Philip, you have scorned me twice; once when you refused my kiss, ten
years ago, and again when you refused my offer in my letter. I will not
accept now a love born out of pity, an interest created by desire. I
will have all or nothing; pity shall have nothing to say or plead on my
behalf."

She threw out her hands passionately.

"Take back your offer, Philip; make it to some less jealous, less wise
woman. I will have none of it. I have seen many strange things in my
wanderings of ten years, gained many bitter experiences, mingled with
many strange people, touched close on terrible tragedies; but one thing
I have never lost throughout all--my pride and my freedom. Go, Philip,
you have your answer in my farewell words of ten years ago. I have no
room to remember. I have mastered the art of forgetfulness and
oblivion."

With one quick movement she stooped, drew the long folds of her shining
draperies about her, gathering her laces in one hand, and swept by him
swiftly; the moonlight clinging to her as she moved, surrounded her as
with a halo, and lighted up the fine scorn that curved her lips and
glowed in her deep eyes.

In another moment the elastic swaying hazel-boughs parted to receive
her, and then springing back, hid the slight graceful figure from
Philip's sight.

And still the drops falling from the vase, held high in the hands of the
boy-god Narcissus, counted out the moments, and the moonbeams fell
straight and long, in narrow shafts, across the spot where Patricia had
leant her fair form, stirring to sudden life with her jewelled fingers
the water's placid dark surface.

Now she was gone, and the radiance departed with her.

END OF VOL. I.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.


peering through the night.

“Of course. Like yourself I was not at all sure as to what resistance
I’d meet with. Success only comes to the ready man.”

Just then a great beam of white light shot across the water and
brought all three vessels into strong relief. It was the searchlight
at Fort Schuyler; the firing had evidently been heard, and they were
endeavoring to locate the trouble. At the first swinging sweep of the
light the _Vixen’s_ decks were flooded. Kenyon saw Gypsy Brady and his
followers still grouped about the rebellious skipper and engineer; at
the wheel was a slim, girlish figure enveloped in the long coat, and
near by was Garry Webster.

At the first flash Farbush uttered an exclamation; then he turned upon
Kenyon with distorted face and upraised hand, his whole frame shaking
with what looked like fury. For a moment he stood thus, glaring at the
imperturbable adventurer. Then his hand dropped and the look gave place
to a smile, while he said, hurriedly:

“What the devil! That confounded light almost startled me out of my
wits!”

XXI

KENYON BEGINS TO SEE THE LIGHT

  “And, so, the youth he sat him down in the shade of the tree, and
  told him many things that he had not heard before.”

                               --_The Amazing Adventures of Mansour Bi._

IT had been after dawn when Kenyon reached his hotel, and he had slept
all day. So it was about six in the evening when he arose and bathed
and shaved and put on a well-fitting business suit of gray which his
tailor had lately delivered.

“I’ve been living in my evening clothes of late,” said he; “and it
feels rather good to get into something else.”

A knock came upon the door.

“Come,” said he.

A bell-hop opened the door, and said:

“A gentleman to see you, sir.”

Kenyon looked at the card. It contained the name:

  PHILIP AUSTIN.

“Again it begins,” muttered he. Then to the boy he said: “Send him up.”

The lad closed the door, and Kenyon threw the card upon the table.

“I had intended to have a turn at hunting up that last name,” said he.
“But this will probably save me the trouble.”

A few moments later a stout, stoop-shouldered young man was ushered
in. He stuck a pair of glasses upon his nose and looked Kenyon over
carefully. Then he said:

“Mr. Kenyon, I thought it as well to call upon you.”

“Quite right,” returned the adventurer, affably. “Will you sit down?”

“Thanks.”

All the lights were turned on and Kenyon inspected his visitor with
the same care that the latter had bestowed upon himself. As he sat
holding out his hands toward the gas logs, for the November evening
was decidedly cold, he looked small and placid and good-humored;
nevertheless there was a keenness about him that was unmistakable.

“I had expected to hear from you,” said he. “The understanding was, if
I remember correctly, that you were to come to me immediately upon my
grandfather’s death.” He looked inquiringly at the adventurer. “But,
perhaps,” he added, “you had reasons for not doing so.”

“Good reasons,” replied Kenyon, grimly.

“I waited patiently; but when I learned from Miss Gilbert that the old
man was dead, and still you did not put in an appearance, I could wait
no longer. I got into town this afternoon, and called up about all the
hotels in New York, inquiring if they had anyone of your name. I got to
this one about a half hour ago, and so I came immediately upon learning
you were here.”

“I’m glad you did so,” replied the other. Then as an afterthought,
“Have you seen Miss Gilbert to-day?”

“I have never seen Miss Gilbert.” Austin ran his fingers through his
sandy hair. “In fact I never knew that there was a Miss Gilbert until
the other day.” He looked at Kenyon speculatively for a moment, and
then continued. “Do you know that you have her puzzled, more or less.”

“Indeed.”

“At least I so gathered from her letter. She seems to be not at all
sure of you. She told me that she desired to believe you a friend to
me, but that she could not honestly assure me that you were. She feared
that you were leagued with the others.”

Kenyon nodded, coolly; but he was amazed.

“Is it possible,” he mentally exclaimed, “that I have here the
mysterious unknown!”

“But look here,” said the young man, “I think this whole situation
is really farcical. There is no common sense to it. You see, because
I’ve always been messing among inventions and things of that sort, my
grandfather got the notion that I was far from practical, and actually
not qualified to take care of myself.”

“Old men have rather odd fancies at times,” said Kenyon.

“Just so. And he would not listen to any of my protestations; he
ordered me under cover until you had come along and pronounced
everything safe. The whole thing was absurd; but what was I to do? Even
now I’m going against his wishes.”

“So it would seem,” agreed Kenyon.

“The idea of these partners of his being such formidable and ruthless
persons, got to be a sort of obsession with him,” proceeded Philip
Austin. “Why, he feared them, as far as I was concerned, as he had
never feared anything before. You see,” lowering his voice and leaning
toward Kenyon, confidentially, “he had the notion that they wanted my
cousin, Scott Austin, to inherit the control of the business, in order
that the contraband end of it should continue.”

“Ah!”

“You know, this branch of the business of Austin & Co. was largely
carried on by Farbush, at New York, and Hong Yo, at Hong Kong. I don’t
think,” and the young man looked at Kenyon, appealingly, “that my
grandfather ever profited a dollar by it.”

“Perhaps not.”

“When it became known that the old man was about to die--that he could
not live above a few months at most, he sent a young man, a minor
partner, Forrester by name, to acquaint me with many things which
he felt that I should know--he meaning that I should be his heir. I
remember very distinctly expressing myself plainly as to the illegal
features of the business of Austin & Co. If I should ever come into
control, I promised to smash the contraband end as flat as a board.”

“And Forrester told the other partners at Hong Kong and New York?”

