THE ADVENTURESS

                                BOOKS BY

                            ARTHUR B. REEVE

                   _Craig Kennedy Detective Stories_

                      THE ADVENTURESS
                      THE TREASURE-TRAIN
                      THE SILENT BULLET
                      THE POISONED PEN
                      THE DREAM DOCTOR
                      THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE
                      THE ROMANCE OF ELAINE
                      THE EAR IN THE WALL
                      THE WAR TERROR
                      GOLD OF THE GODS
                      THE SOCIAL GANGSTER

                       _Other Detective Stories_

                      GUY GARRICK
                      CONSTANCE DUNLAP

                      HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
                           [ESTABLISHED 1817]

[Illustration: CRAIG KENNEDY IN HIS LABORATORY]

                                  THE
                              ADVENTURESS

                    A CRAIG KENNEDY DETECTIVE STORY

                                   BY
                            ARTHUR B. REEVE

                               AUTHOR OF
                 _“The Treasure Train” and other Craig
                 Kennedy Scientific Detective Stories_

                            FRONTISPIECE BY
                              WILL FOSTER

                      HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
                          NEW YORK AND LONDON

                            THE ADVENTURESS

                 Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
                Printed in the United States of America
                        Published November, 1917

                               CONTENTS

            CHAP.                                      PAGE

            I.     THE MYSTERY OF THE “SYBARITE”          1
            II.    THE SECRET SERVICE                    15
            III.   THE CABARET DANCER                    31
            IV.    THE BURGLAR’S MICROPHONE              44
            V.     THE WHITE LIGHT CAFÉ                  55
            VI.    THE POISON GAS                        69
            VII.   THE DIVORCE DETECTIVE                 80
            VIII.  THE PULMOTOR                          97
            IX.    THE TRAILING OF PAQUITA              109
            X.     THE DETECTAPHONE DETECTOR            124
            XI.    THE FRAME-UP                         135
            XII.   THE EAVESDROPPERS                    149
            XIII.  THE SERPENT’S TOOTH                  160
            XIV.   THE GEOPHONE                         171
            XV.    THE NIGHT OF TERROR                  183
            XVI.   THE INVISIBLE INK                    196
            XVII.  THE CIPHER LETTER                    211
            XVIII. THE RADIO DETECTIVE                  226
            XIX.   THE WIRELESS WIRETAPPER              242
            XX.    THE SPEED DEMON                      256
            XXI.   THE SUBMARINE EAR                    270
            XXII.  THE TELAUTOMATON                     285
            XXIII. THE CURB MARKET                      300
            XXIV.  THE PHANTOM CIRCUIT                  315
            XXV.   THE ADVENTURESS                      329

                            THE ADVENTURESS

                            THE ADVENTURESS

                     THE MYSTERY OF THE “SYBARITE”

A revolver-shot followed by the crash of glass sounded in our hall.

At the same instant the laboratory door burst open and an elderly,
distinguished-looking man stumbled in on us, his hat now off, his
coat and collar awry, his hair rumpled, and his face wearing a dazed,
uncertain expression, as though he did not yet comprehend what had so
suddenly taken place.

“My God!” he exclaimed, gazing about in a vain effort to restore his
dignity and equilibrium. “What was that? I hardly had my hand on the
knob when it happened.”

A glance was enough to assure Kennedy that the man was unhurt, except
for the shock, and in a moment he dashed out into the hall.

The front door of the Chemistry Building had been shattered by a
revolver-shot. But not even the trace of a skulking figure could be
seen on the campus. Pursuit was useless. There was, apparently, no one
to pursue.

Pale and agitated still, the man sank limply into a chair as I forced a
stimulant into his trembling lips.

Kennedy closed the door and stood there a moment, a look of inquiry on
his face, but without a word.

“Some one――must have――shadowed me――all the way,” gasped the man as he
gulped hard, “must have seen me come in――tried to shoot me before I had
a chance to tell you my story.”

It was some minutes before our strange visitor regained his poise,
and Craig refrained from questioning him, though I was consumed with
curiosity to know the reason of his sudden entrance.

When at last he did speak, his first words were so different from
anything I had expected that I could hardly believe him to be the same
person. In spite of his nervousness, his tone was that of a hard,
practical man of business.

“I suppose you know something of Maddox Munitions, Incorporated?” he
inquired, somewhat brusquely.

I did not quite understand a man who could be himself so soon after an
episode such as he had been through, nor do I think Kennedy did, either.

“I have no interest in ‘war brides,’” returned Craig, coldly.

“Nor have I――as such,” the man agreed, apparently rather pleased than
otherwise at the stand-off attitude Kennedy had assumed. “But I happen
to be Maxwell Hastings, attorney for Marshall Maddox, who was――”

Kennedy wheeled about suddenly, interrupting. “Whose body was found
floating in Westport Bay this morning. Yes, Mr. Jameson and I have read
the little five-line despatch in the papers this morning. I thought
there was something back of it.”

As for me, I was even more excited now than Kennedy and I could see
a smile of satisfaction flit over the face of Hastings. In a few
sentences the clever lawyer had extracted from us what others took all
manner of time and art to discover. He knew that we were interested,
that he could depend on Kennedy’s taking the case.

Kennedy and I exchanged a significant glance. We had discussed the
thing cursorily at the breakfast-table as we did any odd bit of news
that interested us.

Already I knew, or fancied I knew, something of the affair. For it
was at the time when explosions in munitions plants had furnished many
thrilling chapters of news.

All the explosions had not been confined to the plants, however. There
had been and still were going on explosions less sanguinary but quite
as interesting in the Maddox family itself.

There was a hundred million dollars as the apple of discord, and a most
deadly feud had divided the heirs. Together they had made money so fast
that one might think they would not feel even annoyance over a stray
million here and there. But, as so often happens, jealousy had crept
in. Sudden wealth seemed to have turned the heads of the whole family.
Marshall Maddox was reported to have been making efforts to oust the
others and make himself master of the big concern.

“Maddox had had some trouble with his wife, hadn’t he?” I asked,
recalling scattered paragraphs lately in the papers.

Hastings nodded. “They were separated. That, too, was part of the
family disagreement. His sister, Frances, took the part of his wife,
Irene, I believe.”

Hastings considered a moment, as though debating how far he should go
in exposing the private affairs of his client, then caught the eye of
Kennedy, and seemed to realize that as long as he had called Craig into
the case he must be frank, at least with us.

“At the Westport Harbor House,” he added, deliberately, “we know that
there was a little Mexican dancer, Paquita. Perhaps you have heard of
her on the stage and in the cabarets of New York. Marshall Maddox knew
her in the city.”

He paused. Evidently he had something more to say and was considering
the best way to say it.

Finally Hastings leaned over and whispered, “We know, too, that Shelby
Maddox, his brother, had met Paquita at the Harbor House just before
the family conference which brought them all together.”

It was evident that, at least to Hastings, there was something in the
affair that looked ugly to him as far as Shelby was concerned.

“It’s not at all strange,” he added, “that two men as unlike as
Marshall and Shelby should disagree. Marshall was the dominating type,
eager for power; Shelby easy-going, more interested in having a good
time. In this affair of Paquita――whatever it amounted to――I’m not at
all surprised at Shelby. He is younger than Marshall was――and inclined
to be a sport. Still, there was a vein of susceptibility in Marshall,
too. There must have been.”

Hastings paused. Human frailties were out of his ken as a lawyer.
Property he understood; passions, no. With him the law had been a
jealous mistress and had brooked no rival.

“It was on Shelby’s yacht, the _Sybarite_, was it not, that the tragedy
occurred?” ventured Kennedy.

It was a leading question and Hastings knew it. He drew in a long,
contemplative breath as he decided whether he should consent to be led.

“Yes――and no,” he answered, finally. “They were there on the yacht, of
course, to agree to disagree and to divide the family fortune. Shelby
Maddox went to Westport on the yacht, and it was so hot at the Harbor
House that they decided to hold the conference on the _Sybarite_.
Marshall Maddox and I had motored out from town. The sister, Frances,
and her husband, Johnson Walcott, live on the other side of the island.
They motored over, also bringing with them Johnson Walcott’s sister,
Winifred, who stayed at the Harbor House. Johnson Walcott himself went
ashore from the yacht early in the evening, having to go to the city
on business. That was all right, for there was Bruce, the lawyer who
represented Frances Maddox――I mean Mrs. Walcott, of course. You see,
I’ve known the family so long that I often forget that she is married.
Shelby had his lawyer, also, Mr. Harvey. That was the party. As for the
tragedy, I can’t say that we know positively that it took place on the
yacht. No. We don’t _know_ anything.”

“Don’t know anything?” hastened Kennedy. “How’s that? Wasn’t the
conference amicable?”

“Well,” temporized Hastings, “I can’t say that it was especially. The
division was made. Marshall won control of the company――or at least
would have done so if the terms agreed on had been signed in the
morning. He agreed to form a syndicate to buy the others out, and the
price at which the stock was to be sold was fixed.”

“But did they dispute about anything?” persisted Kennedy, seeing how
the lawyer had evaded his question.

Hastings seemed rather to appreciate the insistence than to be annoyed
by it. So far, I could see that the great corporation lawyer was taking
Kennedy’s measure quite as much as Craig was doing the same by him.

“Yes,” he answered, “there was one thing that occasioned more dispute
than anything else. Maddox Munitions have purchased a wonderful new war
invention, the telautomaton――wireless control of submarines, torpedoes,
ships, vehicles, aeroplanes, everything,――the last word in the new
science of telautomatics.”

An exclamation of surprise escaped Kennedy. Often he and I had
discussed the subject and he had even done some work on it.

