.

“Wh-where am I? What happened?” I gasped, feeling still a suffocating sensation in the throat and chest, my mouth parched, dry and irritated, and my nose tingling as though afire.

“Here in the garage,” replied Craig, holding a peculiar rubber face mask in one hand, while Burke stood beside a sort of box about the size of a suit-case from which rubber tubes ran to the mask. “I thought the pulmotor would do the trick.”

“It’s lucky you are that there was a gas company in town that’s up-to-date and has one of the things,” returned Burke, breaking back into a vernacular more natural than that veneered on his honest tongue. “Praise be that he’s all right. A night’s sleep will do him good, don’t you say, Mr. Kennedy?”

“But—but what is it all about?” I choked, striving to get my feet, but finding myself still a bit weak. My eye caught the motors and pumps and tubes in the pulmotor, but that conveyed no idea to me. “Tell me—Craig—who was it?”

“I wish I could, old fellow,” replied Craig, smoothing back my hair. “We were just a bit late for that—heard the shot—dashed in, and found you, of all people. How did you come here?”

Propped up gently by Craig, I told what I could of the story, though there was next to nothing to tell.

“Whoever it was,” I concluded, pressing my aching temples ruefully, “he had just time to get away. You heard a shot? Am I wounded? What’s that pulmotor for?”

“Not wounded,” Craig returned. “But you can be thankful we had that thing and that the gas in this asphyxiating pistol was not chlorine. I don’t know what it was—possibly sabadilla veratrine, some of those things they’re using abroad in asphyxiating bombs.”

“Whoever it was, he was prepared for us here,” called Burke, who, now that I was out of danger, had turned his attention to the garage itself. “He’s removed whatever might be incriminating. It’s all as clean as a whistle here. Some one expected us.”

“I knew that all along,” returned Craig, quietly. “Walter blundered into a trap that was set for me.”

I felt the pressure of his hand on mine. It was worth it all to know that I had at least saved Kennedy something, even if I had accomplished nothing.

“But who could have known that we were going to the garage?” I asked.

Kennedy was silent a moment.

“Some one is spying on us—knows our movements, must know even what we talk about,” he said, slowly.

We looked at one another blankly. It was uncanny. What could we do? Were we in the hands of a power greater than any of us had imagined?

IX

THE TRAILING OF PAQUITA

Rapidly recovering now from the effects of the asphyxiating gun, thanks to the prompt aid of Kennedy, I was soon able to sit up in my improvised bed on the garage floor. As well can be imagined, however, I did not feel like engaging in very strenuous activity. Even the simple investigation of Burke, as he explored the garage, seemed like a wonderful exhibition of energy to me.

“Well, there certainly is no car here now,” he remarked as he surveyed the obvious emptiness of the place.

“Which is not to say that there has not been one here recently,” added Kennedy, who was now dividing his attention between me and the building. “Some one has been here with a car,” he added, pointing to some fresh oil spots on the floor, and bending down beside them. “Jameson’s inhospitable host has evidently taken the pains to remove all traces that might be of any value. See—he has obliterated even the tire tracks by which the car might have been identified.”

“Must have had great respect for your ability,” remarked Burke, also examining the marks that showed how carefully the floor had been gone over to guard against leaving a clue. “Whoever it was was clever enough to keep just a jump ahead of us. Not a single trace was left. I wonder who it could be?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to two theories,” interposed Burke’s Secret Service man, Riley, always fertile with conjectures, “but I can’t say which I prefer. To my way of thinking, either the presence of Mito in the town last night would explain everything, or else this all has something to do with the telegram that we saw the sallow-faced Sanchez receive.”

Either conjecture was plausible enough, on the face of it. Kennedy listened, but said nothing. There seemed to be no reason for remaining longer in the garage.

“How do you feel now, Walter?” asked Craig. “Do you think you could stand being moved to the hotel?”

An oppressive dizziness still affected me, but I knew that I could not continue to lie on the damp floor. With Kennedy’s aid, I struggled to my feet.

Barely able to walk, and leaning heavily on his arm, I managed to make my way from the garage and across the bit of lawn to the side veranda of the Harbor House. Still weak, I was forced to drop into a wicker chair to recover my strength.

“Why, Mr. Jameson, what is the matter?” asked a woman’s voice beside us.

I looked up to see Winifred Walcott. Evidently when she left us she had not gone to her room.

As Craig told her briefly what had happened, she was instantly sympathetic.

“That’s strange,” she murmured. “I felt restless and I was strolling about the paths back of the Lodge. I heard the shot—thought it was an automobile tire or a back-fire. Why, not ten minutes before, I am sure I saw Paquita with Shelby’s valet, Mito.”

Burke whispered to Riley, who nodded and disappeared with alacrity.

I thought of the cordiality I had often observed between Mexicans and Japanese. Was that the case in this instance? Could it be that Paquita knew something about the attack on me? Was Mito the mysterious attacker?

It was scarcely a moment later that Johnson Walcott appeared around the corner, evidently seeking his sister.

Just then Riley returned, dragging the reluctant Mito.

“Where have you been?” bellowed Burke.

The little Jap’s face was impassive.

“I was sitting just outside the servants’ quarters, sir, most of the evening,” he returned, in bland surprise.

“Think a moment,” shouted Burke, advancing close to him and peering into his face. “Who have you been talking to? Tell me, and mind you tell the truth—or it’ll go hard with you.”

“With no one, sir,” asserted Mito, positively.

Burke was by this time red in the face with rage as all that he had ever learned in his third-degree days came to the surface.

“You lie!” he exclaimed. “I saw you with—”

“Well,” demanded a voice, interrupting, “what’s all this? What has Mito been doing?”

It was Shelby Maddox, who had been attracted from the lobby by the loud voices.

“Doing enough,” returned Burke. “Some one’s taken a shot at Mr. Jameson in the garage. Now, look here, you little brown brother. Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been with any one all the evening? Think—think hard.”

Mito protested, but Burke was not satisfied.

“Don’t try to hide it,” he urged. “This lady saw you.”

Shelby gave a quick glance at Winifred. Then he turned to Mito. “Tell him,” he commanded.

“Only Miss Paquita passed me once,” replied the Jap. “She did not say anything. I saw Mr. Jameson, too, before, on the shore by the Casino.”