“He must have. At any rate they both appeared at Seattle; and what they
said and did must have frightened my grandfather thoroughly. It was
then that he ordered me to lay low until you came along to take charge
of things.”

“Why I, in particular?”

“His first thought was to secure the services of General Nunez. But
he learned that Nunez was dead. It seems that he had heard much of
you through Nunez; and, rather naturally, you were the next person
considered.”

That the young man was speaking the plain truth Kenyon never
questioned for a moment; he saw that the time had arrived to make
some sort of a finish to the case, and that to have a free and frank
understanding would perhaps serve him better than anything else.
So, beginning with his coming upon the _Blenheim_, he related his
adventures since arriving in New York. Philip Austin listened as
Webster had listened, in astonishment, and silence. When he had heard
all, he remarked, slowly:

“Do you know, that is all very wonderful? I now begin also to get
an idea of what Miss Gilbert hinted at in her letter.” He looked at
Kenyon, curiously, and then laughed. “Things do turn out strangely,
don’t they?”

“Undoubtedly,” Kenyon answered. Then with a change of tone: “Who is
Miss Gilbert?”

“I don’t know,” answered the other frankly. “You see I had little or
no knowledge of my grandfather’s household. I never visited there; we
did not even correspond, for he always fancied that I was next door to
a fool for not giving up my experimenting in chemicals and mechanics
and settling down to practical business. But,” and young Austin
wrinkled his brow, “it seems to me that I did hear something about his
adopting the daughters of an old friend, years ago, when I was quite a
youngster. However,” and he nodded his head confidently, “whoever she
is, she must be all right; for the old man seems to have trusted her in
everything.”

Kenyon had passed the other his cigarette-case; and now they smoked
silently for some time. Finally the sandy-haired young man spoke, and
his voice was grave.

“Do you know, what you have said has astounded me! All along I have
been holding this thing lightly, as a sort of hallucination which a
man desperately ill is likely to be seized with. I could not seriously
consider that, at this late day, any such ornate scheme of murder would
be undertaken by the settled and prosperous members of a great business
enterprise.”

“One can never tell,” replied Kenyon. “The crooked element in the
business of Austin & Co. may have proven so very profitable that Hong
Yo and Farbush would rather risk their necks than give it up.”

Just then the telephone bell rang.

“Pardon me,” said Kenyon, rising. He took down the receiver and called.
“Hello! Who is it?”

“Kenyon of Saginaw wants the other Kenyon,” answered a voice.

“Well, here he is. But how’s the head?”

“Fine and fancy. I’m still under wraps, but it’s only to make sure. I
really don’t need ’em. It felt so good to-day, that I went out hunting
that guy, the ‘Stalker.’”

“And did you find him?”

“In a minute! You see I had picked up a fellow that knew him, and he
pointed him out to me. Well, I wasn’t taking any chances of mixing it
with him; I wasn’t just ready for _that_ yet. So I followed the plug
around to see where he was stabling. I wanted to be able to pick him
up any time I wanted him, you see. And after a while he gets so funny
in his actions that I felt sure that he had something on. You know,
you told me that if I could dig up any more news about this Selden’s
Square thing, to do it; and it struck me that I was just ripe to find
something out if I stalked the ‘Stalker.’”

“And did you?” eagerly.

“I did. You see, when--”

“Just a moment. Come over to the hotel. I’ll leave word at the office
to have them send you right up.”

“All right, bo, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Kenyon then called the office, after which he hung up and turned to
Austin.

“We will possibly have some news of consequence in a little while,”
said he.

“I hope so,” returned the other, “as the thing stands it’s rather
unsatisfactory. This little matter of Forrester is really aggravating.”

Promptly at the expiration of ten minutes, the pugilist from Saginaw
was shown in. He seemed all eagerness, and at Kenyon’s invitation
immediately began his story.

“As soon as I falls to it that I’m due for some information, why, I
begins to play the fox myself, see? So the more this Stalker throws his
gaze around, the hotter I’m on the Sherlock thing. After getting a lot
of stuff together at different places, he hikes out and gets a train
for South Norwalk. But he can’t shake me, so I’m about three seats
behind him all the way down. Once or twice I notices him piking me off.
It’s the bandages on my top that does it; he’s sure that he’s seen them
before and is trying to locate them. But I keep the innocent look, and
have my nose pointed into a magazine; it’s a plain thing to me that
I’ve got him guessing.

“He gets out at South Norwalk. I pike him on the platform waiting to
see if I follow him. But I have the wisdom with me, and make my duck on
the other side. He waits awhile; but as I’m not to be seen he starts
straight off. He gets a buggy and I get another. About five miles
outside the town he meets another party, quite a big stuff, who has
another buggy, and hands over the things that he’s brought along. They
talk for some time, and then his Stalkers turns his horse and starts
back. I’m pulled off the road into a kind of wagon track, all this
time, you see, so he drives by and goes on his way to the station,
while I pull out and starts to follow up the other party.”

“Excellent!” praised Kenyon.

“It was only a chance,” continued the other. “I thought it might have
something to do with the affair you were asking me about, you see.
Well, at last the big guy comes to kind of a fine-looking old house
standing away back in a little woods, and there he meets a girl with
yellow hair that seems mighty glad to see him.”

Kenyon and Austin exchanged looks, but the other continued:

“They went inside and I lingered around for a while to see if there
would be anything doing; but as all was quiet along that section of
the pike, I drove along a little farther until I sights a young heck
cutting wood. In a minute I was framed up against him, handing him the
wise talk; and he told me all he knew--that is, all of it that I wanted
to hear. The people at the old house in the woods had only come last
night. As far as he knew a man and a woman arrived then--late. But
this morning about a dozen men landed. He had no idea what was up; but
he had a kind of hunch that it wasn’t quite level. So after that I got
back to the station and caught a train for New York.”

“It’s Forrester and the girl Anna,” said Austin, promptly.

“Precisely.” Kenyon picked up a time-table and began studying it. “I
rather think I’ll pay them a visit to-night.”

“Good,” cried the other. “And shall I go with you?”

“Glad to have you.” Kenyon then went to the ’phone and called up
Webster.

“What is it,” answered the young man from Chicago.

“Another adventure. Are you game for it?”

“Only try me,” came the eager reply.

“Very well, I’ll pick you up on the way to the station.”

The motor-car which Kenyon ordered was announced, and he and Austin had
drawn on their overcoats when the little pugilist said:

“I say, if you think you could use a guy of my tonnage, pal, why, just
give the word.”

“I wouldn’t think of trying to do without you,” replied Kenyon. “Come
along.”

XXII

THE LIGHT GROWS STRONGER

  “The plans of men have various terminations.”

                                              --_The Strategy of Nunez._

THE little party left the train at South Norwalk; it was shortly after
nine o’clock when they engaged a carry-all from a liveryman and began
the journey along the road which the youth from Saginaw indicated.

“Rather a dark night,” commented Webster.

“Like ink,” replied Philip Austin.