“Of course,” resumed Hastings, “we have had to acquire certain rights
and the basic, pioneer patents are not ours. But the manner in which
this telautomaton has been perfected over everything yet devised by
inventors renders it the most valuable single piece of property we
have. At last we have an efficient electric arm that we can stretch out
through space to do our work and fight our battles. Our system will
revolutionize industry as well as warfare.”

It was not difficult to catch the enthusiasm which Hastings showed over
the telautomaton. There was something fascinating about the very idea.

Kennedy, however, shook his head gravely. “Too big a secret to be in
the hands of a corporation,” he objected. “In warfare it should only
be possessed by the Government, and in industry it is――well, it is a
public service in itself. So that went to Marshall Maddox also?”

Hastings nodded.

“There will be trouble over that,” warned Kennedy. “Mark my words.
It is too big a secret.” For a moment he pondered, then changed the
subject. “What happened after the conference?”

“It was so late when we finished,” continued Hastings, “and there
were still some minor details to be cleared up in the morning. We all
decided to stay on the yacht rather than go ashore to the Harbor House.
The _Sybarite_ is a large yacht, and we each had a cabin, so that we
all turned in. There wasn’t much sociability in a crowd like that to
keep them up later than was necessary.”

“Yes,” prompted Kennedy as Hastings paused. “Marshall Maddox seemed all
right when he retired?”

“Perfectly. I went into his cabin and we chatted a few moments before
I went to mine, planning some steps we would take in the morning to
clear things up, especially to release all claims on the telautomaton.
I remember that Maddox seemed in very good spirits over the way things
had been going, though very tired. To my mind, that removes the
possibility of its having been suicide.”

“Nothing is impossible until it is proved so,” corrected Kennedy. “Go
on. Tell me how it was discovered.”

“I slept later than usual,” replied Hastings, seeking to get everything
in order. “The first thing I heard was Shelby’s Jap, Mito, rapping on
all the doors to make sure that we were awake. We had agreed to that.
Well, we gathered on the deck, all except Mr. Maddox. We waited, no one
thinking much about it except myself. I can’t say why it was, but I
felt uneasy. Mr. Maddox had always been so punctual and I had known him
so long. It was not like him to be the last on an occasion like this.

“Finally some one, I think it was Shelby, suggested that inasmuch as
I was in a sense his representative, I might go and hurry him up. I
was only too glad to go. I walked forward to the cabin he occupied and
rapped on the door. No answer. I tried the handle. To my surprise it
turned and I pushed the door open.”

“Don’t stop,” urged Kennedy, eagerly. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” replied Hastings. “There was nothing there. The bed had been
slept in. But Mr. Maddox was gone!”

“How about his clothes?”

“Just as he had left them.”

“What did you do next?”

“I shouted an alarm and they all came running to me. Shelby called the
crew, Mito, the steward, every one. We questioned them all. No one had
seen or heard anything out of the way.”

“At least that’s what everybody said,” observed Craig. “What then?”

“No one knew what to do. Just about that time, however, we heard a
horn on a small boat tooting shrilly, as though for help. It was an
oysterman on his way to the oyster beds. His kicker had stopped and he
was signaling, apparently for help. I don’t know why it was, but Mrs.
Walcott must have thought something was wrong. Even before one of the
crew could find out what was the matter she picked up a marine glass
lying on a wicker chair.

“‘It――it’s a body!’ she cried, dropping the glasses to the deck.

“That was enough for us. Like a flash it went through my mind that it
could be no other than Mr. Maddox.”

“What did you do then?”

“The most natural thing. We did not wait for the oysterman to come to
us. We piled into one of Shelby’s tenders and went to him. Sure enough,
the oysterman had found the body, floating in the bay.”

There was a trace of a tear in Hastings’s eye, and his voice faltered
a bit. I rather liked him better for it. Except for fear at the
revolver-shot, I had almost begun to think him devoid of feeling.

“So far as we could see,” he resumed, as though ashamed to show
weakness even over one whom he had known so long, “there was nothing
to show whether he might not have got up, fallen overboard in some
way, and have been drowned, or might have been the victim of foul
play――except one thing.”

“What was that?” inquired Kennedy, eagerly.

“Maddox and I had taken out with us, in a brief-case which he carried,
the plans of the telautomaton. The model is in the company’s safe here
in New York. This morning when we went back to Maddox’s room I found
that the brief-case was missing. The plans are gone! You were right.
There has been trouble over them.”

Kennedy eyed Hastings keenly. “You found nothing in the room that would
give a hint?”

“I didn’t look,” returned Hastings. “I sealed the door and window――or
port-hole――whatever you call it――had them locked and placed a wax seal
bearing the impression of my ring, so that if it is broken, I will know
by whom. Everything there is just as it was. I wanted it that way, for
I had heard of you, and determined to come to town myself and get you.”

“The body?”

“I had the oysterman take it to an undertaking establishment in the
town so that we would have witnesses of everything that happened after
its discovery.”

“Did any of them suggest a theory?” asked Kennedy, after a moment’s
thought. “Or say anything?”

Hastings nodded negatively. “I think we were all too busy watching one
another to talk,” he ventured. “I was the only one who acted, and they
let me go ahead. Perhaps none of them dared stop me.”

“You don’t mean that there was a conspiracy?” I put in.

“Oh no,” smiled Hastings, indulgently. “They could never have agreed
long enough, even against Marshall Maddox, to conspire. No, indeed. I
mean that if one had objected, he would immediately have laid himself
open to suspicion from the rest. We all went ashore together. And now I
must get back to Westport immediately. I’m not even going to take time
to go down to the office. Kennedy, will you come?”

“An unnecessary question,” returned Craig, rising. “A mystery like this
is the breath of my life. You could scarcely keep me away.”

“Thank you,” said Hastings. “You won’t regret it, financially or
otherwise.”

We went out into the hall, and Kennedy started to lock the laboratory
door, when Hastings drew back.

“You’ll pardon me?” he explained. “The shot was fired at me out here.
I naturally can’t forget it.”

With Kennedy on one side and myself on the other, all three of us on
the alert, we hurried out and into a taxicab to go down to the station.

As we jolted along Kennedy plied the lawyer with a rapid fire of
questions. Even he could furnish no clue as to who had fired the shot
at him or why.

                                   II

                           THE SECRET SERVICE

Half an hour later we were on our way by train to Westport with
Hastings. As the train whisked us along Craig leaned back in his chair
and surveyed the glimpses of water and countryside through the window.
Now and then, as we got farther out from the city, through a break in
the trees one could catch glimpses of the deep-blue salt water of bay
and Sound, and the dazzling whiteness of sand.

Now and then Kennedy would break in with a question to Hastings,
showing that his mind was actively at work on the case, but by his
manner I could see that he was eager to get on the spot before all that
he considered important had been messed up by others.

Hastings hurried us directly from the train to the little undertaking
establishment to which the body of Marshall Maddox had been taken.

A crowd of the curious had already gathered, and we pushed our way in
through them.

There lay the body. It had a peculiar, bloated appearance and the face
was cyanosed and blue. Maddox had been a large man and well set up. In
death he was still a striking figure. What was the secret behind those
saturnine features?

“Not a scratch or a bruise on him, except those made in handling the
body,” remarked the coroner, who was also a doctor, as he greeted
Kennedy.

Craig nodded, then began his own long and careful investigation. He
was so busily engaged, and I knew that it was so important to keep him
from being interrupted, that I placed myself between him and those who
crowded into the little room back of the shop.

But before I knew it a heavily veiled woman had brushed past me and
stood before the body.

“Irene Maddox!” I heard Hastings whisper in Kennedy’s ear as Craig
straightened up in surprise.

As she stood there there could be no doubt that Irene Maddox had been
very bitter toward her husband. The wound to her pride had been deep.
But the tragedy had softened her. She stood tearless, however, before
the body, and as well as I could do so through her veil I studied her
face. What did his death mean to her, aside from the dower rights that
came to her in his fortune? It was impossible to say.

She stood there several minutes, then turned and walked deliberately
out through the crowd, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
I found myself wondering at the action. Yet why should she have
shown more emotion? He had been nothing to her but a name――a hateful
name――for years.

My speculation was cut short by the peculiar action of a dark-skinned,
Latin-American-looking man whose face I had not noticed in the crowd
before the arrival of Mrs. Maddox. As she left he followed her out.

Curious, I turned and went out also. I reached the street door just in
time to see Irene Maddox climb into a car with two other people.

“Who are they?” I asked a boy standing by the door.

“Mr. and Mrs. Walcott,” he replied.

Even in death the family feud persisted. The Walcotts had not even
entered.

“Did you know that the Walcotts brought Mrs. Maddox here?” I asked
Hastings as I returned to Kennedy.

“No, but I’m not surprised,” he returned. “You remember I told you
Frances took Irene’s part. Walcott must have returned from the city as
soon as he heard of the tragedy.”

“Who was that sallow-faced individual who followed her out?” I asked.
“Did you notice him?”

“Yes, I saw him, but I don’t know who he can be,” replied Hastings. “I
don’t think I ever saw him before.”

“That Latin-American?” interposed Kennedy, who had completed his first
investigation and made arrangements to co-operate with the coroner in
carrying on the autopsy in his own laboratory. “I was wondering myself
whether he could have any connection with Paquita. Where is she now?”

“At the Harbor House, I suppose,” answered Hastings――“that is, if she
is in town.”

Kennedy hurried out of the establishment ahead of us and we looked down
the street in time to see our man headed in the direction the Walcott
automobile had taken.

He had too good a start of us, however, and before we could overtake
him he had reached the Harbor House and entered. We had gained
considerably on him, but not enough to find out where he went in the
big hotel.