It was clever, whatever else it might be. No matter what either Paquita or I might say later, Mito had protected himself. He had admitted everything and confessed nothing.

Burke was far from satisfied. He was about to turn to Winifred when her brother interposed.

“Winifred,” interrupted Johnson Walcott in a tone approaching authority, “I think you had better not get mixed up in this affair.”

“Quite right,” agreed Shelby. “I see no reason why Miss Walcott should be annoyed by this cross-examination.”

Winifred looked open defiance at her brother’s interference.

“I can promise you that if I find that Mito has been doing anything he should not, I shall be responsible for him,” smoothed Shelby.

A moment later both Winifred and her brother left. She still resented his brotherly interference.

Burke had not got anywhere with his questioning and Kennedy apparently believed that the time for such a course was not yet ripe.

“I think the best thing we can do is to get Jameson to his room,” he suggested, by way of cutting off an unprofitable examination before any damage was done.

Burke accepted the broad hint. While Shelby and Mito withdrew, Hastings and Craig between them managed to get me up to our room and to bed.

As I lay there, glad enough to be quiet, we held a hasty conference to consider the strange attack that had been made.

“What I don’t understand,” I repeated, “is how any one should know that we ever thought of visiting either that garage or the other.”

Kennedy had been saying very little. As Hastings and I talked he seemed to be thinking over something deeply. Suddenly his face registered the dawn of an idea.

“To-morrow, Hastings,” he exclaimed, “we must go into town. I want to go to your office. As for to-night, there doesn’t seem to be anything more that we can do. Burke and Riley are on guard down-stairs. I think Walter needs a good rest. So do we all. Good night, Mr. Hastings. I will see you to-morrow early.”

A night’s rest fixed me up all right and I was anxiously down in the lobby early next morning.

Fortunately nothing further of any great importance had happened during the night and I felt a sense of satisfaction at not having missed anything. Among us all we had been able to keep a pretty close surveillance on those in Westport whom we suspected might have any information. The day before had brought with it a grist of new mystery instead of clearing up the old, but Kennedy was happy. He was in his element, and the harder it was to crack the nut the more zest he put into the cracking of it.

To my surprise, the morning express found the entire Maddox family, except Irene Maddox, gathered on the platform of the quaint little station.

“What do you suppose has given them this sudden impulse to go in to town?” whispered Kennedy to Hastings.

The lawyer shrugged. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they were getting back into their normal state after the first shock,” he replied, dryly. “I think they are all going to consult their various attorneys—Shelby probably will see Harvey, and Mrs. Walcott and her husband will see Duncan Bruce.”

As we waited for the train I realized why it was that Westport was popular. The little town was not only within fair access to the city, but it was far enough away to be beyond the city’s blight. Going back and forth was so easy that each of the contending parties was able to take it as a matter of course that he should go to New York.

The crowning surprise came, however, just a moment before the express swung around the curve. The cream-colored speedster swung up to the platform, turned, and backed in with the other cars. No one could miss it. The beautiful Paquita jumped airily out, more baffling than ever in her artificiality.

As I watched her my former impression was confirmed that the notoriety which she courted was paradoxically her “cover.” She seemed to seek the limelight. In so doing did she hope to divert attention from what was really going on back-stage? It would have been a bold stroke. I expressed my idea to Kennedy. He smiled, but not with his usual indulgence. Was it his own idea, too?

Nothing occurred during the ride in to town in the chair-car, except that each was still furtively watching the other and all were watching Paquita. Paquita was trying desperately to attract the notice of Shelby. The young man seemed greatly embarrassed. As he sat beside his sister I saw that Frances Walcott was keenly appreciative of the efforts of the little dancer.

Once I excused myself on the pretext that I wanted another morning paper, and walked forward into the smoking-car. It was as I had suspected. Sanchez was there.

“I think we had better split our forces,” planned Kennedy, when I reported to him what I had seen. “Sanchez, I suppose, will trail along after Paquita. In that case, Walter, I shall leave them to you. I want to handle Shelby myself. Meet me at the laboratory and then we can go down to your office, Mr. Hastings. And, by the way, if you will take a hint from me, sir, you will be careful what you do and what you say at your office. I think you’ll understand when I see you there again.”

The astonished look on Hastings’s face was quite worth study. It was as though some one had told him to guard his thoughts. The very possibility that there could be a “leak,” which was evidently the way in which he interpreted Kennedy’s cryptic remark, had never seemed to occur to him, so sure was he about those whom he employed.

Nothing more was said about the matter, however, and as our train rolled through the under-river tube into the station the various groups began to break up as we had expected.

With a parting word from Kennedy I wormed my way through the crowd in the direction of the cab-stand and was already in a cab and half-way up the ramp to the street when, looking back through the little glass window, I saw, as I had expected, Paquita trip gaily up to the same starter and enter another. On the avenue a stop gave me ample time to tip my driver and instruct him to follow the cab that was coming up back of us. Then by settling back from the windows I was able to let Paquita’s cab pass and pick her up again without her knowing that she was being trailed. Without looking back, I knew that Sanchez had tried to follow, but it was not until we had gone several blocks and made a sudden turn into Broadway that I realized, on looking cautiously around, that somehow he had missed out. Perhaps there had not been another cab on the instant. Anyhow, I was not myself followed.

On up-town Paquita’s cab proceeded, until finally it stopped before a building which I knew to be full of theatrical agencies and offices. I could not, of course, follow her into the office into which she went, but I managed to find out that she had gone to the office that had recently been opened by a company that proposed to put on a new feature in the fall known as La Danza Mexicana. It seemed like a perfectly legitimate business trip, yet according to my idea Paquita was merely using her notoriety to attract those whom she might use for her own purposes. What interested me was whether it was purely money or a deeper motive that actuated her.

From the office of her agent she hurried over to Fifth Avenue, and there she made several lengthy stops at fashionable costumers, milliners, and other dealers and designers of chic wearing apparel. In all this there seemed to be nothing to take exception to and I became weary of the pursuit. It was not her legitimate theatrical career that interested me.

However, so it went until the lunch hour arrived. Quite demurely and properly she stopped at a well-known tea-room where tired shoppers refreshed themselves. I swore softly under my breath. I could not well follow her in, for a man is a marked card in a tea-room. To go in was like shouting in her ear that I was watching her.