A lamp hung at each side of the trap, and they projected their
struggling rays for a very short space ahead; the horses, with ears
cocked, jogged briskly along. The road, when they had left the town
well behind, grew lonely and still.

The lines of rail fencing went wavering by in the lamp-light; trees by
the wayside seemed vast and shadowy and full of strange murmurings;
now and then, from far across the fields, they caught the flicker of a
light in a farmhouse.

At length after they had been on the road about a half hour or more,
they heard a faint whistle.

“This is the place where the Stalker met the other party,” whispered
the pugilist. “I can tell it by the cross-roads.”

Kenyon drew in the horses, and a man emerged from the shadows. He
peered into the vehicle and seemed disappointed.

“Excuse me,” said he. “I thought you were some friends of mine.”

“Sort of a lonely place to wait, isn’t it,” asked Kenyon, examining the
man keenly.

“It’s not very lively,” returned he, rather surlily. “Going on to
Cranberry?”

“Beyond that,” answered Kenyon. He was about to drive on when the man
suddenly placed his hand upon the shaft, as though struck by a thought.

“Say,” said he, “did you have anybody walking ahead?”

“No. Why?”

The man ignored the question.

“Did you see anyone on the road as you came along?” continued he.

“No.”

“It’s damned funny!” muttered the fellow, and with that he turned away
and was lost in the darkness.

Kenyon touched the horses with the whip; a little further on he
remarked: “That would appear to be one of the men who arrived this
morning, eh?”

“It must be,” answered Webster. “And apparently he’s posted at the
cross-roads as a sort of lookout.”

“Did it strike you that he seemed a little bewildered?” asked Austin.

“He’s ‘seeing things at night,’” put in the pugilist. “And when a guy
begins to do that in a nice, dark, lonely place, it kind of gets him
going.”

“Someone probably passed along the road, and paid no attention to his
signal, if he gave one,” suggested Kenyon.

“Um-m-m!” grunted Webster. And as they proceeded slowly along he
narrowly scanned the roadside; also he listened attentively for any
sounds that the night might hold, beyond his line of vision.

After a time the youth from Saginaw said:

“See that bunch of deeper black over there? Well, I’m pretty sure
them’s the trees that I told you about. The house stands right in the
thick of them.”

A dense black mass loomed against the sky to the right; and as they
looked they caught the glimmer of light through it. Kenyon was about
to pull up the horses when a second whistle fell upon their ears; so,
instead, he shook the reins and went jogging on.

“Apparently Mr. Forrester is a most cautious person,” said he, in a low
tone. “He seems to have the place as thickly picketed as the camp of a
flying column. I wonder why.”

“He fears visitors, perhaps,” suggested Webster.

“Then why does he remain so close to the city? Why did he not put a
long distance between himself and pursuit.”

“Depend upon it,” put in Austin, confidently, “he has some excellent
reason. And I feel that we are to have it made plain to us before long.”

Some little distance further along they took down a section of fence,
drove into a field and unhitched. After tying the horses securely they
made their way softly back across the fields in the direction of the
gloomy grove where they had seen the twinkling light. The earth was
hard with early frost. Here and there the thin ice, that had formed
upon some shallow pools, crackled under their feet; there were fences
to climb, and once they came upon a small creek which had to be waded
with some discomfort. But finally they arrived at the edge of the grove.

“Well,” commented Kenyon, as they paused for a moment among the trees,
“he doesn’t seem to have safeguarded all the approaches, at any rate.”

Softly they advanced toward the house. In places the earth was littered
with fallen leaves which were dry and would have made a great
crackling under the feet of four men; but by instinct, it seemed,
Kenyon led them along the wind-swept spaces, soundless and like shadows.

The house stood in a narrow clearing. Several of the lower windows were
brilliantly lighted and threw bars of radiance across the lawn.

“It has quite a colonial look,” said Webster. “Witness the high, narrow
windows, the small lights of glass, the many stone steps, and the
tremendous main door.”

Austin suddenly clutched Kenyon by the arm.

“Look there!” he breathed.

“What is it?” in the same low tone.

“At the window, to the right. It was a woman.”

“I got a little glimpse of her,” said Saginaw. “And, say, she looked as
if she was tip-toeing around.”

“That was my impression, too,” replied Austin, wonderingly. “Every
movement seemed caution itself.”

“A servant, perhaps,” suggested Webster.

They remained in the shadow of the trees for some little time watching
the window indicated; but the woman did not reappear.

“I should like to get nearer the house,” said Kenyon. “But it’s rather
a ticklish proceeding to cross those shafts of light; for there is
really no knowing how many of those dozen men may be lying about in the
dark.”

“Perhaps the windows at the rear are not lighted,” suggested Webster.

“Good! I’ll work my way around there and see. It will perhaps be best
for the rest of you to remain where you are. Don’t break cover until
you hear me call or are sure that I’ve gotten into trouble.”

And with this he crept softly away into the darkness. While in the
front of the house he kept to the trees; but when he reached the side
where the light did not fall he ventured into the clearing, as the
progress was less difficult there.

He had not taken a dozen steps when a heavy hand was laid upon his
shoulder; and a rough voice said:

“I thought I heard somebody out there! So, now then, neighbor, give an
account--”

He only reached this far when Kenyon’s arm shot around with a sort of
hooking motion. The blow traveled no more than five inches, yet the man
dropped as though he had been shot. Kenyon bent over him for a moment.

“He seems good for a half hour,” he muttered. “But I’ll have to risk
his coming to and giving an alarm.”

He wasted no time over the fallen man, but continued on his way. When
he gained the rear of the house he found that all was darkness. But he
heard the constant murmur of voices from somewhere near at hand, and
so did not dare to advance farther. At length, however, a door opened,
and a man stepped out bearing a lantern. In the rays of this Kenyon saw
two men seated upon an old-fashioned settle near the door; it was these
whose voices he had heard.

The man with the lantern stood in the doorway for a moment; behind
him Kenyon caught a glimpse of a dimly lighted hall of great width
that seemed to run directly through the building. The three exchanged
some remarks which Kenyon could not catch; the two men upon the settle
arose, and the third closed the door. Then they struck into a narrow
path among the trees and disappeared. Kenyon waited until the sounds of
their footsteps had died away; then he advanced boldly, opened the door
and entered.

No one was to be seen; the lights were dim, as he had noticed from the
outside. Softly but deliberately he walked down the length of the wide
hall and turned into a room where a bright light was burning. But the
room, also, was empty, and he paused, looking about him. There was a
doorway hung with heavy portières, leading to a room beyond, and as
Kenyon stood examining the place the voice of Forrester reached him
from this latter.

“I tell you, my dear, it is all for the best. You shall see that before
the night is over.”

“I hope so, Griscom,” said the voice of Anna. “But I can’t help being
nervous.”