The Harbor House was a most attractive, fashionable hostelry, a
favorite run for motor parties out from the city. On the water-front
stood a large, red-roofed, stucco building known as the Casino,
entirely given over to amusements. Its wide porch of red tiles,
contrasting with the innumerable white tables on it, looked out over
the sheltered mouth of Westport Bay and on into the Sound, where,
faintly outlined on the horizon, one saw the Connecticut shore.

Back of the Casino, and on a hill so that it looked directly over the
roof of the lower building, was the hotel itself, commonly known as
the Lodge, a new, up-to-date, shingle-sheathed building with every
convenience that money and an expensive architect could provide. The
place was ideal for summer sports――golf, tennis, motoring, bathing,
boating, practically everything one could wish.

As we walked through the Lodge we could almost feel in the air the
excited gossip that the death of Maddox had created in the little
summer colony at Westport.

Vainly seeking our dark-skinned man, we crossed to the Casino. As we
approached the porch Hastings took Kennedy’s arm.

“There are Shelby Maddox and Winifred Walcott,” he whispered.

“I should like to meet them,” said Kennedy, glancing at the couple whom
Hastings had indicated at the far end of the porch.

Following the lawyer, we approached them.

Shelby Maddox was a tall young chap, rather good-looking, inclined to
the athletic, and with that deferential, interested manner which women
find almost irresistible.

As we approached he was talking earnestly, oblivious to everything
else. I could not blame him. Winifred was a slender, vivacious girl,
whose gray-blue eyes caught and held yours even while you admired her
well-rounded cheeks, innocent of make-up. Her high forehead denoted an
intellect which the feminine masses of puffy light-brown hair made all
the more charming. One felt her personality in every action. She was
not afraid of sun and air. A pile of the more serious magazines near
her indicated that she was quite as much alive to the great movements
that are stirring the world to-day as she was to the outdoor life that
glowed in her face. It was easy to see that Shelby Maddox was having a
new experience.

“Good morning,” greeted Hastings.

Winifred smiled, but Shelby was plainly annoyed at the intrusion of the
lawyer. I could not make out whether there was an aversion to Hastings
behind the annoyance or not.

The introductions over, we sat down for a moment. Hastings had been
careful not to say that Kennedy was a detective, but to hint that he
was a friend and, by implication, a lawyer.

“It must have been a severe shock when you heard what had happened,” he
began, speaking to Winifred.

“It was indeed,” she replied, gravely. “You see, I stayed here at the
Harbor House while my brother and sister-in-law were on the yacht.
Johnson came off early because he had to go to the city, and telephoned
up to the room that they were going to be late and Frances would stay
out on the yacht. Then when I came down this morning they were just
bringing the body ashore.”

She shuddered at the recollection and Shelby flashed a look at Kennedy
as though he could knife him for bringing up the distasteful subject.
It seemed as though Shelby Maddox was pretty unconcerned about his
brother’s death.

“Strange that you heard nothing on the yacht,” switched Kennedy,
looking full at Shelby.

“We didn’t,” returned the young man, but in a tone that showed his
attention was somewhere else.

I followed the direction of his eyes.

A petite, frilly, voluptuous figure stood in the doorway. She had
an almost orchid beauty that more than suggested the parasite. Of a
type quite the opposite of Winifred, she had nevertheless something
interesting about her. For the born adventuress is always a baffling
study.

Even before Hastings whispered I knew it must be Paquita.

She passed across the porch toward a flight of steps that led down to
the shore, and as she did so nodded to Shelby with a smile, at the same
time casting a look at Winifred such as only one woman can when she is
taking in another at a glance. Winifred was first of all a woman. Her
face flushed almost imperceptibly, but her own glance of estimation
never faltered. I felt that there was a silent clash. Winifred was the
antithesis of Paquita.

Shelby failed even with his cigarette to cover up his confusion. But
as I searched his face I thought I saw one thing at least. Whatever
might or might not have been the truth in Hastings’s story of Shelby’s
acquaintance with Paquita once, it was evident now that Winifred
Walcott quite filled his eye.

As she paused before going down the steps Paquita darted back one more
look at Shelby. Had he once felt the lure? At least now he made no
move. And Paquita was insanely jealous.

“I should like to have Mr. Kennedy look over the _Sybarite_, especially
the room which I sealed,” suggested Hastings in a tone which was not
peremptory, but nevertheless was final.

Shelby looked from Hastings to Winifred. The passing of Paquita
seemed to have thrown a cloud over the sunshine which had brightened
the moments before. He was torn between two emotions. There was no
denying the request of Hastings. Yet this was no time to leave Winifred
suspicious.

“I think you had better go,” she said, finally, as Shelby hesitated.

“Would you not be one of the party?” he asked, eagerly.

“I don’t think I could stand it,” she replied, hastily.

It was perfectly natural. Yet I could see that it left Shelby uncertain
of her real reason.

Reluctantly he said good-by and we four made our way down the dock
to the float where was moored a fast tender of the yacht. We climbed
aboard, and the man in charge started the humming, many-cylindered
engine. We darted off in a cloud of spray.

Once I saw Kennedy looking back, and I looked back also. In the far
corner of the Casino stood the sallow-faced man, watching us intently.
Who and what could he be?

Westport Bay is one of those fjords, as they almost might be called,
which run in among the beautifully wooded hills of the north shore of
Long Island.

The _Sybarite_ was lying at anchor a mile or so offshore. As we
approached her we saw that she was a 150-foot, long, low-lying craft
of the new type, fitted with gas-engines, and built quite as much for
comfort as for speed. She was an elaborately built craft, with all the
latest conveniences, having a main saloon, dining-room, library, and
many state-rooms, all artistically decorated. In fact, it must have
cost a small fortune merely to run the yacht.

As we boarded it Shelby led the way to the sheltered deck aft, and we
sat down for a moment to become acquainted.

“Mito,” he called to a Japanese servant, “take the gentlemen’s hats.
And bring us cigars.”

The servant obeyed silently. Evidently Shelby spared nothing that made
for comfort.

“First of all,” began Craig, “I want to see the state-room where
Marshall Maddox slept.”

Shelby arose, apparently willingly enough, and led the way to the lower
berth deck. Hastings carefully examined the seal which he had left on
the door and, finding it intact, broke it and unlocked the door for us.

It was a bedroom rather than a state-room. The walls were paneled in
wood and the port-hole was finished inside to look like a window. It
was toward this port-hole that Kennedy first directed his attention,
opening it and peering out at the water below.

“Quite large enough for a man to get through――or throw a body through,”
he commented, turning to me.

I looked out also. “It’s a long way to the water,” I remarked, thinking
perhaps he meant that a boat might have nosed up alongside and some one
have entered that way.

“Still, if one had a good-sized cruiser, one might reach it by standing
on the roof of the cabin,” he observed. “At any rate, there’d be
difficulty in disposing of a body that way.”

He turned. The wind had swung the yacht around so that the sun streamed
in through the open port. Kennedy bent down and picked up some little
bright slivers of thin metal that lay scattered here and there on the
carpet.

He looked about at the furniture, then bent down and examined the side
of the bedstead. It seemed to be pitted with little marks. He rose,
and as he did so his gaze fell on one of the brass fittings of the
cabin. It seemed to have turned green, almost to be corroded. With his
penknife he scraped off some of the corrosion and placed it on a piece
of paper, which he folded up.

The examination of the state-room completed, Shelby took us about the
boat. First of all, he showed us the handsomely furnished main saloon
opening into a little library, almost as if it were an apartment.

“It was here,” he volunteered, “that we held the conference last night.”

For the first time I became aware, although Kennedy had noticed it
before, that when we boarded the _Sybarite_ Mito had been about. He had
passed twice down the hall while we were in the state-room occupied by
Marshall Maddox. He was now busy in the library, but on our entrance
had withdrawn deferentially, as though not wishing to intrude.

Henceforth I watched the Japanese keenly as he padded about the boat.
Everywhere we went I fancied that he turned up. He seemed ubiquitous.
Was it that he was solicitous of the wants of his master? Had he
received instructions from him? Did the slant-eyed Oriental have
something hidden behind that inscrutable face of his?

There did not seem to be anything else that we could discover aboard
the yacht. Though we interviewed the officer and those of the crew
who had been on watch, we were unable to find out from them that
anything unusual had been observed, either as far as any other boat was
concerned or on the _Sybarite_ itself. In spite of them, the affair
was as completely shrouded in mystery as ever.

Having looked the yacht over, Kennedy seemed now to be eager to get
ashore again.

“I hope you are satisfied, gentlemen?” asked Shelby at last as our tour
brought us to the mahogany steps that led from the outside of the white
hull to the tender which had brought us out.

“Very well――so far,” returned Kennedy.

Maddox looked up quickly, but did not ask what he meant. “If there is
any way in which I can be of service to you,” he continued, “you have
only to command me. I have as much reason as any one to clear up the
mystery in this unfortunate affair. I believe I will go ashore with
you.”

He did not need to say that he was eager to get back to see Winifred
Walcott, any more than Kennedy needed to tell me that he would like to
see our sallow-faced friend again.

The tender skimmed over the waves, throwing the spray gaily as we sped
back to the Harbor House dock.

We landed and Maddox excused himself, repeating his desire to aid us.
Down the beach toward the bath-houses I could make out the frilly
Paquita, surrounded now by several of the bathers, all men. Maddox saw
her, but paid no attention. He was headed for the veranda of the Lodge.

The day was growing older and the Casino was beginning to liven up. In
the exquisitely appointed ballroom, which was used also for morning and
afternoon dances, strains of the one-step attracted some dozen couples.
Kennedy sauntered along, searching the faces we passed in the hope of
seeing some one who might be of value to know on the case, now and then
reminding Hastings not to neglect to point out any one who might lend
aid. Hastings saw no one, however, and as we mounted the steps to the
Lodge excused himself for a minute to send some telegrams to those of
the family whom he had forgotten.