Therefore, I stayed outside and, instead of lunching, watched the passing crowd of smart shoppers while the clock on the taximeter mounted steadily.

I had fidgeted in my cab for perhaps half an hour when I became aware that mine was not the only cab that was waiting in the neighborhood. In these shadowing jobs one has to keep his eyes glued on the door through which the “subject” must exit, for it is unbelievable how easily a person, even when not aware of being watched, may slip out into a crowd and disappear. Consequently I had not paid much attention to my surroundings.

But once when I leaned forward to speak to my driver, who by this time was fully convinced that I was crazy, I happened to glance across the street. At the window of another cab I saw a familiar face. Sanchez had lost Paquita at the station, but by some process of reason had picked her up again at the tea-room. I was determined more than ever now to hang on to both of them.

Luncheon over, Paquita finally emerged, still alone. What business she may have transacted over the telephone during her various stops I do not know. What I wanted was for her to feel perfectly free, in the hope that she might do something. Yet she had not given me the satisfaction of meeting a single person whom she should not have met.

Again her cab started on its round, but this time it rolled back into the theater district.

My driver almost jolted me from the seat as he stopped once. I looked ahead. Paquita’s cab had pulled up before the office of a well-known music publisher and she was getting out.

To my surprise, however, instead of entering she deliberately turned and walked back in the direction of my cab. I sank farther back into its shallow recesses, trusting that she would not glance my way.

A dainty creation of headgear intruded itself through the open window of my cab.

“You have been following me all day, Mr. Jameson,” purred Paquita in her sweetest tone, as her baffling brown eyes searched my face and enjoyed the discomfiture I could not hide. “I know it—have known it all the time. There’s another cab, too, back of you. I’ve been going about my own business—haven’t I?—making arrangements for my new show this fall. You haven’t anything—except a bill, have you? Neither has the man in the other cab. Now I’m going to go right on. You are welcome to follow.”

Before I could reply she had swept disdainfully back and had entered the building. Chagrined though I was at the way she had led the chase, I determined to stick to her, nevertheless.

In the publishing house she remained an uncommonly long time, but when at last she came out I saw that she gave a little petulant glance first to see whether I was still there.

Her cab shot away, but my man was alert and we trailed along down the avenue. Twice, now, I saw her looking back at me. That, at least, was some encouragement. Perhaps vexation might impel her to do something.

As we came to a tangle of cars crossing Longacre Square, Paquita leaned forward through the front window of her taxicab and deliberately turned the wheel that the driver was steering. The unexpected interference caused him to stop suddenly.

As my driver pulled up, there came a crash and a smashing of glass behind me. His pulling up had fortunately thrown me forward. The car in which Sanchez was riding had crashed into mine, and only my being thrown forward prevented me from receiving the shattered glass.

Instantly the traffic policeman was beside us and a crowd began to collect. Before I knew it Paquita in her taxi was off and there was no possibility of following.

Where she was going I could not now find out. Perhaps there was, as Burke suspected, a gang, and she had all day been seeking to get to their rendezvous. As I watched the officer and the crowd blankly, I had but one satisfaction. At least Sanchez could not follow, either.

Quickly I gave the policeman my name as a witness, glanced at the “clock,” and paid my taxicab bill. Sanchez saw what I did and that it was no use for him to try to get away. He paid his own bill and deliberately turned away, on foot, and walked down Seventh Avenue.

A few feet behind I followed.

He paid no attention to me, but kept on down-town, until at last I realized that we had come to the neighborhood of the railroad terminal.

At the station he turned, and I knew that he had decided to take the early train back to Westport. Still following, I went through all the motions of having also decided to take the train myself. I let Sanchez go through the gate, then at the last moment retreated and walked over to the telegraph office as the gate banged shut.

I would not have missed the appointment with Kennedy and Hastings for anything, and the train, except for one stop, was an express to Westport. A wire to Riley out there would prevent Sanchez from getting away from sight, even if he should decide to get off at the only other stop.

What the little dancer was up to was just as mysterious as ever.

X

THE DETECTAPHONE DETECTOR

Kennedy was waiting impatiently for me at the laboratory and enjoyed a quiet laugh at my expense when I told him of my fiasco in untangling the secret of Paquita.

“Is there any news?” I asked, hastily endeavoring to change the subject.

“Yes,” he replied, glancing at his watch. “Irene Maddox and Winifred have come in to town on a later train. As nearly as I can make out they’ve joined forces. They have a common hatred of Paquita, whatever else they may lack.”

“How do you know they are here?” I queried.

“They have called me up and made an appointment to meet me at the laboratory. They ought to be here any minute, now. I’m glad you came. I shouldn’t like to meet them alone. I’d rather have some one as a witness. It’s strange that they should be seeking to have me work for them,” considered Kennedy.

“What do you mean,” I asked. “Hastings sought you out first. It may be quite natural that Irene Maddox should consult the detective retained by her former husband’s lawyer in such a case. Have any of the others been after you?”

“Yes,” he replied, thoughtfully. “After I left you this morning I had a most peculiar experience. Shelby Maddox is either the most artless or else the most artful of all of them.”

“How is that?” I inquired.

“Just as I said,” repeated Kennedy. “Shelby hurried into one of those slot-machine telephone booths in the station and I slipped into the next one. Instead of calling up, I put my ear to the wall and listened. There wasn’t anything much to what he said. It was merely a call to his lawyer, Harvey, telling him that he was on his way down-town. The strange thing came afterward. By that time the station was cleared of those who had come on the train. Shelby happened to glance into the other booth as he left his own and saw me in the act of making a fake telephone call. Instead of going away, he waited. When I came out, he looked about quickly to see if we were alone, then took my arm and hurried me into another part of the station. I didn’t know what was coming, but I was hardly prepared for what he said.”

“And that was?” I asked, eagerly.

“That I work for him, too, in the case,” exclaimed Kennedy, to my utter surprise.

“Work for him?” I repeated. “Was it a stall?”

Kennedy shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not prepared to say. It was either clever or simple. He even asked me to go down-town with him and see Harvey.”

“And you went?”

“Certainly. But I can’t say I learned anything new. I haven’t quite decided whether it was because they knew too much or too little.”

“Are you going to do it? What did you tell him?”

