VIII
THE NIGHT GROWS THICK WITH WONDER
DOM MIGUAL: Hush! Walk softly. This night is filled with astonishments.
—From an Unacted Melodrama.
AT the surgeon’s words Webster fairly gasped his astonishment. But Kenyon’s face was unreadable.
“A remarkable state of affairs, indeed,” said the young adventurer. “And without a doubt it has some equally surprising meaning if we could learn all the facts. But you said that you do not feel at liberty to tell us more, did you not?”
“I do not know a very great deal more,” answered the surgeon.
“These men are not yet able to be seen, I suppose—that is, the remaining two?”
“No; and will not be for some days to come.”
“That is too bad. I should have liked to ask them a few questions.” Kenyon arose and said: “Is it permissible for you to tell me the name of the person who summoned them to New York?”
“It is not. That is a point upon which the police left special instructions.”
“Ah, pardon me! And thank you for what you have already told us. Good-night.”
Once again they were upon the street, walking along in silence, hands stuffed into overcoat pockets and heads bent in deep thought. After a space Kenyon said:
“Well, Garry, my son, we don’t seem to have come at anything of value, as yet, eh?”
“Rather, we have gone deeper into the tangle,” answered Webster. Then he laughed in a sudden fit of boyish glee and continued: “But, I say, it’s more fun than going a-fishing, isn’t it? I’d like to work at a thing like this as a regular job. It’s got it all over hardware for real interest.”
“It seems to me that it’s going to be my occupation, for a time, at least,” said Kenyon, a certain grimness in his tone. “The matter concerns me, and if it’s possible to get to the bottom of it, I’m going to do it.”
“Right,” agreed Webster. “It’s your place to do that very thing.”
They walked back to Webster’s hotel, in silence for the most part; when they arrived Kenyon immediately took up a telephone directory and began fluttering over its leaves.
“It’s just possible that the manager of Moritze & Co.’s New York branch may have a ’phone connection at his home and I may catch him there,” explained he to Webster. “Oh, yes, here it is. His name is Leventhal. I trust he is a snugly married man and is at home just now.”
After a few moments waiting he got the number asked for.
“I want to speak to Mr. Leventhal,” said Kenyon.
“This is Mr. Leventhal.”
“Manager for Moritze & Co.?”
“The same.”
“I have just received a check upon your house for a considerable sum, and I’d like to make some inquiries about the person who drew it.”
“I never transact business after business hours,” said Leventhal, decidedly.
“But this is a matter of importance. I’d like you to tell me what you can about Hong Yo, who I think is known to you.”
There was a sharp exclamation at the other end of the wire; after a short pause there came the answer in the same cold tone.
“We never discuss our depositors with strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. If you have a check signed by Hong Yo it will be honored instantly, no matter what the sum. Good-night.”
“One moment,” cried Kenyon, hastily. But it was too late; the other had already rung off.
“I expected that,” remarked Webster. “Bank people are rather close mouthed as a rule. I don’t think you’ll learn much from that source.”
“It would seem not.”
Kenyon sat down and lit a cigarette. Under the light bulbs his face had a drawn, harassed look and the usually good-humored eyes had a baffled, eager glow in them. But in spite of this very evident mental unrest, the elegant distinction of his manner was unimpaired; and he brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with solicitude.
“Your two thousand dollars is going to come in rather handy,” remarked he thoughtfully. “It looks like a long hunt, and that sort of thing takes money.”
“There is more where the two came from,” said Webster. “Don’t hesitate to call again.”
“Thanks.” Kenyon puffed at the cigarette frowningly for a moment. “It means a waste of both money and time,” grumbled he, “and I suppose I’m next door to a fool for bothering with it. But it’s got on my nerves and I can’t drop it.”
“The girl again,” mused Webster, regarding his friend with brooding glance. “He doesn’t know it himself, half the time; but it’s that confounded girl that’s doing it all.”