We had promised to meet him in the lobby by the desk, and thither
Kennedy bent his steps.

“I think I’ll look over the register,” he remarked, as we approached
the busiest part of the hotel. “Perhaps, too, some of the clerks may
know something.”

There was nothing on the register, apparently, for after turning it
around and running through it he merely laid his finger on the name
“Señorita Paquita Gonzales, Maid and Chauffeur, New York,” written
under the date of the day before the arrival of the Maddoxes for the
conference, and among the last of the day, showing that she had arrived
late.

As we were looking over the names we were startled by a voice softly
speaking behind us.

“Well, I should have known you fellows would be out here before
long. It’s a big case. Don’t notice me here. I’ll see you in the
writing-room. It’s empty now.”

We turned in surprise. It was our old friend Burke, of the Secret
Service.

He had already lounged off, and we followed without seeming to do so,
stopping only for a moment at the news-stand.

“Why are you here?” demanded Craig, pointedly, as we three settled
ourselves in an angle of the deserted writing-room.

“For the same reason that you are,” Burke returned, with a smile; then
added, gravely, “I can trust you, Kennedy.”

Craig was evidently much impressed by the low tone and the manner of
the detective, but said nothing.

“They tell me Hastings was in town this morning, at your laboratory,”
went on Burke. “Too bad he didn’t take the time to call up his office.
But he knows something now――that is, if he has that note I left for
him.”

“Why, what is that?” chorused both Craig and I.

Just then Hastings himself almost ran into the room as if his life
depended on finding us.

As he saw us he darted over to our corner.

“You are Mr. Burke, of the Secret Service?” he queried as Burke nodded.
“Kennedy, the safe in the office of Maddox Munitions in New York was
robbed late last night or early this morning, and the model of the
telautomaton is stolen!”

                           THE CABARET DANCER

We could only stare from Burke to Hastings, startled at the magnitude
of the affair as it developed so rapidly.

For a moment Hastings was at a loss, then darted quickly into a
telephone-booth to call up his office on long distance for confirmation
of the news.

As we waited I happened to glance out into the lobby. At the far end,
in an angle, to my surprise I saw Shelby and Paquita. Evidently she had
hovered about, waiting for a chance to find him alone, and had at last
succeeded.

Already Kennedy and Burke had seen them.

Paquita was talking earnestly. Of course, we could not overhear what
was said, and they were so placed that even if we moved closer to them
they would be likely to see us. Still, from our corner we could observe
without being observed.

It seemed as if Paquita were making a desperate effort to attract
Shelby, while, on his part, it was quite evident that he was
endeavoring to get away.

Paquita was indeed a fascinating figure. From what I had already
observed, a score of the young fellows about the Harbor House would
have given their eyes to have been in Shelby’s place. Why was he
seeking so to avoid her? Was it that he did not dare to trust himself
with the little dancer? Or was there some hold that she had over him
which he feared?

The interview had not proceeded long when Shelby deliberately seemed to
excuse himself and walked away. Paquita looked after him as he hurried
off, and I would have given much to have been close enough to observe
her expression. Was it one of fury, of a woman scorned? At any rate, I
would have wagered that it boded no good for Shelby.

I turned to say something to Kennedy and found that he was looking
in another direction. We were not the only observers. From a window
outside on the porch the sallow-faced man was also watching. As
Shelby walked away the man seemed to be very angry. Was it the anger
of jealousy because Paquita was with Shelby or was it anger because
Shelby had repulsed her advances? Who was the fellow and why was he so
interested in the little dancer and the young millionaire?

Hastings rejoined us from the telephone-booth, his face almost pale.

“It’s a fact,” he groaned. “They have been trying to reach me all day,
but could not. The secret of the telautomaton stolen――the secret that
is too terrible to be in the hands of any one except the Government.
How did you hear of it?” he asked Burke.

Burke answered slowly, watching the expression on Hastings’s face.
“When the cashier of the company arrived at the office this morning he
found the safe had been rifled. It seems an almost incomprehensible
thing――as you will understand when you see it for yourself. The cashier
telephoned at once to the Secret Service in the Custom-House, and
I jumped out on the case. You did not go to your own office. I did
a little hasty deduction――guessed that you might have gone to see
Kennedy. At any rate, I wanted to see him myself.”

Kennedy interrupted long enough to tell about the revolver-shot and the
attack on Hastings at our very door.

“Whew!” exclaimed Burke, “just missed you. Well,” he added, with a dry
sort of humor, “I missed you, too, and decided to come out here on
the train. Kennedy, you must go back to town with me and look at that
safe. How anybody could get into it is a mystery beyond me. But the
telautomaton is gone. My orders are simple――get it back!”

For a moment neither Kennedy nor Hastings spoke. It was most
peculiar――the plans gone in Westport, the model gone in New York.

“Who could have stolen the model?” I asked, finally. “Have you any
theory, Burke?”

“A theory, yes,” he replied, slowly, “but no facts to back it. I
suppose you know that the war has driven out some of the most clever
and astute crooks that Paris, Vienna, London, and other capitals
ever produced. The fact is that we are at present in the hands of
the largest collection of high-grade foreign criminals that has ever
visited this country. I think it is safe to say that at present there
are more foreign criminals of high degree in New York and at the
fashionable summer resorts than could be found in all the capitals of
Europe combined. They have evaded military service because at heart
they are cowards and hate work. War is hard work. Then, there is little
chance of plying their trade, for their life is the gay life of the
cafés and boulevards. Besides, America is the only part of the world
where prosperity is reigning. So they are here, preying on American
wealth. Suppose some one――some foreign agent――wanted the telautomaton.
There are plenty of tools he could use for his purpose in obtaining it.”

The countenance of the sallow-faced man recurred to me. It was an
alarming possibility that Burke’s speculation raised. Were we really
not involved in a pure murder case, but in the intricacies of the
machinations of some unknown power?

Burke looked at his watch, then again at Kennedy. “Really, I think you
ought to go back to town,” he reiterated, “and take the case up there.”

“And leave these people all here to do as they please, cover up what
they will?” objected Hastings, who had tried to prevent just that sort
of thing by bringing Kennedy out post-haste.

“My men are perfectly competent to watch anything that goes on at
Westport,” returned Burke. “I have them posted all about and I’m
digging up some good stuff. Already I know just what happened the
night before the conference. That cabaret dancer, Paquita, motored out
here and arrived about the time the _Sybarite_ cast anchor. She met
Shelby Maddox at the Casino and they had a gay supper party. But it
ended early. She knew that Marshall Maddox was coming the next day. I
know he had known her in the city. As to Shelby we don’t know yet. The
meeting may have been chance or it may have been prearranged.”

I recalled not only the little incident we had just seen, but the
glance of jealousy Paquita had given Shelby when she saw him with
Winifred. What did it mean? Had Shelby Maddox been using Paquita
against his brother, and now was he trying to cast her off? Or
was Burke’s theory correct? Was she a member of a clever band of
super-criminals, playing one brother against the other for some
ulterior end? Was the jealousy feigned or was it real, after all?

“What I am endeavoring to do now,” went on Burke, “is to trace the
doings of Paquita the night of the murder. I cannot find out whether
she came out at the invitation of Marshall Maddox or not. Perhaps it
was Shelby. I don’t know. If it was Marshall, what about his former
wife? Did he suppose that she would not be here? Or didn’t he care?”

“Perhaps――blackmail,” suggested Hastings, who, as a lawyer, had had
more or less to do with such attempts.

Burke shook his head. “It might have been, of course, but in that case
don’t you think you, as Maddox’s lawyer, would have heard something of
it? You have not――have you? You don’t know anything about her?”

Burke regarded the lawyer keenly, as though he might be concealing
something. But Hastings merely shook his head.

“Mr. Maddox did not confide his weaknesses to me,” Hastings remarked,
coldly.

“If we are going back to the city,” returned Burke, cheerfully changing
the subject, to the evident surprise of Hastings, “I must find my
operative, Riley, and let him know what to do while we are gone.”

“Look,” muttered Kennedy under his breath to us and nodding down the
lobby.

Shelby Maddox had sought and found Winifred, and was chatting as
animatedly as if there had been no Paquita in the world less than five
minutes before.

As we watched, Hastings remarked: “It was only the day before the
murder that Shelby first met Winifred Walcott. I believe he had never
seen his brother-in-law’s sister before. She had been away in the West
ever since Frances Maddox married Walcott. Winifred seems to have made
a quick conquest.”

Remembering what had happened before, I took a quick look about to see
whether any one else was as interested as ourselves. Seeing no one,
Kennedy and I strolled down the corridor quietly.

We had not gone far before we stopped simultaneously. Nestled in the
protecting wings of a big wicker chair was Paquita, and as we watched
her she never took her eyes from the couple ahead.

What did this constant espionage of Shelby mean? For one thing, we must
place this little adventuress in the drama of the Maddox house of hate.
We moved back a bit where we could see them all.

A light footfall beside us caused us to turn suddenly. It was Mito,
padding along on some errand to his master. As he passed I saw that his
beady eyes had noted that we were watching Shelby. There was no use
to retreat now. We had been observed. Mito passed, bestowing a quick
sidewise glance on Paquita as he did so. A moment later he approached
Shelby deferentially and stood waiting a few feet away.

Shelby looked up and saw his valet, bowed an excuse to Winifred, and
strode over to where Mito was standing. The conversation was brief.
What it was about we had no means of determining, but of one thing we
were certain. Mito had not neglected a hasty word to his master that
he was watched. For, an instant later when Mito had been dismissed,
Shelby returned to Winifred and they walked deliberately out of the
hotel across a wide stretch of open lawn in the direction of the
tennis-courts. To follow him was a confession that we were watching.
Evidently, too, that had been Shelby’s purpose, for as he chatted he
turned half-way, now and then, to see if they were observed. Again Mito
padded by and I fancied I caught a subtle smile on his saturnine face.
If we were watching, we were ourselves no less watched.