“I told him quite frankly that as long as I had come into the case as I was—without mentioning any names or facts—the best I could do was to see that he got a square deal.”

“Did that satisfy him?”

“Not much. But it was all that I would say. At least it gave me a chance to study him at close range.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Shelby Maddox is nobody’s fool,” replied Kennedy, slowly. “I may not know his story yet, but I have begun to get his number.”

“How about Harvey?”

“A very clever lawyer. Shelby will keep out of a great deal of trouble if he takes Harvey’s advice.”

The sound of footsteps down the hall outside interrupted us, and an instant later the laboratory door opened. Irene Maddox entered first and for a moment Winifred stood in the doorway, rather timidly, as though not yet quite convinced that she was right in coming to Kennedy.

Kennedy advanced to greet them, but still Winifred did not seem to be thoroughly reassured that the visit was just the proper thing. She looked about curiously at the instruments and exhibits which Kennedy had collected in his long warfare of science against crime, and it was evident that she would a great deal rather have had this a social visit than one in connection with the case. I guessed that it was Irene Maddox who had urged her on.

“I—we’ve come to see you about that woman, Paquita,” began Mrs. Maddox, almost before she had settled herself in one of our easy-chairs, which Craig had installed to promote confidences on the part of his clients.

Mrs. Maddox’s voice was trembling slightly with emotion and Winifred’s quick glance at Kennedy indicated that Paquita had furnished the leverage by which Mrs. Maddox had persuaded Winifred to accompany her.

“Yes,” encouraged Kennedy, “we have been watching the young lady—and others—with some interest. Do you know anything about her that you think we ought to know?”

“Know anything?” repeated Mrs. Maddox, bitterly. “I ought to know that woman.”

Her feelings were easily understood, although as far as I could see that did us very little good in getting at the real mystery that surrounded the little dancer.

“You must have noticed,” went on Mrs. Maddox, nervously, “how she is hanging around out there. For weeks and months I have been watching that woman. Sometimes I think they are all in league against me—the lawyers, the detectives, everybody.”

Kennedy was about to say something, then checked himself. How could we know but that this was merely an attempt to find out just how much it was we knew? I longed to ask about Sanchez, yet felt that it would be better not to disclose how much—or rather how little—we actually had discovered.

“Why,” she continued, “it even seems as if her hostility was leveled against Winifred, too.”

Winifred said nothing, though it was evident that she was consumed with curiosity to find out what hold, if any, Paquita had on Shelby.

“Then you really do not know who or what Paquita is?” asked Kennedy, directly.

“I know that she is an adventuress,” asserted Mrs. Maddox. “Mr. Hastings has always professed to know nothing of her. At least so he has said. Even when I have watched her I must admit I have found out only what she was doing at that time. But my intuition tells me that there is something more. Oh, Professor Kennedy, is there no such thing as justice in this world? Must that woman continue to flaunt herself brazenly before me? Cannot you do something?”

“You may depend on it,” assured Kennedy. “I shall make my investigation—arrive at the truth. Even my own client cannot prevent me from doing that. And if I find that an injustice is being done, you may be sure that I will do my best to set it straight. More than that I could not say even to Shelby Maddox this morning when he asked me to take up the case for him.”

Both women glanced quickly at Kennedy. The mention of Shelby’s name came, quite apparently, as a surprise to them. Winifred seemed rather more reticent now than ever before. It was evident that Irene Maddox had not succeeded in what she had intended. Yet she did not betray her disappointment.

“Thank you,” she said, rising. “Then I may expect you to help me—I mean us?”

“In every way in my power,” promised Kennedy, accompanying them to the door.

Kennedy looked after them as the door closed. “I wonder what that visit was for,” he considered as their footsteps died away.

Having no answer for the query, I attempted none.

“What has Burke been doing?” I inquired, suddenly recollecting the Secret Service man. “Have you heard anything from him to-day since we came to the city?”

“Yes,” he replied, opening a cabinet. “Burke has undertaken some work along another line in tracing out the telautomaton robbery and what may have become of that model. I haven’t heard from him and I don’t imagine that anything will develop right away in that direction.”

“What is that?” I inquired, watching Craig as he took from one cabinet an apparatus which appeared to consist of two coils, or rather sets of wires, placed on the ends of a magnet bar. He began to adjust the thing, and I saw from the care with which he was working that it must be an instrument of some delicacy.

“Just an instrument that may enable me to discover how that attack was made on you last night,” Kennedy answered, perfunctorily, forgetting even my question as he worked over the thing.

For several minutes I watched him, wondering at the strange turn of events that had sent both Shelby and Winifred secretly to Kennedy.

“By the way,” exclaimed Craig, suddenly looking at his watch, “if we are to meet Hastings and accomplish anything we had better be on our way down there.”

In the Subway Kennedy relapsed into a brown study of the events of the day, only breaking away from his reverie as, above the rattle and bang of the train, he tapped the package he was carrying.

“I was just thinking of that garage incident of yours last night,” he remarked. “What struck you as being peculiar about it?”

“The whole thing,” I replied, smiling weakly. “I leaned into trouble—and got it.”

“Just so,” he returned. “Well, do you realize that the only mention we made of the garage was when we were talking in Hastings’s office? Think it over.”

He relapsed again into his study and nothing more was said until we arrived at Wall Street.

Hastings was waiting for us, nervously pacing the floor. Evidently the warning Kennedy had given had impressed him. He had been so afraid of even his own shadow that he had scarcely transacted any business at all that day.

“Kennedy, I’m glad to see you,” he greeted. “What has happened to-day? What’s that?”

“Nothing much,” returned Craig, vaguely, although his face was not at all vague, for he had placed his finger on his lips and was most vigorously pantomiming caution.

Carefully he unwrapped the paper about the coils I had seen. Then he set the instrument on Hastings’s desk, unscrewed an electric-light bulb from its socket and attached a wire to the socket. After a final careful adjustment he placed something to his ear and began walking quietly about the room, a tense, abstracted, far-away look on his face, as now and then he paused and listened, holding the free end of the apparatus near the wall, or a piece of furniture, wherever he chanced to be.

What he was looking for neither of us could guess, but his caution had been emphatic enough to halt any question we might have.

Over and over he passed the free end of the apparatus along wall and floor. At each stop he seemed to be considering something carefully, then with a negative nod to himself went on.