“Oh, of course not; and to tell you the honest truth, I am also a bit
that way. It’s the suspense that does it.” There was a short pause,
during which Kenyon heard the rustling of papers; then Forrester
proceeded: “I don’t fear Hong Yo in the least; and as for Farbush,
well, you know how I classed him long ago. It’s the other--that close
mouthed, swift-eyed Kenyon that I really dread.”

“And I,” echoed Anna. “He is so secretive, he seems to know so much
that we thought no one knew; and he is so cold and observing; he
appears to be weighing one’s thoughts, continually, and casting about
for some means of profiting by the result.”

“It must have been some sort of an evil influence that prompted me to
encourage the old man in his desire to have this same fellow,” said
Forrester, and there was a note of complaint in his voice that made
Kenyon smile.

“I never could understand what made you do it,” said the girl.

“I thought it for the best. Like fools, Farbush and Hong began making
threats as to what they would do if young Philip Austin succeeded to
the business. The old man became frightened. One day he told me that
he intended to send for a man who he knew could be trusted to protect
Philip.”

“And that man was Kenyon.”

“Yes. God knows where old Stephen had ever heard of him. And I had to
encourage this notion, or perhaps have him invoke the law.”

“The last would never have done,” said the girl, hastily.

“Of course not. I saw at once that the only safe thing to do was to
find the man, somehow, and arrange matters with him, if he was willing
to make a deal.”

“And the result of your efforts was those three foolish persons who
wandered into the net like so many stupid flies.”

Kenyon heard a fist strike a table impatiently; then Forrester cried:

“I’ll never forgive myself for that blunder! It was caused by
over-anxiety. I desired to gain time.”

“But to write four letters; to direct them to different places! Was
that not taking a desperate chance?”

“Something had to be done. I could think of nothing better. Old Stephen
did not know where Kenyon was at that time, but he was trying to trace
him. I found, in his desk, a list of four places where the person
sought _had_ been, and then conceived the plan of writing a letter to
each of these places, in the hope that one or the other of them would
reach him in some way. I named the house in Selden’s Square as the
place--Farbush taking it blindly at my request--and the night upon
which old Stephen died as the time of meeting.

“All this was meant to save time. The idea was sound, and the whole
trouble resulted from the old man’s not knowing Kenyon’s first name.
So I was forced to address the letters simply to _Mr._ Kenyon. And the
cursed post-office delivered three of them to strangers.”

“Griscom! Griscom! It was not all ill-luck. You were foolish,
indiscreet.”

“But I fancied the man who wrote me from Butte was the right person.”

“Were you sure? Was there anything to warrant your doing what you did.
You at once told him everything. He might have ruined all.”

“Why, my dear, have you, too, turned against me! Farbush has gibed at
me for the past week for that mistake, and though Hong says little, I
know he holds it over my head.”

Then Kenyon heard a sudden rustling of skirts, an ejaculation; a
succession of kisses and a smothered flood of endearments. Finally
Anna’s voice was heard, saying:

“But let them plot and struggle! What do we care? We have what we
want--what we have always wanted. It does not make any difference to
us who succeeds to Stephen Austin’s business, now.” There was a great
rustling of paper, as though someone had plunged eager hands among a
heap of loose sheets. “Five hundred thousand dollars!” came the girl’s
voice, high and triumphant. “A half million of money.”

“Not money, my dear, but something just as serviceable. Negotiable
securities. How fortunate you heard old Stephen trying to tell Dallas
where they were that day while he lay dying.”

“I did not dream that she understood. I almost died upon the night I
met that man upon the stairs, for then I understood that she had told
him.”

“Ah, woman’s intuition!” cried Forrester in delight, while Kenyon’s
shoulders shook sardonically. “And so when we found the safe opened and
the securities gone, you knew the very place to look for them.”

They both laughed at this; then there were more endearments.

“It would be interesting and perhaps somewhat profitable,” mused
Kenyon, as he patiently waited, “to know just how little acuteness and
how much chance there is mingled with the majority of successful moves.
I think I’d back the latter to win.”

“But in spite of all our good luck,” said Anna, after a time, “I cannot
help dreading the coming of Hong Yo and Mr. Farbush. Oh, my dear, why
did we not continue on. We could have left the country, and they would
never have known where we had gone.”

“But think of the continuous suspense that we should have been in; we
should forever be fearing pursuit. No, no; trust me! The way I have
selected is the best. They can do us no harm.”

“No harm? They may murder you! You know what they are. And you cannot
even defend yourself.”

“But I have _others_ engaged who can defend me.” Forrester laughed, but
Kenyon noted that it was forced and husky.

“Oh, this birth-curse,” the man proceeded, a species of despair now in
his voice. “The mere thought of blood makes me smother with fear.”

“Humph!” was the listening adventurer’s silent comment. “The
blood-horror was not a bluff, after all. What a peculiar situation.”

Apparently it was fully appreciated by the two in the adjoining room.
The girl softly murmured her sympathy, and the man said, in a lowered
tone:

“It’s a curse that I’ve carried through life like an incubus. A
thousand times has it held me back when I’ve had victories in my very
hands. Look at the case with old Stephen. Hong did not trust me. He
made me plead my disability in order that the old man should not tell
me too much, and so give me an advantage over himself and Farbush! Oh,
if I could only shake it off! If I could only rid myself of it for
good!”

The girl was still comforting him when there came the steady tramp of
footsteps upon the hard ground without and the sound of voices.

“They have come!” Kenyon heard the girl exclaim, and there was terror
in her tones.

“Be brave!” Forrester whispered, as the great hall door opened, and
a gust of cold air swept through the passage and into the rooms in
a way that made the lights dance. Then footsteps were heard in the
hall--slow, painful footsteps--and the door closed with a bang. Kenyon
peered through the portières to get a view of the newcomers. He saw
Forrester and Anna standing beside a table in the centre of the room.
In a doorway stood Farbush, his face white and ominous with rage; and
leaning upon him was Hong Yo, looking like the spectre of death itself,
but gazing at the young man and girl with laughing mockery in his
slit-like eyes.

XXIII

WHAT KENYON HEARD AND SAW

  “The end, when it comes, comes quickly.”

                                                --_An Adage of Hong Yo._

FOR a moment there was silence, then, as Kenyon watched, he saw long,
shuddering spasms of laughter shake the emaciated frame of Hong Yo,
while one yellow claw was weakly raised, pointing in ghoulish mirth at
Forrester.

Kenyon felt his skin prickle.

“What a hideous beast!” he muttered, his face showing his repugnance.
“If it were possible to see his soul, I wonder what it would look like?”

“You were longing for our society, were you?” spoke Hong Yo, in his
slow, careful English. “And we had all but given you up.”

He was racked by a fit of coughing; Farbush led him to a chair, and
when the paroxysm had subsided, he was breathless and almost without
life.

“Will you sit down?” Forrester said to Farbush.

The latter did so, silently. He sat far back in the chair, drumming
with noiseless fingers upon its arms, his hard eyes full of fury, his
thin, cruel mouth shut in a straight line.