There was nothing to be gained in this blind game of hide-and-seek,
and Kennedy was evidently not yet prepared to come out into the open.
Paquita, too, seemed to relinquish the espionage for the moment, for
she rose and walked slowly toward the Casino, where she was quickly
joined by some of her more ardent admirers.

I glanced at Kennedy.

“I think we had better go back to Burke and Hastings,” he decided.
“Burke is right. His men can do almost as much here as we could at
present. Besides, if we go away the mice may play. They will think we
have been caught napping. That telautomaton robbery is surely our next
big point of attack. Here it is first of all the mystery of Marshall
Maddox’s death, and I cannot do anything more until the coroner sends
me, as he has promised, the materials from the autopsy. Even then I
shall need to be in my laboratory if I am to discover anything.”

“Your sallow-faced friend seemed quite interested in you,” commented
Burke as we rejoined him.

“How’s that?” inquired Kennedy.

“From here I could see him, following every move you made,” explained
the Secret Service man.

Kennedy bit his lip. Not only had Mito seen us and conveyed a warning
to Shelby, but the dark-skinned man of mystery had been watching us
all. Evidently the situation was considerably mixed. Perhaps if we went
away it would really clear itself up and we might place these people
more accurately with reference to one another.

Burke looked at his watch hurriedly. “There’s a train that leaves in
twenty minutes,” he announced. “We can make the station in a car in
fifteen.”

Kennedy and I followed him to the door, while Hastings trailed along
reluctantly, not yet assured that it would be safe to leave Westport so
soon.

At the door a man stepped up deferentially to Burke, with a glance of
inquiry at us.

“It’s all right, Riley,” reassured Burke. “You can talk before them.
One of my best operatives, Riley, gentlemen. I shall leave this end in
your charge, Val.”

“All right, sir,” returned the Secret Service operative. “I was just
going to say, about that dark fellow we saw gum-shoeing it about. We’re
watching him. We picked him up on the beach during the bathing hour.
Do you know who he is? He’s the private detective whom Mrs. Maddox had
watching her husband and that Paquita woman. I don’t know what he’s
watching her yet for, sir, but,” Riley lowered his voice for emphasis,
“once one of the men saw him talking to Paquita. Between you and me, I
wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to double-cross Mrs. Maddox.”

Hastings opened his eyes in wonder at the news. As for me, I began to
wonder if I had not been quite mistaken in my estimate of Irene Maddox.
Was she the victim, the cat’s-paw of some one?

Riley was not finished, however. “Another thing before you leave, Mr.
Burke,” he added. “The night watchman at the Harbor House tells me that
he saw that Japanese servant of Shelby Maddox last night, or, rather,
early this morning. He didn’t go down to the dock and the watchman
thought that perhaps he had been left ashore by mistake and couldn’t
get out on the _Sybarite_.”

“That’s impossible,” cut in Hastings, quickly. “He was on the yacht
last night when we went to bed and he woke me up this morning.”

“I know it,” nodded Riley. “You see, I figure that he might have come
off the yacht in a rowboat and landed down the shore on the beach. Then
he might have got back. But what for?”

The question was unanswered, but not, we felt, unanswerable.

“Very well, Riley,” approved Burke. “Keep right after anything that
turns up. And don’t let that Paquita out of sight of some of the men a
minute. Good-by. We’ve just time to catch the train.”

Hastings was still unreconciled to the idea of leaving town, in spite
of the urgency of the developments in New York.

“I think it’s all right,” reassured Kennedy. “You see, if I stayed I’d
have to call on an agency, anyhow. Besides, I got all I could and the
only thing left would be to watch them. Perhaps if I go away they may
do something they wouldn’t dare otherwise. In that case we have planted
a fine trap. You can depend on it that Burke’s men will do more for us,
now, than any private agency.”

Hastings agreed reluctantly, and as we hurried back to New York on the
train Kennedy quizzed Burke as he had Hastings on the journey out.

There was not much that Burke could add to what he had already told
us. The robbery of the safe in the Maddox office had been so cleverly
executed that I felt that it would rank along with the historic cases.
No ordinary yeggs or petermen had performed this operation, and as the
train neared the city we were all on edge to learn what possibly might
have been uncovered during the hours that we had been working on the
other end of the case out at Westport.

                                   IV

                        THE BURGLAR’S MICROPHONE

As we crossed the city Hastings, remembering the sudden attack that
had been made on him on the occasion of his last visit, looked about
nervously in the crowds.

Sometimes I wondered whether the lawyer had been frank with us and told
all he knew. However, no one seemed to be following him and we lost no
time in hustling from the railroad terminal to the office of Maddox
Munitions.

The office was on the top floor of the new Maddox Building, I knew, one
of the recent tower skyscrapers down-town.

As we turned into the building and were passing down the corridor to
the express elevator a man stepped out from behind a pillar. Hastings
drew back nervously. But it was Burke that the man wanted to see. He
dropped back and we halted, catching only the first whispered sentence.

“We’ve been watching Randall, sir,” I overheard the man say, “but he
hasn’t done anything――yet.”

There was a hasty conference between the man and Burke, who rejoined
us in a few seconds, while the man went back to his post of watching,
apparently, every face of the crowd that thronged forward to the
elevators or bustled away from them.

“My men have been at work ever since I was called in on the case,”
explained Burke to Kennedy. “You see, I had only time to map out a
first campaign for them, and then I decided to hurry off to find you
and later to look over the ground at Westport. Randall is the cashier.
I can’t say that I had anything on him――really――but then you never can
tell, you know.”

We rode up in the elevator and entered the imposing offices of the
great munitions corporation, where the executive business was conducted
for the score or more plants owned or controlled by the company in
various parts of the country.

Hastings led the way familiarly past the girl sitting at a desk in the
outside office and we soon found ourselves in the section that was set
apart for the accounting department, over which Randall had charge.

It seemed that the lawyer was well acquainted with the cashier as he
introduced him to us, and we noted that Randall was a man approaching
middle age, at least outwardly, with that solid appearance that seems
to come to men who deal with numbers and handle large sums of money.

While we talked I looked about curiously. Randall had an inner office,
though in the outer office stood the huge safe which was evidently the
one which had been rifled.

The cashier himself seemed to have lost, for the time, some of his
customary poise. Trying to make him out, I fancied that he was nearly
frantic with fear lest he might be suspected, not so much, perhaps, of
having had anything to do with the loss of the telautomaton as of being
remiss in his duties, which included the guardianship of the safe.

The very anxiety of the man seemed to be a pretty good guarantee of his
honesty. There could be no doubt of how deeply he felt the loss, not
only because it was of such vital importance, but from the mere fact
that it might reflect on his own management of his department.

“It seems almost incredible,” Randall exclaimed as we stood talking.
“The most careful search has failed to reveal any clue that would
show even how access to the office was gained. Not a lock on any of
the doors has been tampered with, not a scratch indicates the use of
a jimmy on them or on the windows. In fact, entrance by the windows
at such a height above the surrounding buildings is almost beyond the
range of possibility as well as probability. How could it have been
accomplished? I am forced to come back to the explanation that the
outer office doors had been opened by a key!”

“There were keys――in the hands of several people, I suppose?” inquired
Kennedy.

“Oh yes! There are in every large office like this,” hastened Randall.

“Mr. Maddox had a key, of course?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“Certainly.”

“Who else?”

“The agent of the building.”

“I mean who else in the office?”

“My assistant――oh, several. Still, I am sure that no one had a key
except those whom we could trust.”

“Did Shelby Maddox ever have a key?” cut in Hastings.

The cashier nodded in the negative, for the moment surprised,
apparently, at the very idea that Shelby would ever have had interest
enough in business to have such a thing.

I saw Burke looking in covert surprise at Hastings as he asked the
question. For the moment I wondered why he asked it. Had he really
thought that Shelby might have a key? Or was he trying hard to make a
case? What was his own connection with the affair? Kennedy had been
looking keenly about.

“Is that the safe over there?” he indicated. “I should like to examine
it.”

“Yes, that’s it, and that’s the strangest part of it,” hastened
Randall, as though eager to satisfy us on all points, leading the way
to a modern chrome-steel strong-box of a size almost to suggest a
miniature bank vault surely a most formidable thing to tackle.

“You see,” he went on, nervously, as though eager to convince us,
“there is not a mark on it to show that it has been tampered with.
Yet the telautomaton is gone. I know that it was there last night,
all right, for I looked in the compartment where we keep the little
model, as well as the papers relating to it. It is a small model, and
of course was not charged with explosive. But it is quite sufficient
for its purpose, and if its war-head were actually filled with a high
explosive it would be sufficiently deadly against any ordinary ship in
spite of its miniature size.”

Kennedy had already begun his examination, first of all assuring
himself that it was useless to try to look for finger-prints, inasmuch
as nearly everybody had touched the safe since the robbery and any such
clue, had it once existed, must have been rendered valueless.

“How did you discover the loss?” I ventured as Craig bent to his work.
“Did anything excite your suspicion?”

“N-no,” returned the cashier. “Only I have been very methodical about
the safe. The model was kept in that compartment at the bottom. I make
it a practice in opening and closing the safe to see that that and
several other valuable things we keep in it are there. This morning
nothing about the office and certainly nothing about the safe suggested
that there was anything wrong until I worked the combination. The door
swung open and I looked through it. I could scarcely believe my own
eyes when I saw that that model was gone. I couldn’t have been more
astonished if I had come in and found the door open. I am the only one
who knows the combination――except for a copy kept in a safety deposit
box known only to Marshall Maddox and Mr. Hastings.”