This had been going on for some fifteen minutes, when he stopped in the corner back of a coat-tree. He looked about as he pulled the thing from his ear, saw a heavy pair of shears on Hastings’s desk, and seized them.

Deliberately he dug into the plaster of the wall, while Hastings and I bent over anxiously.

He had not gone half an inch before he began to scrape very carefully, as though he were afraid of hurting something alive.

I looked. There, in the wall, back of the plaster, hung a little telltale black disk. I recognized it the instant I saw it and turned quickly, just in time to prevent a question from Hastings.

Some one had been using the detectaphone against us!

Though not a word was said, I realized vaguely what Kennedy later explained. He had suspected it and had made use of a method of finding pipes and metals electrically, when concealed in walls under plaster and paper.

It was a special application of the well-known induction balance principle. One set of coils on the magnet bar received an alternating or vibrating current. The other was connected with a little sensitive telephone. Craig had first established a balance so that there was no sound in the telephone. When the device came near metal piping the balance was destroyed and a sound was heard in the telephone. He had located all the water, steam, and other pipes, the wires from the telephone, the messenger-call box, and other things. There still remained one other pair of wires unaccounted for. The balance had located their existence and exact position. Clever though the installation of the little mechanical eavesdropper had been as an aid to crime, Craig’s detectaphone detector had uncovered it!

Impulsively I seized at the devilish little black disk that had forewarned some one and had nearly cost me my life. I started to yank at it. The wires yielded their slack, but before I could give them a final pull Kennedy grasped my hand.

Without a word he wrote on a pad on the desk:

“Leave it there. They don’t know we’ve found it. We can use it against them!”

XI

THE FRAME-UP

Hastily Craig wrote on the paper, while Hastings and I read in silence:

“We’ll lay a trap by a fake conversation about the garage.”

Neither of us spoke a word, waiting for our cue from him.

“Well,” he said, in a rather loud tone, as though he had just come into the office, “one thing that we must do is to find out whether there was a car that came into the city from Westport that night—and perhaps went back there. There’s a clue in that garage, Walter. Some one is making that a headquarters. But we can’t do anything to-night—not after your experience. No, we’ll have to wait until daylight to-morrow and then we’ll make a thorough search.”

“You won’t get me there again alone at night,” I put in, and my tone was rather convincing after my experience.

“I’m sure there’s something there, all right,” added Hastings, following the lead, although he seemed to have only the most indefinite notion of where it took him.

“Indeed there is,” agreed Kennedy, quickly.

“Personally, I think that Mito knows more than he should about the whole business,” I added. “The Jap is a mystery to me.”

“And Sanchez, too,” put in Hastings, evidently thinking of how he seemed always to be crossing our path.

“Yes, that’s the place to look into, all right,” concluded Craig, beckoning us to leave the room and the conversation.

“If that doesn’t sink into somebody’s mind,” he chuckled, when we were outside, “I shall be surprised. We must get back to Westport before it is too late.”

“Why didn’t you follow the wire down and find out where it ended?” I asked, as we left Hastings’s office. “You might have—”

“Surprised a stenographer at the other end taking notes,” he interrupted. “We can do that any time. What I wanted was to plant something that would make the real criminal act and throw him off his guard. We’ll have to stop again at the laboratory. There’s something there I must take out with me. That will give us just time to catch the late afternoon express if we hurry.”

While Hastings and I waited outside Kennedy went in and soon returned with the instrument he sought. Even yet, Hastings could not resist the impulse to gaze about nervously, recalling the shot that had been fired at him on the occasion of his first visit. Nothing happened this time, however, and we made the train by a matter of seconds.

Frances Maddox and her husband were the only persons on the express whom we knew. The others seemed to have returned already. I saw that we would have to rely on Riley and the Secret Service men to get anything that might have happened in the meanwhile. Once or twice I caught the eye of Mrs. Walcott furtively gazing in Kennedy’s direction, and I fancied she was a trifle nervous. Walcott himself read a magazine stolidly, as though declining to get excited, and I wondered, from his manner, whether the affair and the constant feud in the family into which he had married might not be getting on his nerves. They did not talk much, nor did we, and it was with a sense of relief that we all arrived finally at Westport.

“Well,” I remarked, aside to Kennedy, as we three piled into the little “flivver” that did public hack duty at the station, “I wonder what we shall run into now.”

“Things ought to develop fast, I should say,” he returned. “I think we’ve laid a good foundation.”

Without even looking about or inquiring for Burke or Riley, Kennedy rather ostentatiously went directly to the hotel office on our arrival at the Harbor House.

“Our rooms are at the north side of the hotel,” he began. “I wonder if there are any vacant on the bay side?”

The clerk turned to look at his list and I took the opportunity to pluck at Kennedy’s sleeve.

“Why don’t you get rooms in the rear?” I whispered. “That’s the side on which the garage is.”

Kennedy nodded hastily to me to be silent and a moment later the clerk turned.

“I can fix you up on the bay side,” he reported, indicating a suite on a printed floor-plan.

“Very fine,” agreed Craig. “If you will send a porter I will have our baggage transferred immediately.”

As we left the desk Kennedy whispered his explanation. “Don’t you understand? We’ll be observed. Everything we do is watched, I am convinced. Just think it over. Selecting a room like this will disarm suspicion.”

In the lobby of the hotel Riley was waiting for us anxiously.

“Where’s Mr. Burke?” asked Kennedy. “Hasn’t he returned?”

“No, sir. And not a word from him yet. I don’t know where he can be. But we are handling the case at this end very well alone. I got your wire,” he nodded to me. “We haven’t missed Sanchez since he got back.”

“Then he didn’t make any attempt to get away,” I remarked, gratified that I had lost nothing by not following him on the earlier train. “Is Paquita back?”

“Yes; she came on the train just before yours.”

“What has she done—anything?”

Riley shook his head in perplexity.

“If it didn’t sound ridiculous,” he replied, slowly, “I would say that that fellow Sanchez was on the trail of Paquita more than we are.”

“How’s that?”

“Why, he follows her about like a dog. While we’re watching her he seems to be watching us.”

“Perhaps he’s part of her gang—her bodyguard, if there is such a thing as a gang,” I remarked.

“Well, he acts very strangely,” returned Riley, doubtfully. “I’m not the only one who has noticed it.”