“Our friend Hong is to be the speaker, however,” concluded Kenyon, from
his vantage behind the portières. “That seems to be understood between
them.”

After a few moments the Chinaman had recovered somewhat, but when he
spoke it was in a faint, gasping wheeze.

“That was a pretty ruse--that of the yacht.”

Forrester stared at the speaker in surprise.

“The yacht?” said he inquiringly.

A ghastly grin crossed Hong Yo’s face; he waved a hand in a feeble
gesture of impatience.

“We met her before she had passed North Brother Island. We expected
to find you on board--and these,” pointing to the securities upon the
table.

Forrester laughed.

“Is it possible that _you_ went in chase of the _Wizard_? Why, that
little matter was laid down for the astute Mr. Kenyon’s private use.”

The watcher saw Farbush start.

“Kenyon!” exclaimed the man.

“Why, to be sure. I was confident that, with his infernal cleverness,
he’d think of the yacht when he found that Anna had gotten the
securities.”

“Ah! So you admit the cracking of the safe now?” Farbush leaned toward
the younger man, and his thin lips curled back from his teeth. “You
denied it strongly enough upon the night that it was done.”

“I still deny it,” answered Forrester. He seated himself beside the
table and began gathering up the securities. “In fact I don’t mind
admitting that such a neat and effective job is entirely beyond me.”

Hong Yo and Farbush exchanged glances.

“The securities were locked in the safe,” said Hong Yo. “And you admit
that Anna took them; then she--or you--must have forced the safe.”

“Your conclusion is natural enough,” replied Forrester, “but is
scarcely correct. Anna did get the securities, as I said, but not from
your safe,” to Farbush.

“No,” said the girl, “from Dallas Gilbert.”

The two men started, but said nothing; Forrester smiled.

“You will be astonished to hear, I feel sure, that Dallas and Kenyon
have established a sort of co-partnership in this matter of ours. He
was on the premises upon the night the safe was opened; in fact, I’m
quite convinced that it was he that did the opening.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Hong Yo said:

“Yesterday you would have surprised us with this; but not now. We were
quite convinced, last night, that Kenyon, like yourself, is playing a
game of his own.”

“And we may astonish _you_ some,” spoke Farbush, “by telling you that
not only is he leagued with Dallas Gilbert, but with young Philip
Austin, as well.”

Forrester stared; Anna clasped her hands, nervously.

“I saw Austin with Kenyon last night,” said Farbush, “as plainly as I
see you now.”

Both Forrester and Anna were visibly amazed; but not any more than was
Kenyon himself.

“That’s a point that I missed, somehow,” he muttered. “Either that, or
it’s some sort of a blind to fool Forrester.”

“But all this has no real connection with our visit,” said Hong Yo,
hollowly. “The Stalker said that you had a matter of importance to
settle with us.”

“I have,” replied Forrester. He placed his hand upon the packet of
securities. “It is about these.”

Hong Yo coughed. The almost fleshless hand trembled as he lifted it to
his lips; then he said:

“I imagined that. But go on.”

“I want to withdraw from the arrangement that we made. I am not fitted
to carry it out. As you are aware, I cannot go far enough. This booty
is to be my share; the remainder I leave for you and Farbush.”

“Oh!”

The burning little eyes shone through the puckered, slanting lids; the
bloodless lips smiled. It was like the horrid mirth of a demon in a
mediæval poem.

“Now that our plans seem apt to go astray,” mocked he, “you have
thought it well to feather your own nest.”

“I offered all along to do this very thing,” cried Forrester. “I knew
when murder was seriously entertained, that I must withdraw.”

Hong Yo arose. His step was wavering and strengthless; there seemed to
be only a flutter of life in his shrunken frame; but, to the watching
Kenyon, his purpose was as deadly as the look in his eyes.

“You persist in this?” asked he, slowly.

“I do,” said Forrester, quietly.

Farbush sat with one leg crossed over the other; his face had suddenly
grown expressionless, his body seemed tensely flexed.

“He expects a climax, I fancy,” thought Kenyon.

“Did it never occur to you,” gasped Hong Yo, steadying himself by
laying his left hand upon the back of a chair, “that we might not be
willing to fall in with your views.”

Forrester smiled, confidently. The fresh, boyish candor which had so
struck Kenyon, at first sight of him, was perfect.

“Oh, I think you will,” said he. “I don’t see how you can very well
refuse.”

“And why?”

Hong Yo had drawn nearer, and Kenyon noted the yellow claw once more
stealing toward the breast of his blouse. But Forrester did not give
way; he only smiled, quietly.

“You see,” he answered, “you are hardly in a position to refuse me. I
have dropped my connection with your plot for good and all. With these
securities I disappear never to be heard of again. Without them, I
remain in New York to tell what I know.”

As the last word left his lips, the knife of the Chinaman flashed in
the lamp-light. Anna screamed; but for a moment Forrester retained his
calmness.

“He expects help,” was the thought that flashed through Kenyon’s mind.

But the help for some reason did not come; and then the confidence
suddenly died, leaving the young giant white and apparently paralyzed
with fear. Hong Yo was taking the step that would bring him within
striking distance; and like a fascinated thing Forrester awaited the
blow. Again Anna screamed; and now she threw herself upon Forrester’s
breast. The knife was raised and would have fallen, but there came a
sharp, answering cry, the sound of swift-moving feet, and two strong
white hands clutched the arm of Hong Yo.

“Dallas!” cried Kenyon in amazement; and with the name upon his lips,
he whipped out his long revolver, thrust aside the portières, and
stepped into the room.

Farbush had leaped to his feet, but with what intention will never be
known; for at sight of Kenyon and the murderous Colt he shrank back.
Dallas uttered a little cry of joy; she sprang to meet Kenyon with
outstretched hands.

“You!” she exclaimed.

“To be sure,” said he. “I am still trying to furnish proof of my
rectitude.”

He pressed her hand as he spoke, and his brown eyes twinkled
humorously; but, at the same time, they never left Hong Yo and Farbush,
and the black muzzle of his huge weapon was not once lowered.

Then the adventurer swiftly stepped to the table and laid a hand upon
the packet of securities.

“I think,” said he, coolly, “that I will take charge of these, just
now.”

He slid them into his overcoat pocket, and then glanced sharply around
as he caught a queer sound from Hong Yo. The Chinaman was swaying
weakly; his hands vaguely clutched at the empty air, and his pale lips
were muttering in his own language. Then suddenly he pitched forward
and lay still. Farbush crept forward, cowed, to look at him.

“He’s dead,” said he.

And just then, through the doorway, came Philip Austin, Garry Webster,
and the bandaged youth from Saginaw.

“We heard the screams,” said Webster, “and thought you might need us.”
Then seeing the stark form of Hong Yo, he exclaimed: “Hello! What’s
this?”

“It looks quite a bit like the end to me,” replied Kenyon.