Before any of us could say a word Kennedy had completed his first
examination and was facing us. “I can’t find a mark on it,” he
confessed. “No ‘soup’ has been used to blow it. Nitroglycerin enough
might have wrecked the building. The old ‘can-opener’ is of course out
of the question with a safe like this. No instrument could possibly
rip a plate off this safe unless you gave the ripper unlimited time.
There’s not a hint that thermit or the oxy-acetylene blowpipe have been
used. Not a spot on the safe indicates the presence of anything that
can produce those high temperatures.”

“Yet the telautomaton is gone!” persisted Hastings.

Kennedy was looking about, making a quick search of the office.

As his eye traveled over the floor he took a step or two forward and
bent down. Under a sanitary desk, near a window, he picked up what
looked like a small piece of rubber tubing. He looked at it with
interest, though it conveyed no idea to me. It was simply a piece of
rubber tubing. Then he took another step to the window and raised it,
looking out. Far below, some hundred or more feet, was the roof of the
next building, itself no mean structure for height.

“Have you searched the roof below?” he asked, turning to Burke.

Burke shook his head. “How could any one get in that way?” he
negatived.

“Well――search the roof below,” repeated Kennedy.

Even though he did not understand what good might come of such a
strange request, Burke had known Kennedy long enough not to question
his actions. He moved away, seeking one of his men whom he could send
on the errand.

While we waited Kennedy continued to question Randall.

“Mr. Maddox was very careful of his key, I suppose?” he ventured.

“Yes, sir, very careful. So we all were of the combination, too. Not
even my assistant knows that. If I should drop dead, there would be
only one way to get it――to open that safety deposit box, and that
must be done by some one with the proper authority. It has all been
carefully safeguarded.”

“You know of no one intimate with Mr. Maddox――who might have obtained
the key――or the combination?”

I wondered at what Kennedy was driving. Had he the little dancer,
Paquita, in mind? Did he suspect that she might have wormed from Maddox
the secret? Or was he, too, thinking of Shelby?

Randall shook his head, and Kennedy continued his quick examination of
the office, questioning the assistant, who was unable to add anything
of value.

So far there had been nothing to show that the robbery might not have
been an inside job. As Kennedy was still pondering on the new mystery
that confronted us Burke approached with the man whom he had sent to
make the search.

His face indicated that he was puzzled. In his hand he was holding a
disk that was something like the flat telephone receivers one sees
often on interior office telephones. To it was attached a rubber tube
like that which Kennedy had picked up in the office a few minutes
before.

“My man found this thing on the roof below,” explained Burke, with a
look of inquiry. “What do you suppose it is? How did it get there?”

Kennedy took the disk and began examining it carefully, fitting on the
other rubber tube.

“Perhaps it had served its purpose――was no longer of use,” he
meditated. “At any rate, if some one had to get away with that
telautomaton he would not want to burden himself with anything else
that was unnecessary. He might very well have discarded this.”

What the thing was I could not imagine. We all crowded about, examining
it, not even Burke offering an explanation.

Suddenly Craig’s face lightened up. He thrust the tubes into his ears
and walked over to a smaller safe that was still locked. As he turned
the combination handle he held the black disk up close to the safe. The
intent look on his face caused us all to watch without a word. Around
and around he turned the handle slowly. Finally he stopped. Then, with
a few quick turns, he gave the door a pull and it swung open on its
oiled hinges.

We fairly gasped. “What is it?” I demanded. “Magic?”

Kennedy smiled. “Not magic, but black science,” he replied. “This is a
burglar’s microphone.”

“A burglar’s microphone?” I repeated. “What’s that?”

“Well,” he explained, “the microphone is now used by burglars for
picking combination locks. When you turn the lock a slight sound is
made when the proper number comes opposite the working part. It can
be heard by a sensitive ear, sometimes, I am told. However, it is
imperceptible to most persons. But by using a microphone it is an easy
matter to hear the sounds. Having listened to the fall of the tumblers,
the expert can determine what are the real numbers of the combination
and open the safe. That is what happened in this case.”

We followed Kennedy, speechless. What was there to say? We had already
seen him open a safe with it himself.

Though we were thus far on our way, we had not even a clue as to the
identity of the criminal or criminals.

I recalled Burke’s own theory as he had expressed it. Could it be that
some one had betrayed to a foreign government agent the priceless
secret of the telautomaton?

                                   V

                          THE WHITE LIGHT CAFÉ

“As long as I am back in the city,” continued Kennedy, while we stared
at one another, wondering what next move to make, “I think that I
had better take the opportunity to make some investigations in my
laboratory which would be impossible out at Westport.”

In the mean time Burke had been examining the burglar’s microphone,
turning it over and over thoughtfully, as if in the hope that it might
furnish some clue.

“It might have been possible,” he ruminated, “for some one to get into
the building at night if the night watchman was off his guard and he
had a key to the building. I suppose he might get out again, too, under
the same circumstances.”

“A good lead,” agreed Kennedy. “While you are finding the night
watchman and getting anything else along that line of reconstructing
what actually did take place it will give me just the chance I need.
Let us meet in two or three hours――say, at Mr. Hastings’s office. Let
me see, I believe your firm is Hastings & Halsey, isn’t it?”

“Hastings & Halsey,” repeated the lawyer. “You are quite welcome to
meet again there. You know where it is, on Wall Street?”

We noted the number and Kennedy and I hurried up-town to the laboratory
which we had left only a few short hours before.

Already there were waiting for him, by special messenger, the materials
from the autopsy which had been promised by the Westport coroner, who
for once had appreciated the importance of a case and had acted with
speed and decision.

Kennedy lost no time in throwing off his coat and donning his
acid-stained smock. For some minutes I watched him in silence as he
arranged his jars and beakers and test-tubes for the study which he
had in mind. He had taken some of the material and placed it over a
Bunsen burner in an apparatus which looked like a miniature still.
Another apparatus which he took from a cabinet was disposed on a table.
It seemed to consist primarily of three tubes. In one was a slit, and
through the slit evidently rays of light were caused to stream. Inside
I saw a lens. Each of the tubes seemed to radiate from a triangular
prism of some substance that looked like glass. Two of the radiating
tubes had an eye-piece and on one was a sort of scale.

As Kennedy made these rapid preparations he paused now and then to
study carefully the slivers of bright metal he had picked up from the
carpet in the state-room, while on a porcelain plate he placed the
powder which he had scraped from the brass fittings.

“I’m not doing you a bit of good here, Craig,” I remarked, at length.
“Isn’t there something I can do while you are working? I can come back
here in time to go down and meet Hastings and Burke with you.”

He paused a moment. “Yes,” he replied, “there is something that you
might be doing. I have been wondering just how intimate that little
Mexican dancer was with Marshall Maddox and whether Shelby actually
knew her in New York before he met her out at Westport the other night.
I think you might make some inquiries along that line, and by the time
you find anything you may find me more interesting also.”

Glad of the opportunity to be of service, for anything was better than
to sit about idle in the present high-keyed state of my nerves, I
started out.

My first impulse was to visit the New Amsterdam Club, one of the oldest
clubs in the city, of which I knew that Maddox had been a member.

I knew several men who were members, and I was sure that among them I
might find some one at the club at that time, and perhaps either from
him learn something of Maddox or at least obtain an introduction to
some one who did know.

I found that I had not acted without reason. In the big window that
overlooked Fifth Avenue, ensconced in the deep leather chairs, looking
out on the fashionable throng of shoppers who passed up and down the
Avenue, I found several men, among whom was Conigsby, whom I had known
for some time as assiduous first-nighter and man about town.

Conigsby welcomed me and I soon saw that the topic of conversation was
the reports that all had been reading in the papers about the mystery
that shrouded the death of Marshall Maddox.

“Peculiar fellow, Maddox,” commented Conigsby. “What do the boys down
on the _Star_ have to say about the case, Jameson?”

I had no desire to commit myself, yet I wanted to glean as much as I
could. For although we are prone to accuse the ladies of gossip, I
think most men will back me up when I say that there is no place for
the genuine article that cannot be beaten by a comfortable window in
a club where congenial spirits have gathered over a succession of
brandies and soda.

“It promises to be the great case of the year,” I returned, guardedly.
“So far, I understand there is much more in the life of Maddox than
even some of his friends suspect.”

At the mere suggestion of scandal all eyes were fixed on me. Yet I was
determined to speak in riddles and betray nothing, in the hope that
some of them might open up a rich vein of inquiry.

Conigsby laughed. “Perhaps more than _some_ of his friends
imagined――yes,” he repeated.

“Why, what was it?” inquired one of the group. “Is there another woman
in the case? I thought Maddox was divorced.”

“So he was,” returned the clubman. “I knew his wife, Irene, before they
were married. Really, it was a shame the way that man treated her.
I can claim no special virtue,” he added, with a shrug, “but then I
haven’t a wife――not so much as a friend who would care whether I was
here or in No Man’s Land. But Maddox――well, he was one of those men
who have worked hard all their lives, but in middle age seem to begin
sowing the wild oats they failed to sow in youth. You know the kind. I
guess he must have reached the dangerous age for men, if there is such
a thing.”

“What was it――chorus girls?” chimed in the other, ever ready for a
spicy bit of gossip.

“Yes――lately cabaret dancers――one in particular――at The White Light――a
little Mexican――Paquita.”

“What――Paquita?” chorused the group, and I could see by the inflection
that she was not unknown to several of them. “You don’t say. Well, you
must admit he was a good picker.”

“I rather suspect that his acquaintance cost him high, though,”
persisted Conigsby. “Paquita has a scale of prices. It costs so much to
take dinner with her. She’ll drive out of an afternoon with you――but
you must pay. There’s a union scale.”

“It takes dough to make tarts,” frivolously suggested another of the
group, forgetful of the tragedy that they were discussing.