“Who else has?” demanded Kennedy, quickly.

“Mrs. Maddox, for one. She went up to the city later—oh, you know? Miss Walcott went with her. You know that, too? They returned on the train with Paquita.”

“What has Mrs. Maddox done since she came back?” inquired Craig.

“It wasn’t half an hour before they returned that Paquita came down-stairs,” replied the Secret Service man. “As usual Sanchez was waiting, in the background, of course. As luck would have it, just as she passed out of the door Mrs. Maddox happened along. She saw Sanchez following Paquita—you remember she had already paid him off for the shadowing he had done for her. I don’t know what it was, but she went right up to him. Oh, she was some mad!”

“What was it all about?” asked Craig, interested.

“I didn’t hear it all. But I did hear her accuse him of being in with Paquita even at the time he was supposed to be shadowing her for Mrs. Maddox. He didn’t answer directly. ‘Did I ever make a false report about her?’ he asked Mrs. Maddox. She fairly sputtered, but she didn’t say that he had. ‘You’re working for her—you’re working for somebody. You’re all against me!’ she cried. Sanchez never turned a hair. Either he’s a fool or else he’s perfectly sure of his ground, as far as that end of it went.”

“I suppose he might have double-crossed her and still made honest reports to her,” considered Kennedy; “that is, if he made the same reports to some one else who was interested, I mean.”

Riley nodded, though it was evident the remark conveyed no more idea to him than it did to me.

“Shelby Maddox has returned, too,” added Riley. “I found out that he sent that Jap, Mito, with a note to Paquita. I don’t know what it was, but I have a man out trying to get a line on it.”

“Mito,” repeated Kennedy, as though the Japanese suggested merely by his name a theory on which his mind was working.

There seemed to be nothing that could be done just now but to wait, and we decided to take the opportunity to get a late dinner. Winifred Walcott and Mrs. Maddox had already dined, but Frances Walcott and her husband were at their table. They seemed to be hurrying to finish and we did the same—not because they did, but because we had work to do.

Dinner over, Hastings excused himself from us, saying that he had some letters to write, and Kennedy made no objection. I think he was rather pleased than otherwise to have the opportunity to get away.

Outside we met Riley again, this time with one of his operatives.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Kennedy.

“Matter enough,” returned Riley, much exercised. “You know I told you that Shelby had come ashore from the Sybarite with Mito? Well, we’ve been following them both pretty closely. I think I told you of his sending a note to Paquita. Both Shelby and Mito have been acting suspiciously. I had this man detailed to watch Shelby. That confounded Jap is always in the way, though. Tell Mr. Kennedy what happened,” he directed.

The operative rubbed his back ruefully. “I was following Mr. Maddox down to the beach,” he began. “It was rather dark and I tried to keep in the shadow. Mr. Maddox never would have known that he was being followed. All of a sudden, from behind, comes that Jap. Before I knew it he had me—like this.”

The man illustrated his remark by lunging forward at Kennedy and seizing both his hands. He stuck his crooked knee upward and started to fall back, just catching himself before he quite lost his balance.

“Over he went backwards, like a tumbler,” went on the man, “threw me clean over his head. If it had been on a stone walk or there had been a wall there, it would have broken my head.”

“Jiu-jitsu!” exclaimed Kennedy.

“I wonder why Mito was so anxious to cover his master?” considered Riley. “He must have had some reason—either of his own or orders from Maddox. Anyhow, they both of them managed to get away, clean.”

Riley looked from Craig to me in chagrin.

“Quite possibly orders,” put in the man, “although it’s not beyond him even to be double-crossing Mr. Maddox, at that.”

“Well, try to pick them up again,” directed Kennedy, turning to me. “I’ve some rather important business just now. If Mr. Burke comes back, let me know at once.”

“You bet I’ll try to pick them up again,” promised the Secret Service man, viciously, as we left him and went to our room.

There Craig quickly unwrapped one of the two packages which he had brought from the laboratory while I watched him curiously but did not interrupt him, since he seemed to be in a great hurry.

As I watched Kennedy placed on a table what looked like a miniature telephone receiver.

Next he opened the window and looked out to make sure that there was no one below. Satisfied, he returned to the table again and took up a pair of wires which he attached to some small dry cells from the package.

Then he took the free ends of the wires and carefully let them fall out of the window until they reached down to the ground. Leaning far out, he so disposed the wires under the window that they fell to one side of the windows of the rooms below us and would not be noticed running up the side wall of the hotel, at least not in the twilight. Then he took the other package from the table and was ready to return down-stairs.

We had scarcely reached the lobby again when we ran into Hastings, alone and apparently searching for us.

“Is there anything new?” inquired Kennedy, eagerly.

Hastings seemed to be in doubt. “None of the Maddox family are about,” he began. “I thought it might be strange and was looking for you. Where do you suppose they all can be? I haven’t seen either Paquita or Sanchez. But I just saw Winifred, alone.”

“What was she doing? Where is she?” demanded Kennedy.

Hastings shook his head. “I don’t know. I was really looking for Shelby. I think she was going toward the Casino. Have you heard anything?”

“Not a thing,” returned Kennedy, brusquely. “You will pardon me, I have a very important matter in hand just now. I’ll let you know the moment I hear anything.”

Kennedy hurried from the Lodge toward the Casino, leaving Hastings standing in the hotel, amazed.

“Nothing new!” he almost snorted as he suddenly paused where he could see the Casino. “Yet Hastings sees Winifred going out in a hurry, evidently bent on something. If he was so confounded eager to find Shelby, why didn’t it occur to him to stick about and follow Winifred?”

It was quite dark by this time and almost impossible to see any one in the shadows unless very close. Kennedy and I took a few turns about the Casino and along some of the gravel paths, but could find no trace of any of those whom we were watching.

“I oughtn’t to let anything interfere with this ‘plant’ I am laying,” he fretted. “Riley and the rest ought to be able to cover the case for a time. Anyhow, I must take a chance.”

He turned and for several minutes we waited, as if to make perfectly sure that we were not being watched or followed.

Finally he worked his way by a round-about path from the Casino, turned away from the Lodge into another path, and at last we found ourselves emerging from a little hedge of dwarf poplars just back of the little garage, which had evidently been his objective point.