XXIV

CONCLUSION

  “And so they were married and lived happily ever afterwards.”

                                          --_The End of Any Good Story._

GARRY WEBSTER and Philip Austin were at dinner in the former’s
apartments some few nights later, when Kenyon was announced.

“Have a bite, old boy,” Webster incited. “We have some little things
here that I know you’ll appreciate.”

“Thanks, no; I’ve only stopped in to keep you from bothering me upon
that confounded telephone of yours. I’ve not had a restful moment at my
apartments for days. I’ve either been forced to listen to your frantic
calls, or been in constant expectation of their renewal, every moment
of the time I’ve been home.”

Webster grinned.

“Oh, well, you know,” said he, “it’s nothing but natural curiosity. I
only wanted to know any little thing you’d found out.”

After he had put down his hat, overcoat, gloves, and stick, Kenyon
turned his back to Webster’s ruddy log fire and looked comfortable.

“Look what it is to have money,” said he. “Log fires; nice little
dinners; expensive hotels. The hardware trade must be an excellent one.”

“No better than the importing of fine oriental stuffs,” replied
Webster, calmly, as he went on with his dinner. “Austin has just been
telling me about his offer to you.”

“And I renew it,” spoke Austin seriously. “Since I’ve kicked out
Farbush and that fellow Forrester, and since Hong Yo is dead, I’ve got
the entire thing to myself. I’ll have you in as a partner, if you’ll
run the business.”

“I’m going to take you up,” said Kenyon, quietly.

“Bravo!” Young Austin arose and solemnly shook the adventurer’s hand.
“Do you know, the sudden shifting of all this upon my shoulders has
sort of upset me. I’ve got work to do at my laboratories in Chicago,
and will have no time to fool away on a shipping trade at Seattle.
Another thing: I have no taste for the thing, and could never grasp its
details.”

“And Kenyon is just the fellow for it,” put in Webster. “He knows more
about China than most people; and then he’s a regular bull-terrier for
holding on. I always said he’d make an excellent business man.”

“Thanks,” smiled Kenyon, “your friendly offices, Garry, are very
grateful. And they are much more kindly meant than those of my old
co-laborer, Balmacenso.”

Webster lifted his brows.

“You’ve learned something against that worthy revolutionist, then,”
said he.

“Yes; among the securities and other papers which I took from Forrester
and turned over to Austin were a few letters which I took the liberty
of withholding. They were addressed to Forrester and signed with my
name--but they were in the handwriting of Balmacenso.”

“The blackguard!” exclaimed Austin.

“Wasn’t he! It was a neat, carefully laid little plan. From certain
angles I have nothing but admiration for it. You see, he opened
Forrester’s first letter to me at Rio. I know he did it in the hope
that it contained money, for I remember telling him one day that if
things did not get better for us, I’d have to send North for a loan.
And I had you in mind,” bowing to Webster, with much ceremony.

“I should have been most happy,” returned that gentleman, solemnly.

“Forrester’s offer must have struck Balmacenso’s fancy. At any rate
he answered it, signing my name. Then came other letters carrying
the matter farther along, including a number from your grandfather,”
to Austin. “Balmacenso must have known that the _Blenheim_ was due at
Rio at a certain time, and wrote that he would sail in her. He always
used my name, and not once did I get even so much as a breath of any
side of the affair. And in his planning he was rather complete, too. He
arranged for the place of meeting and the signal by which he was to be
known.”

“And that was?”

“The slapping of a folded newspaper upon the palm of his hand. The
latter was scarcely original. It sounds like a ‘personal’ from the
_Herald_. Perhaps proximity had something to do with it. Then there was
a photo of Balmacenso that had been sent. Dallas fancied I looked like
it. So when I, of all persons, happened to appear at the time and place
specified, and unconsciously to give the signal, she could not doubt
but that I was the man she was waiting for.”

“It sounds like something that might have happened to one of the
Barber’s Seven Brothers.”

“Doesn’t it? But fever was a thing that Balmacenso had not counted
on; he had been dead some little time when the _Blenheim_ entered Rio
harbor; and instead of _his_ sailing on her, _I_ suddenly made up my
mind to do so.”

“And so fell into the situation that was to have been his,” said
Webster. “It’s plain enough now, old boy. Balmacenso would have grasped
right bravely all the things that puzzled you so, that night in
Selden’s Square. No doubt but that old Mr. Austin had sent him all the
information which the conspirators supposed you to have had. If, now,
you only had come upon the rascal’s papers!”

“I did make a search among his effects, thinking to get track of some
relatives to whom I could send the news of his death. But there was not
a scrap of writing to be found.”

“He had been at pains to secrete carefully anything of the kind, I
suppose,” remarked Austin. “The villain!”

“Why, he had been a very decent sort all along,” said Kenyon, beginning
to resume his things. “It was being moneyless in a strange country
that broke his nerve and drove him to rascality, like as not. There
are types of men who cannot bear up under poverty, you know.” He drew
on his gloves and took up his stick and hat. “At any rate, I prefer to
look at it so, for as I told you some time ago, Garry, he once saved my
life.”

He stood with his hand upon the door-knob, about to go, nodding over
his shoulder at the two at the table. Then a sudden smile crossed his
face, and he turned once more.

“That reminds me,” said he. “You know that we were all rather puzzled
by the statement of Farbush’s made the other night, that he had seen us
together,” to Austin, “on the night of the adventure on the East River.
Well, a chance remark of Anna’s to-day shed some light upon that.”

“Let us have it,” pleaded Webster.

“It seems that Anna once had a glimpse of you in ’Frisco,” continued
Kenyon to Austin. “She was walking with Forrester when you went by in a
motor-car; and he pointed you out.” Then the speaker turned to Webster.
“Do you recall the night that we dined downstairs--the night that
Farbush first appeared?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the girl in the heavy veil was Anna. And she mistook you for
Austin. She had had only one glimpse of you,” to Austin. “And I suppose
the only impression left by it was that you were rather short, somewhat
stout and had reddish hair. Well, if you’ll notice it, Webster has the
same general characteristics; and what more natural mistake could she
make when she saw him with me at such a stage in the proceedings? So
she told Farbush that Webster was Austin.”

“But about the night upon the river?” demanded Webster, perplexed.

“It’s very simple. When the searchlight from the fort swept the deck of
the Vixen, you were plainly in sight. Farbush saw you; but I thought at
the time that it was Miss Gilbert whom he had recognized.”

“Life in large cities is a peculiar thing,” mused Webster, sotto voce,
and in an exaggerated attitude of melodrama. “It is, really!”

“And Farbush’s hurried note to you that evening below, congratulating
you upon your celerity and warning you against overboldness, was all
upon the strength of your supposed rapid finding of me,” laughed
Austin. “Well, well! That was a curious turn enough.”

“Have you learned anything as to why old Mr. Austin’s body was removed
secretly, in the night, from the house in Selden’s Square?” asked
Webster. “I could never understand that move, among others.”