Indeed, I was amazed at the nonchalant attitude they took. Yet, on
analysis, I concluded that it also might be significant. No doubt the
estimate of Maddox by his club members was more accurate than that of
the world at large.

“If it had been Shelby,” put in another man, “I wouldn’t have been
surprised.”

“Don’t worry,” interposed Conigsby. “Shelby Maddox is clever. Remember,
Shelby is young. Underneath his wildness there is ambition. I think
you’ll hear more of that boy before we are through. I know him, and
he’s likely to prove a chip off the old Maddox block. Nothing that
Shelby does would surprise me.”

“How about the other sister, Frances?” inquired another. “Do you know
her husband, Walcott?”

“Not very well. You’re more likely to find him on Broad Street than
Broadway. You know what I care for Broad Street. I’d never visit it
if my bankers were not down there. Walcott has a deuced pretty little
sister, though. I hear that Shelby is quite smitten.”

“Well, whatever you may think of him, I have seen Shelby Maddox with
Paquita, too. I’ll lay you a little bet that that little baggage knows
something about the case. Remember, the murder was on Shelby’s yacht.”

Conigsby shrugged. “Quite possible――another case of notoriety for The
White Light.”

“Notoriety for Paquita, you mean,” corrected another. “I hear she plans
to get back into musical comedy this fall. She’s not at The White Light
any longer.”

“Well, I think she’ll make good,” agreed Conigsby. “I wonder who the
angel is for her new show?”

The conversation was now hopelessly drifting, and I excused myself. At
least I had learned enough to give me an insight into another phase of
the life of Marshall Maddox.

Pondering what I had just heard, I decided to wander over toward the
café and theater district, and drop into the cabaret which they had
mentioned――The White Light.

As I entered the place in broad daylight I was struck by the sordidness
of it. Deserted except by those who were cleaning up for the coming
late afternoon and evening, it was positively tawdry. It needed the
glamour of bright faces and night life, and even then it must be viewed
through the bottom of a glass to wear even the semblance of attraction.

In the main dining-room of the café, grouped about the little dancing
floor before the platform on which sat the orchestra when things were
in full swing, stood innumerable little white tables. Just now there
seemed to be no one there except a man at the piano and a girl who was
evidently rehearsing her dance steps.

I paused for a moment and a waiter who had been arranging the tables
for the coming crowd moved over to tell me that the place was not yet
open.

I satisfied him that it was on other business that I had come, then
asked him whether Paquita was at The White Light any more.

“No, sir,” he replied, brusquely. “She hasn’t been here for several
days. I’ve heard that she has gone away to the country――has another
contract. It is a rehearsal for the girl who is to do her number that
is going on now. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I thanked him. It was not the waiter I wanted, but the proprietor,
Henri.

In a little office in the rear I at last discovered him, a rather
stout, genial Frenchman who had made a reputation as one of New York’s
restaurateurs to the _risqué_. I had known Henri once when I had the
assignment on the _Star_ that covered the theater and hotel district,
and I had no fear that he would not talk.

“Well, Henri,” I began cautiously, “I suppose you saw in the papers
this morning about your friend, Marshall Maddox?”

Henri, who was matching up checks showing the business done up to an
early hour of the morning, shrugged. “Monsieur was more the friend of
La Paquita than of me,” he returned, still matching checks.

“Still, he came here a great deal,” I asserted, taking a chance.

“_Oui_,” he agreed, “but it was not to see us. Always La Paquita, La
Paquita. So different from his brother.”

“Indeed?” I queried, quite overjoyed at the turn the conversation was
taking. “Then you know Shelby, too?”

“Ver’ well. Oh yes. He has been here. A fine fellow, but――it is all
right. Business is not for him. He is always ready for the good time――a
sport, you call it?”

I smiled. “Was he a friend of Paquita’s, too?” I hazarded, watching
Henri’s face.

He lifted his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “No more than of the
rest,” he returned, with a deprecating gesture. “Pretty faces and
figures all look good to Shelby,” he added, with a smile; then,
seriously: “But he will settle down. We will see him here no more, some
day. Also I know his brother-in-law, Messtair Walcott. I do not like
him.”

“Why?” I asked, somewhat amused at getting his point of view.

“Too quiet. He will come in, not often, perhaps, bow, maybe speak, then
go away.”

I thought I “got” him. One must be a good spender to appeal to Henri.
I could not imagine Johnson Walcott as such. In fact, I could scarcely
imagine him coming to Henri’s at all.

“Paquita was quite intimate with Marshall Maddox, wasn’t she?” I
ventured again.

Henri brought into play his ready shrug. It was not for him to say
anything about his patrons, much less about the dead. Still, his very
manner gave the impression that his lips would not frame.

“Did any one ever seem to be watching him here?” I asked, the thought
of the sallow-faced man at Westport recurring to my mind.

Henri stopped matching his checks and looked up. Was he growing
suspicious of my disinterestedness?

“Such things are not unusual,” he answered, showing a fine assortment
of ivory beneath his black mustache.

I met his eye frankly. He seemed to understand.

“Not for the _Star_, you understand?” he nodded, still looking at me
fixedly.

“Oh, no, no!” I hastened, truthfully. “I am not playing reporter now,
Henri.”

He appeared to be satisfied, and it did not occur to him to inquire why
else I should be interested.

“Yes,” he went on, slowly, “he has been watched. I have seen it myself.
Several times there was a man who came in, Spanish-looking.”

“Did Mr. Maddox know it?” I inquired, more eager than ever.

Henri shook his head negatively. “Not until one day when La Paquita
was talking to the man. Monsieur came in unexpectedly.”

The manager laughed a little to himself.

“Why do you laugh?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he returned. “It was not what happened. It was what she told
him. So clever, too. She said it was a detective set to trail him by
Mrs. Maddox, that she had flirted with the man and found out.”

“Then you do not think he was a detective?” I asked, puzzled.

“How should I know?” replied Henri, with another question. “It might
have been. It might not have been. She is clever.”

“What did Maddox do?” I persisted. “Was he more cautious?”

Again Henri shook his head. “He gave orders that the man was not to be
admitted. And we? He was a ver’ wealthy man, Mr. Maddox. We could not
afford to lose him.”

“But this Spaniard,” I reiterated, convinced it was the same man whom
we had seen at Westport, “isn’t it possible that Mrs. Maddox really did
pick him out as a detective in the hope that he might get acquainted
with Paquita and so report on her husband?”

“We are just guessing, monsieur,” dodged Henri. “I speak only of the
things I know――and not all of them.”

He had evidently told me in substance about all that he was sure of. I
knew him of old. Even after he had told his story he liked to leave a
sort of “continued in our next” at the close of it, just so that you
would not think he was not what Broadway calls a “live one.” I had
absorbed about all that he had at first hand. It was enough. It gave
me a view of the characters of the chief actors, from an angle which
others did not know. I rose nonchalantly, thanked Henri, and sauntered
out as I had in the old days when the _Star_ picked on me to expose
some new society scandal.

The visit to Henri’s White Light cabaret had shown me one very
important thing, however. Shelby Maddox had known Paquita before the
night of the gay dinner party preceding the arrival of the Maddox
family for the conference on the yacht.

What that might indicate I did not yet venture to guess. And yet I felt
sure that it must prove significant. Else why had Paquita arrived at
Westport at just that particular time? It seemed as though it must have
something to do with the calling of the family conference.

Above all, however, stood forth the strange coincidence of the
murder of Marshall Maddox, head of the family, and the stealing of
the telautomaton, the most valuable single piece of property that the
family owned. There was mystery enough in this case to satisfy even
Kennedy.

                                   VI

                             THE POISON GAS

A glance at my watch was sufficient to assure me that I should have no
time for further inquiries if I wanted to meet Kennedy before going
down to the office of Hastings. I wanted to do that, too, for I felt
sure that Craig would talk more freely to me than to the rest, and my
interest in the affair had by this time become insatiable.

Accordingly, I retraced my steps to the laboratory. Kennedy was still
at work, partly over some reactions in test-tubes, but mostly using
the strange three-tubed instrument I had noted. As I outlined to him
rapidly what I had discovered and the plain inferences to be drawn from
it, he listened attentively, still working.

“Very good,” was Kennedy’s sole comment as I concluded my story.
“That’s very interesting――possibly very important. It begins to look as
though Maddox had been in some one’s way and that that some one was
taking no chances in order to ‘get’ him.”

“What have you discovered so far?” I hesitated, not sure yet whether he
was willing to talk, for Kennedy never said anything, even to me, until
he was perfectly sure of his ground.

“Marshall Maddox was not drowned, at least,” he vouchsafed.

“Not drowned?” I repeated, more to lead him on than because I was
surprised.

“No. Whatever was the cause of his death, he was not killed by
drowning. The lungs and stomach show that. In fact, I knew at Westport
that he might have died a natural death or might even have been a
suicide. But he certainly did not die of drowning. Only more careful
tests than either the coroner or I could make at Westport were
necessary.”

“How did it happen, then?” I continued, emboldened by his apparent
readiness to talk.

Kennedy took a bottle with a ground-glass stopper and held it up so
that I could see its greenish-yellow contents. Then he pulled out the
stopper, covered with vaseline, for an instant and shoved it back again.

The instant was enough. A most unpleasant odor filled the laboratory.
I felt a sense of suffocation in the chest, an irritation in the nose
and throat, as though by the corrosive action of some gas on the air
passages.

“If we could only have seen him before he died,” continued Kennedy,
“I suspect we should have found his face as blue as it was when we
did see him, his lips violet, his pulse growing weaker until it was
imperceptible, and perhaps he would have been raising blood. It would
have been like an acute bronchitis, only worse. Look.”

From a little pin prick which he made on his own thumb Craig squeezed
out a drop of blood into a beaker containing some distilled water.