Mindful of my own experience there, I looked about in some trepidation. I had no intention of running again into the same trap that had nearly finished me before. Nor had Kennedy.

Cautiously, in the darkness, he entered. This time it was deserted. No asphyxiating gun greeted us. He looked about, then went to work immediately.

Back of the tool-box in a far corner he bent down and unwrapped the other package which he had been carrying. As nearly as I could make it out in the darkness, there were two rods that looked as though they might be electric-light carbons, fixed horizontally in a wooden support, with a spindle-shaped bit of carbon between the two ends of the rods, the points of the spindles resting in hollows in the two rods. To binding screws on the free ends of the carbon rods he attached wires, and led them out through a window, just above.

“We don’t want to stay here a minute longer than necessary,” he said, rising hurriedly. “Come—I must take up those wires outside and carry them around the wing of the Harbor House, where our room is.”

Without a word we went out. A keen glance about revealed no one looking, and, trusting that we were right, Kennedy picked up the wires and we dove back into the shadow of the grove from which we came.

Carefully as he could, so that no one would trip on them and rip them out, Kennedy laid the wires along the ground, made the connection with those he had dropped from the window, and then, retracing our steps, managed to come into the hotel from the opposite side from the garage and the other wing from our room.

“Just had a wire from Mr. Burke,” announced Riley, who had been looking all over for us, a fact that gave Craig some satisfaction, for it showed that we had covered ourselves pretty well. “He’s coming up from the city and I imagine he has dug up something pretty good. That’s not what I wanted to tell you, though. You remember I said Shelby Maddox had sent Mito with a note to Paquita?”

Kennedy nodded. No encouragement was necessary for Riley to continue his whispered report.

“Well, Shelby just met her on the beach.”

“Met Paquita?” I exclaimed, in surprise at Shelby’s secret meeting after his public ignoring of the little adventuress.

“On the beach, alone,” reiterated Riley, pleased at retailing even this apparent bit of scandal.

“What then?” demanded Craig.

“They strolled off down the shore together.”

“Have you followed them?”

“Yes, confound it, but it’s low tide and following them is difficult, without their knowing it. I told the men to do the best they could, though—short of getting into another fight. Mito may be about, and, anyhow, Shelby might give a very good account of himself.”

“You’re not sure of Mito, then?”

“No. No one saw him again after he threw my operative. He may have disappeared. However, I took no chance that Shelby was alone.”

For a moment Kennedy seemed to consider the surprising turn that Shelby’s secret meeting with the little dancer might give to the affair.

“Walter,” he said at last, turning to me significantly, “would you like to take a stroll down to the dock? This matter begins to look interesting.”

We left Riley, after cautioning him to make sure that Burke saw us the moment he arrived, and again made our way quietly from the Lodge toward the Casino, in which we now could hear the orchestra.

A glance was sufficient to reveal that none of those whom he sought were there, and Kennedy continued down the bank toward the shore and the Harbor House dock.

XII

THE EAVESDROPPERS

It was a clear, warm night, but with no moon. From the Casino the lights shone out over the dark water, illuminating here and seeming to deepen the already dark shadows there.

A flight of steps ran down to the dock from the dance pavilion, but, instead of taking this natural way, Kennedy plunged into the deeper shadow of a path that wound around the slight bluff and came out on the beach level, below the dock. From the path we could still hear the sounds of gaiety in the Casino.

We were about to emerge on the beach, not far from the spiling on which the dock platform rested, when I felt Kennedy’s hand on my elbow. I drew back into the hidden pathway with him and looked in the direction he indicated.

There, in a little summer-house above us, at the shore end of the dock, I could just distinguish the figures of two women, sitting in the shadow and looking out intently over the strip of beach and the waves of the rising tide that were lapping up on it. It was apparent that they were waiting for some one.

I turned and strained my eyes to catch a glimpse down the beach, but in the blackness could make out nothing. A look of inquiry toward Kennedy elicited nothing but a further caution to be silent. Apparently he was determined to play the eavesdropper on the two above us.

They had been talking in a low tone when we approached and we must have missed the first remark. The answer was clear enough, however.

“I tell you, Winifred, I saw them together,” we heard one voice in the summer-house say.

Instantly I recognized it as that of Irene Maddox. It needed no clairvoyancy to tell precisely of whom she was talking. I wondered whether she was trying to vent her grudge against Paquita at the expense of Shelby and Winifred. At least I could fancy how Shelby would bless his sister-in-law as a trouble-maker, if he knew.

“I can’t believe that you are right,” returned the other voice, and it was plainly that of Winifred.

There was a quiver of emotion in it, as though Winifred were striving hard to convince herself that something she had heard was not true.

“I can’t help it,” replied Mrs. Maddox. “That is what I used to think—once—that it couldn’t be so. But you do not know that woman—nor men, either.”

She made the last remark with unconcealed bitterness. I could not help feeling sorry for her in the misfortune in which her own life with Maddox had ended. Yet it did not seem right that she should poison all romance. Still, I reflected, what, after all, did I really know, and why should I rise to the defense of Shelby? Better, far, that Winifred should learn now than to learn when it was too late.

“I have been watching her,” pursued Irene. “I found that I could not trust any man where that woman was concerned. I wish I had never trusted any.”

“I cannot believe that Shelby would deliberately deceive me,” persisted Winifred.

Irene Maddox laughed, hollowly. “Yet you know what we discovered this afternoon,” she pressed. “Why, I cannot even be sure that that detective, Kennedy, may not be working against me. And as for that lawyer of my husband’s, Hastings, I don’t know whether I detest him more than I fear him. Let me warn you to be careful of him, too. Remember, I have been observing for a long time. I don’t trust him, or any other lawyer. You never can tell how far they may be concerned in anything.”

There was a peculiar piquancy to the innuendo. Evidently Irene Maddox suspected Hastings of much. And again I was forced to ask myself, what did I really so far know?

I fancied I could detect that the poor woman had reached a point where she was suspicious of everybody and everything, not an unnatural situation, I knew, with a woman in her marital predicament.

“What has Mr. Hastings done?” inquired Winifred.

“Done?” repeated Mrs. Maddox. “What has he left undone? Why, he shielded Marshall in everything, whenever I mentioned to him this Paquita woman—said it was not his business what his client’s private life was unless he was directed to interest himself in it by his client himself. He was merely an attorney, retained for certain specific purposes. Beyond that he was supposed to know nothing. Oh, my dear, you have much to learn about the wonderful freemasonry that exists among men in matters such as this.”