“They did not desire, so Farbush has told me, to have Austin, here,
know of his grandfather’s death until they could so manipulate the
matter of the securities, and some other things connected with the
business, that even if his life were spared in the end, he would
never suspect any tampering with the accounts. Toward the last, the
correspondence having been interrupted, they had about given up hope
of my arrival, and so they planned delays, until I should get upon the
ground. These plans were under way when I arrived; and so, I suppose,
they did not think it worth while to alter them.”

“When they had your three namesakes assaulted that night in Selden’s
Square,” said Austin, “I think the conspirators took a great risk of
betraying themselves to the police. I can’t see why the thing was
necessary.”

“You forget that the man from Butte knew their game. He got his
information from a second letter, written in reply to one from him
before they heard from Balmacenso. After Balmacenso’s letter was
received, they felt sure that _he_ was the man they were looking for,
and they realized that the Butte man was dangerous and must be removed.
It is more than likely that the other two had never written, but
just came on at the time appointed. We know this to be the case with
Saginaw. His letter only reached him thirty-six hours ahead. So three
men came to Selden’s Square instead of one; and as the plotters did not
know which of them was the man from Butte, they did for all three, to
make sure.”

“What do you suppose was to be your part in their game,” asked Webster.

“That of a traitor, almost entirely. I was thought to be stuffed to the
neck with information that would throw the matter directly into their
hands, when I was ready to act; all the secrets of old Stephen Austin
were believed to be at my finger ends, you see. Of course, they knew
that Forrester possessed the old man’s confidence; but they knew that
it was only in a limited degree, and that it would be worth little
unless coupled with what I was supposed to know.”

When Kenyon left the Waldorf-Astoria he walked up Fifth Avenue some
little distance, and then crossed to Madison. In a quiet, old-fashioned
room, where there were potted plants at the windows, he waited for
Dallas Gilbert.

When she appeared she was dressed in white and with a single red rose
at her breast. She held out her hand to him, silently; but her face
was flushed and her eyes were shining. Never had he seen her more
beautiful, and his admiration must have been plain to her, for she
dropped her eyes quickly.

“Anna has gone?” she asked, after they had seated themselves.

“I saw her and Forrester off in the noon train,” answered Kenyon. “She
cried a little when I told her how you had pleaded for Forrester
with Austin, and she sends her thanks. She also begs you not to think
harshly of her, nor of him. She said that neither of them had ever
meditated any wrong against you.”

“I feel sure of that,” replied Dallas. “I feel quite sure of it.” Then,
eagerly: “And you think they will be happy together!”

“They love one another very much,” returned Kenyon. “And, in my
opinion, that is everything.”

There was a brief pause; and then the girl said:

“I hope you are right, for I wish her all that is good. We have always
been together, you see.”

“You are really related, then?”

“She is my step-sister, and is a few years younger than myself. When
our parents died, Mr. Austin, who was my father’s friend, took us in
and cared for us, for we were very small at the time.”

“You lived with him at Seattle, then?”

“Not altogether. Mr. Farbush and he were our joint guardians; most of
the time we lived at the Fifth Avenue house.”

“I would have thought that life with such a man as Farbush would have
been far from pleasant.”

“He was never really unkind until lately. Indeed, he has always been
rather inclined to be generous. You see he had social pretensions; he
entertained a great deal, and Anna and I were useful. And, then, all
his life Mr. Farbush has been regarded as a model of integrity.”

“I fancy that you believed this of him and the others--at first.”

“Yes; Mr. Austin had always been eccentric, and when, toward the last,
he began to whisper to me of his partners’ plotting against him, I
thought it must be the result of his age and his illness--that his
suspicions were imaginings.”

“He made a confidante of you, then?”

“Always; but especially so during his last illness. I believe he told
me everything, including the whereabouts of his grandson, Philip
Austin. He always insisted that his partners would endeavor to
accomplish the death of Philip after he, old Mr. Austin, had passed
away.”

“So that Philip’s cousin, Scott, would come into the business?”

“Yes. It appears that Philip had expressed himself as being against
certain illegal features of the trade; but Scott had no such scruples.
Indeed, he would have been more likely to have tried to extend them
than otherwise. But Mr. Austin would whisper these things to me; no
one ever suspected that I was so entirely in his confidence.”

“But you did not consider the things told you as being worthy of
serious consideration. That is, you did not really suspect the partners
of wrong doing.”

“None but Hong Yo. I disliked him from the first. Griscom Forrester
I always regarded as honest--but rather weak. Mr. Farbush I did not
suspect for an instant, until he denied knowledge of the securities
which Mr. Austin had entrusted to him. It was then that I first became
convinced that there was really something wrong. I demanded to be
allowed to search the safe in Mr. Farbush’s office. He laughed at me,
but I could see that he was astonished at my knowledge, and frightened
also. Then I determined to appeal to Griscom Forrester. I followed him
one night, that I might have a chance to speak to him, privately. At
Union Square he began to trail after a man who had just passed. It was
you, and the fact startled me.”

“Of course,” said Kenyon, coolly. “You had small confidence in me then.”

The girl flushed.

“I had every reason in the world to hate you,” she said.

“I fancied that there was someone following Forrester and me, that
night,” said Kenyon, thoughtfully. From his expression and voice one
would have thought that he had not heard her words. Nevertheless, he
had, and was pondering them.

“After you turned into that brilliantly lighted street in the Chinese
quarter, I lost track of you,” she went on. “Then suddenly I came upon
the man swathed in bandages, looking deathly pale and unable to arise
from a doorway into which he had fallen. I was frightened, but I helped
him up, there being no one else at hand. He was like one demented,
for he kept muttering and vowing vengeance. Then I caught the names
of Farbush and Forrester, and heard him mention the house in Selden’s
Square. I questioned him. In a few moments I knew the outline of his
story, and of that of the others who lay injured in Bellevue.

“He said that he was going to the place called the ‘Far East’ to see
Hong Yo and have a settlement. I helped him there, for it agreed with
my plans, and shortly afterwards we were shown into another building
near at hand.”

“How did Forrester know that you were thereabouts?”

“It must have been accidental.”

“It was not. He and I were in a rear room of the ‘Far East.’ As I was
leaving it, I saw him go eagerly to a curtained window overlooking the
restaurant; I’m convinced that he expected to see you; and was greatly
disappointed at your departure. He immediately darted from the room by
way of the door leading to the street.”

There was a pause. Kenyon saw that she was thinking deeply. Then her
face lighted up.

“Hong Yo must have, in some way, discovered my presence with the
wounded man. Mr. Forrester may have heard it from him.”

“That’s it,” cried Kenyon. “He had been talking with Hong just before.
It was after he returned from this talk that he looked through the
curtains and ran out. In the midst of his plottings, the blood-horror
was strong upon him. He feared that some harm would befall you and the
man from Butte, and he was on his way to save you when he disappeared
from the rear room.”