“This is a spectroscope,” he explained, touching the instrument I had
noticed. “I think you are acquainted with it in a general way. Blood in
water, diluted, shows the well-known dark bands between what we call
‘D’ and ‘E.’ These are the dark bands of oxyhemoglobin absorption.
Now, I add to this, drop by drop, the water from that bottle which
I uncorked. See――the bands gradually fade in intensity and finally
disappear, leaving a complete and brilliant spectrum devoid of any
bands whatever. In other words, here is a substance that actually
affects the red coloring matter in the blood, bleaches it out, and does
more――destroys it.”

I listened in amazement at the fiendish nature of his discovery.

“Marshall Maddox was overcome by the poison gas contained in a
thin-shelled bomb that was thrown through his state-room window. The
corrosion of the metal in the room gave me a clue to that. Then――”

“But what is this poison gas?” I demanded, horrified.

Kennedy looked at me fixedly a moment. “Chlorine,” he replied,
simply; adding, “the spectroscope shows that there is a total absence
of pigment in the blood. You can readily see that it is no wonder,
if it has this action, that death is sometimes so rapid as to be
almost instantaneous. Why, man alive, this thing destroys without
the possibility of reconstitution! It is devilish in the quantity he
inhaled it.”

I could only gasp with surprise at the discovery.

“But how was it done?” I repeated. “You think a bomb was thrown through
the open port?”

“Without a doubt. Perhaps, as you guessed, from a boat outside, the
roof of a cruiser, anything, as far as that end of it goes. Whoever did
it might also have entered the room in the same way.”

“Entered the room?” I asked.

“Yes, wearing a mask composed of several layers of gauze impregnated
with glycerinated solution of sodium hypophosphate. That is one of
many substances used. All that was necessary was to wet the mask with
water and adjust it. It would have served a double purpose――to protect
the wearer’s life as well as his identity.”

Amazed at Kennedy’s powers of reconstruction from evidence that looked
so slender, I merely waited for him to proceed.

“Then whoever it was probably rifled his clothes and so obtained the
keys to the building and the office. From the brief-case they must
have extracted the copies of the telautomaton plans. After that it
was a simple matter to throw the body overboard in the hope that the
affair might possibly be covered up as an accident or suicide. In the
course of the night the wind cleared the room of the gas. They did not
reckon, however, on what science can discover――or if they did, cared
little. After that, I suppose, some one went to New York, perhaps in a
high-powered car.”

“Mito couldn’t have gone to New York――and got back again,” I exclaimed,
impulsively, recalling that Mito had been seen ashore that night
without apparent reason.

“Mito may or may not have played his part,” was all that Kennedy would
comment.

He left me wildly speculating. Was Mito a cog in the wheel, of which
Paquita and the gang suspected by Burke were other cogs? Was Shelby
Maddox also a cog, willingly or unwillingly? Could he have got away
from the yacht and got back again? A host of unanswered questions raced
through my mind. But Kennedy had said all that he was prepared to say
now.

“We had better be going,” he remarked, calmly, “if we are to keep that
appointment with Hastings and Burke.”

He was evidently much more interested in what Burke might turn up than
in his own investigation, which was quite natural, for what he had told
me was already an old story to him, and his restless mind craved to be
speeding toward the solution of the mystery.

Half an hour later Kennedy and I entered the office of Hastings. I
looked about curiously. There were, as in many lawyers’ offices, two
private offices for the members of the firm, while outside was a large
room for the clerks, the stenographers, and the telephone girl.

As we were welcomed by Hastings in his own office I wondered what the
walls might have heard. Marshall Maddox and his lawyer must have had
many conferences there during the time that Maddox was planning his
great coup in the munitions company.

“Burke hasn’t arrived yet,” remarked Hastings, nervously. “I’ve been
expecting him any moment. I wonder what is keeping him?”

There was no way of finding out, and we were forced to sit impatiently.

A few moments later we heard hurried footsteps down the hall and Burke
burst in, his face flushed with excitement.

“This thing is devilish,” he exclaimed, looking keenly at Hastings. “I
must be in your class.”

“How’s that? Did some one shoot at you?” queried the lawyer.

“No, but I came within an ace of being poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” we inquired, incredulously.

“Yes. You know I started to find that night watchman. Well, I found
him. He knows nothing――and I think he is telling the truth. But after I
had questioned him I made him admit that sometimes he takes a meal in
the middle of the night. Of course he has to leave the front hall of
the ground floor unguarded to do so. I figured that the robber might
have got in and got away during that time. And I guess I’m right.

“After that I saw the policeman who walks the beat at night. I
thought he was going to prove a better witness. He remembers, under
questioning, seeing a speedster that stopped around the next corner and
was left there standing some time――about the time that the robbery
must have taken place, if I am right. He thought it was strange and
hung about.

“When the fellow who drove the car came back the policeman walked over.
The fellow offered no explanation of leaving his car on the street
at such an hour, except that he had stopped to shift a shoe that had
blown. Then he asked where there was an all-night lunch-room. The
policeman directed him and the fellow thanked him and drove off in that
direction.”

“But the poisoning,” prompted Craig. “How did that happen?”

“I’m coming to it. Well, I thought at once of going to the lunch-room
and inquiring. You see, I thought I might check up both the night
watchman’s story and the cop’s. So I went in and it happened that the
night man was just going to work. I hadn’t had anything to eat since
this morning and I ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I left the
coffee standing on a little table while I talked to the man behind the
counter.

“I found out from him that the night watchman had been there, all
right. But he didn’t remember any one in a speedster. In fact, I hadn’t
expected that he would. I don’t believe the fellow went there.

“Anyhow, when I went to look for my coffee I noticed something on the
lip of the cup. It looked like sugar, and I recollected that I hadn’t
put any sugar in the coffee. Besides, this looked like powdered sugar,
and I wouldn’t have put powdered sugar in when there was lump sugar. I
tasted a bit of it. It was bitter――very bitter. Here’s some of it.”

Kennedy took from Burke a few particles of a white powder which he
had carefully preserved in a piece of paper and began examining the
particles closely.

“There were lots of people coming and going at the lunch-room,” went on
Burke, “but I didn’t pay much attention to any of them.”

Kennedy had placed just a particle of the powder on his tongue, and
was now making a wry face. As he turned toward us he exclaimed,
“Strychnine!”

“See?” nodded Burke, excitedly. “I thought it was some poison. I knew
there was something wrong.”

Burke looked at Kennedy fixedly. There could be no doubt now that we
were watched. Some one was evidently desperate to prevent discovery.
First the attack had been leveled at Hastings. Now it was Burke. Who
would be next? I think we all realized that we were marked, though
none of us said anything at the time.

Burke looked over questioningly at Kennedy.

“I’ve found out how Maddox was killed,” volunteered Craig,
understanding the query implied in his glance.

“Indeed――already?” interrupted Hastings, to whom Kennedy was already
frankly incomprehensible.

“How?” demanded Burke, checking himself in time to protect himself
from setting forth a theory of his own, for Burke was like all other
police detectives――first forming a theory and then seeking facts that
confirmed it.

Eagerly both Burke and Hastings listened as Kennedy repeated briefly
his discoveries of the spectroscopic tests which he had already told me.

“Gassed, by George!” muttered Burke, more puzzled than ever. “I may as
well admit that I thought he had been thrown overboard and drowned.
The shot at Mr. Hastings rather confirmed me in the rough-neck methods
of the criminal. But this burglar’s microphone and the strychnine have
shaken my theory. This fellow is clever beyond anything I had ever
suspected. And to think of his using gas! I tell you, Kennedy, we don’t
know what to expect of criminals these days.”

Burke shook his head sagely. At least he had one saving grace. He
realized his own shortcomings.

“How about the speedster?” reverted Kennedy, passing over the subject,
for both Craig and I had a high regard for Burke, whatever might be his
limitations. “What did the patrolman say the fellow in the speedster
looked like?”

Burke threw up his hands in mock resignation. “As nearly as I could
make out, he looked like a linen duster and a pair of goggles. You know
that kind of cop――doomed always to pound pavements. Why, it might have
been anybody――a woman, for all he knew.”

“I think we’ve been away from Westport long enough,” concluded
Kennedy. “Perhaps our unexpected return may result in something. A
speedster――h’m. At least we can look over the garage of the Harbor
House.”

I remember that I thought the words of little consequence at the
moment. Yet, as it proved, it was a fateful statement made at this time
and place.

                                  VII

                         THE DIVORCE DETECTIVE

At the Westport station, when our train pulled in, there was the usual
gathering of cars to meet the late afternoon express from the city.

As we four were searching for a jitney ’bus to take us down to the
Harbor House I caught sight in the press of cars of the Walcott car.
Sitting in the back were Winifred and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Walcott,
sister of the murdered man. They had come up to meet her husband,
Johnson Walcott, who now came down the platform from the club car,
which had been well forward.

The train was pulling out, clearing the road across the track, and as
it did so there flashed past a speedster with a cream-colored body, a
shining aluminium hood, and dainty upholstery. No one could have failed
to notice it. As if the mere appearance of the car was not loud enough,
the muffler cut-out was allowing the motor to growl a further demand
for attention.

In the speedster sat Paquita, and as we looked across from our jitney I
caught sight of Winifred eying her critically, turning at the same time
to say something to Mrs. Walcott.

Paquita saw it, too, and shot a glance of defiance as she stepped
her dainty toe on the gas and leaped ahead of all the cars that were
pulling out with passengers whom they had met.

“Did you get that?” whispered Kennedy to me. “Not only have we
a mystery on our hands, but we have something much harder to
follow――conflict between those two women. Shelby may think he is a
principal in the game, but one or the other of them is going to show
him that he is a mere miserable pawn.”

“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.