I caught Kennedy’s quizzical smile. We were having a most telling example of freemasonry among women, into which Irene was initiating a neophyte. I felt sure that Winifred would be much happier if she had been left alone, and events might have a chance to explain themselves without being misinterpreted—a situation from which most of the troubles both in fact and in fiction arise. In her watching of her errant husband, Irene had expected every one immediately to fall in line and aid her—forgetting the very human failing that most people possess of objecting to play the rôle of informer.

“What fools men are!” soliloquized Irene Maddox a moment later, as though coming to the point of her previous random remarks. “Just take that little dancer. What do they see in her? Not brains, surely. As for me, I don’t think she has even beauty. And yet, look at them! She has only to appear up there in the Casino at this very moment to be the most popular person on the floor, while other girls go begging for partners.”

I could feel Winifred bridling at the challenge in the remark. She had tasted popularity herself. Was she to admit defeat at the hands of the little adventuress? Criticize as one might, there was still a fascination about the mystery of Paquita.

One could feel the coolness that had suddenly risen in the summer-house—as if a mist from the water had thrown it about. Nor did the implication of the silence escape Irene Maddox.

“You will pardon me, my dear,” she said, rising. “I know how thankless such a job is. Perhaps I had better not be seen with you. Yes, I am sure of it. I think I had better return to the hotel.”

For a moment Winifred hesitated, as if in doubt whether to go, too, or to stay.

Finally it seemed as if she decided to stay. I do not know which course would have been better for Winifred—to accompany the elder woman and imbibe more of the enforced cynicism, or to remain, brooding over the suspicions which had been injected into her mind. At any rate, Winifred decided to stay, and made no move either to detain or accompany the other.

Irene Maddox arose and left Winifred alone. If she had been watching Paquita there was no further need. Winifred would watch now quite as closely.

As her footsteps died away, instead of remaining near the dock Kennedy turned and, keeping back in the shadows where we could not be seen by the silent watcher in the summer-house, we went down along the shore.

In the shelter of a long line of bath-houses that belonged to the hotel we paused. There was no one in bathing at this hour, and we sat down and waited.

“What did you make of that conversation?” I whispered, cautiously, lowering my voice so that we might not be eavesdropped upon in turn.

“Not strange that Mrs. Maddox hates the little dancer,” replied Craig, sententiously. “It’s quite evident Riley was right and that Shelby must be with her. I wonder whether they will return this way or on the land? It’s worth taking a chance. Let’s stay awhile, anyway.”

He lapsed into silence, as though trying to motivate the actors in the little drama which was unfolding.

It was not long before, down the beach, we saw a man and a woman coming toward us rapidly. Kennedy and I drew back farther, and as we did so I saw that the figure above us in the summer-house had moved away from the edge so as to be less conspicuous.

The crackle of some dry sea-grass back of the bath-house startled us, but we did not move. It was one of the Secret Service men. There was no reason why we should conceal from him that we were on a similar quest. Yet Kennedy evidently considered it better that nothing should happen to put any one on guard. We scarcely breathed. He passed, however, without seeing us, and we flattered ourselves that we were well hidden.

A few minutes later the couple approached. It was unmistakably Shelby Maddox and Paquita.

“It’s no use,” we heard Shelby say, as they passed directly beside the bath-houses. “Even down here on the beach they are watching. Still, I have had a chance to say some of the things I wanted to say. From now on—we are strangers—you understand?”

It was not said as brutally as it sounds on paper. Rather it gave the impression, from Shelby’s tone, that they had never been much more.

For a moment Paquita said nothing. Then suddenly she burst forth with a little bitter laugh.

“It takes two to be strangers. We shall see!”

Without another word she turned, as though in a fit of pique and anger, and ran up the flight of steps from the bath-houses to the Casino, passing within five feet of us, without seeing us.

“We shall see,” she muttered under her breath; “we shall see!”

In surprise Shelby took a step or two after her, then paused.

“The deuce take her,” he swore under his breath, then strode on in the direction of the steps to the dock and the summer-house.

He had scarcely gained the level when the figure in the summer-house emerged from the gloom.

“Well, Shelby—a tryst with the other charmer, was it?”

“Winifred!”

Miss Walcott laughed sarcastically. “Is that all that your fine speeches mean, Shelby?” she said, reproachfully. “At the Lodge you scarcely bow to her; then you meet her secretly on the beach.”

“Winifred—let me explain,” he hastened. “You do not understand. She is nothing to me—never has been. I am not like Marshall was. When she came down here the other night she may have thought she could play with me as she had with him. I met her—as I have scores of others. They have always been all the same to me—until that night when I met you. Since then—have I even looked at her—at any one else?”

“Another pretty speech,” cut in Winifred, icily. “But would you have met her now, if you had known that you would be watched?”

“I should have met her in the lobby of the hotel, if that had been the only way,” he returned, boldly. “But it was not. I do not understand the woman. Sometimes I fear that she has fallen in love with me—as much as her kind can fall in love. I sent for her, yes, myself. I wanted to tell her bluntly that there could never be anything between us, that we could not—now—continue even the acquaintance.”

“But you knew her before—in the city, Shelby,” persisted Winifred. “Besides, was it necessary to take her arm, to talk so earnestly with her? I saw you when you started.”

“I had to be courteous to her,” defended Shelby, then stopped, as though realizing too late that it was not defense he should attempt, but rather confession of something that did not exist and a prayer of forgiveness for nothing.

“I did not believe what I heard,” said Winifred, coldly. “I was foolish enough to listen to you, not to others. It is what I see.”

“To others?” he asked, quickly. “Who—what have they told you about me? Tell me.”

“No—it was in confidence. I cannot tell you who or what. No, not another word of that. You have opened my eyes yourself. You have only yourself to thank. Take your little Mexican dancer—let us see what she does to you!”

Winifred Walcott had moved away toward the steps up to the Casino.

“Please!” implored Shelby. “Why, I sent for her only to tell her that she must keep away. Winifred!”

Winifred had turned and was running up the steps. Instead of waiting, as he had done with Paquita, Shelby took the steps two at a time. A moment later he was by her side.