“And he did save me--he and you!” She spoke in a lower voice, and he
could see a misty trouble in her eyes. “Will you forgive me for what I
said that night?” she pleaded, softly. “It was so very, very cruel! It
must have cut you to the heart to have me say such a thing to you, and
at a moment, too, when you were generously risking, perhaps, your life
to help me.”

“It _did_ hurt,” replied he. “It would be foolish for me to deny it.
But, then, I realized what your convictions must necessarily be. And
so,” smiling, “that eased it, you see.”

“At any rate, I realized, afterwards, what you had done for me, and so
began to doubt that you were to be classed among my enemies. When I
opened the packet of securities that night, after snatching them from
you in front of the safe, I found some letters with your name signed to
them.”

“Ah, yes,” said Kenyon with interest. “So you saw them, too?”

“There was something about them, I don’t know what, that caused me
to distrust them. That night when you came to the Club, in Mulberry
Street, a way of convincing myself as to this suddenly occurred to me.”

“You asked me to write my name in a book,” said Kenyon, quietly. “I
remember wondering about that at the time. I was quite confident though
that you had a secret motive.”

“The writing was not the same!” she cried, in triumph. “It was nothing
at all like that of the letters. And so,” with a laugh, “I was then
sure that--that you had not written them--that someone had used your
name, that you had spoken the truth that night in the cab when you
denied all knowledge of the Austin affair.”

“Clever!” commented Kenyon.

He watched the play of the lights in her brilliant face. When she
smiled, her teeth seemed perfection; and her eyes fairly set him
dreaming.

“I was pleased,” she said. “Indeed, I was quite delighted. And yet I
was frightened. I could not altogether--”

She hesitated painfully, now; so Kenyon finished the sentence for her.

“You could not altogether trust me,” said he, good-naturedly. “But that
was only natural. One seldom trusts, at the outset, persons whom one
has suspected of affiliation with the enemy. It’s a sort of military
instinct. Perhaps you get it from an ancestor, who may have been a
soldier.”

She laughed at this.

“And you must have thought me a most unaccountable person, all along!”
she cried. “Even to the very end I no doubt seemed a sort of fay,
appearing so strangely, as I did. Take the incident of a few nights ago
at the old house outside South Norwalk, for example.”

“I was astonished when you darted out so suddenly. But I had an
intimation that some unlooked-for person was on the ground, before us.
One of Forrester’s men saw, or heard, you in the road.”

“I heard his signal,” said Dallas, “and oh, I was so frightened. But I
hid myself and did not answer; later I stole away up the road.”

“But why did you walk all that distance; it was a good five miles.”

“I dreaded attracting attention by engaging a carriage. I thought
Forrester might have someone on the watch.”

“His watchers were scarcely trustworthy,” said Kenyon, grimly. “You
need not have been afraid. He must have instructed some of them to be
on hand if his visitors offered him violence; but they failed him. I
had no trouble about entering the house secretly; and I suppose you had
none, either.”

“No; and when I heard Anna and Mr. Forrester approaching the room that
I had entered, I hid in a sort of closet that was at the upper end.”

“Ah! that was when you went tip-toeing so cautiously across the floor.”

“You did not see me?”

“No; but Austin did. But, of course, he did not know who you were. But,
tell me: How did you learn that Forrester had gone to that particular
place?”

“The young man from Saginaw telephoned me. You see, I had left word
with him to keep me informed as to anything that he might discover.”

“Of course, of course! I remember, now, his telling me of that, at the
Hotel Suisse.”

There was a short silence. He was looking at her, and there was the
same question in his eyes that had been there in one form or another
ever since he had first seen her that night in the hansom cab. All the
other problems that the case had presented, he had approached with a
native and nonchalant boldness. But as he came to this one, he was
aware of a strange timorousness, a quick, short thumping of the heart,
an odd lack of control of the situation that was most unusual.

“There is a thing,” said he, with a little effort, “that has had me
wondering since our first meeting. I have often thought it over, but
could never make anything of it.”

There is nothing more certain in the world than an agitated mind’s
communicating its unrest to a neighboring one that is in any way
sensitive. This was now plainly the case. She instinctively seized the
thought before he had put it into words; the rich color flooded her
face; her heavy, dark lashes hid her eyes.

“Why were you so scornful that night?” asked he, leaning toward her.
“But no! When I come to think of it, it was not scorn, really; it was
contempt!”

“Oh, please!” she begged, lifting her eyes, imploringly.

“Tell me,” insisted he. “There was a reason for it. You had never seen
me before. And it could hardly have been a sudden aversion. It was too
complete for that.”

The color was still deep in her face; her slim hands were clasping
and unclasping nervously. But while her voice was low and her manner
confused, her eyes were brave.

“It was because of your friend, Balmacenso. When Mr. Austin wrote the
letter urging you to come to New York, the man answered asking what was
to be his--his reward.”

“And your guardian replied--?” eagerly.

If it were possible the exquisite color in her cheeks deepened.

“He sent Anna’s portrait, and mine. He offered either of us in
marriage. To give him peace we had consented to this. I--I was the
one selected; but the reward was, apparently, not great enough for
Balmacenso.”

“Not great enough!”

“He wanted money as well.”

The truth flashed upon Kenyon.

“And that was his price--that check that you gave me in the cab?”

“Yes,” she answered, almost in a whisper.

His eyes searched her face for a space. Heavens! Balmacenso must have
been a fool as well as a knave.

“What sort of a portrait of you was it that was sent him?” asked Kenyon.

“A very good one.”

“It couldn’t have been,” disagreed he, briefly.

Then he took a folded slip of paper from his pocket. Opening it he
said: “Then Hong Yo signed the checks for Austin & Co.?”

“Either he or Mr. Forrester.”

Kenyon touched one end of the slip to a flame that shot up from the
grate. In an instant the check was in ashes.

[Illustration: KENYON TOUCHED ONE END OF THE SLIP TO A FLAME]

“I don’t want anything to boot,” said he. “You are enough for me.”

“Oh!” She was upon her feet quickly, startled.

“Wait!” He, also, arose, and stood before her, very calmly, and quite
master of himself once more. “The man who so deceived your guardian
and impersonated me was an unscrupulous villain. But he showed a taste
that I would not have credited him with.”

She made an involuntary movement away from him; he put out his hand as
though to touch her, but let it fall without doing so.

“It is not often,” he said, “that a man has another select his wife
for him, and without his knowing anything about it.” He waited for an
answer; but as none came he proceeded: “But more seldom still, when it
does occur, is the right girl selected.”

Again he paused, and still there was silence.

“I would not have allowed this man to select a sword blade for me.
I would not have had sufficient confidence in him. And yet he has
selected for me the one woman in the world whom I would make my wife.”
One step took him to her side, and he looked down into her face. “Will
you?” asked he.

“Are you--are you sure that you want me?” she whispered.

And the next instant she was in his arms and his first kiss was upon
her lips.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.