They discussed the different phases of the case for some hours, and then Kenyon took his departure. It was a long way to his little hotel near the Battery, but he was in no humor for riding, and turning into Broadway he swung rapidly along down town. Lower Broadway is almost deserted after business hours, and when a man loomed up alongside of him at Canal Street and fell into step, Kenyon turned sharply.
“Forrester!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“I say, Kenyon, do you know you are a great fellow to set the pace,” complained the bulky youth. “I’ve been trying to overtake you ever since you crossed Fourteenth Street.”
“I’m very sorry,” replied Kenyon, recovering his presence of mind instantly. “But I did not expect to see you.”
The other looked at him in frank astonishment.
“Why, what did you suppose had happened?” asked he, wonderingly.
Kenyon laughed.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised at anything happening,” said he. “But I had specified nothing.”
The other regarded him curiously.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose everyone has his own way of doing things; but do you know, you rather puzzle me sometimes?”
“I have no doubt of it,” Kenyon smiled.
“You see it’s not just the way to which I’m accustomed. I go at things in a more direct fashion.”
“As a rule I do myself. But this matter is different from most—so you must expect altered methods.”
“No doubt you are right. But you do so keep me on the jump. And you don’t keep me posted. You leave me to discover things for myself. Now I had not the faintest notion that you had succeeded in the big matter until Farbush told me, about an hour ago.”
“Things should work in their natural course,” replied the adventurer, coolly; “I don’t believe much in pæans of victory until the thing is thoroughly clinched.”
Again the curious look came into Forrester’s eyes. Kenyon noticed it, and for a moment feared that he had blundered. He had come to the conclusion, finally, that to get at the true inwardness of the matter in hand he must float with the current, that he must assume to be what they supposed him to be—and so he did not desire to excite the other’s suspicions. But the youth’s next words reassured him.
“There is truth in what you say,” said Forrester, slowly. “Somehow you keep showing me that, right along; and,” with a quick heave of his great shoulders, “I don’t mind saying that I sometimes find it aggravating.”
“Personal feelings should never tinge matters of business. That’s a useful rule.”
“I realize its value. But, then, human nature is human nature. A man is bound to grouch more or less when he finds himself displaced. However, you’ve done more in twenty-four hours than all the rest of us combined.”
“Thanks. You are very good.”
“I must say that I don’t quite understand it all; but the results are what counts and are what I want to see. Farbush is quite carried away by your success; but your, as he calls it, boldness, has about taken his breath. He would prefer less spectacular effects. You see, these old money-squeezing fellows are like moles; they get their victories by digging underground; and to do things as openly as you have done, frightens them.”
“He’ll have to steady his nerves. There is no telling what sort of moves are on their way, you know.”
“You can’t frighten me,” replied Forrester. “As the matter stands it can’t progress too rapidly to please me. I’m in a hurry to get it over.”
They had stopped upon the corner of Canal Street; it was late and a haze clung about the roof tops. From the North River came the constant shriek of fog-whistles and now and then the boom of a bell; the numerous night sounds from the river front came faintly to them, for already the farm wagons were coming in, and the great markets on the lower west side were beginning to make ready for the coming dawn.
Kenyon was silent. He cautiously determined to follow the other’s lead. But Forrester did not hesitate; he went steadily on.
“We waited for you at the ‘Far East,’” continued he. “The Stalker reported that he had given you Farbush’s instructions.”
“The Stalker?” Kenyon looked at the other inquiringly.
“Of course. Didn’t he meet you as you left Selden’s Square last night?”
Kenyon’s mind went quickly back to the night before, and immediately the stealthy figure that had arisen out of the shadows recurred to him.
“Ah, yes, I remember. But his words did not impress themselves upon my memory, for he sort of mumbled them over quickly and vanished. He seemed to be rather in a hurry.” Kenyon paused a moment and then added: “Was there any urgent reason for his haste, I wonder.”
Forrester made a gesture that showed distaste.
“Perhaps there was,” said he shortly.
“He formed, I think, a committee of one, to receive the man from Butte.”
“You are not lacking in observation.”
“It is part of my stock in trade. And it’s a faculty the possession of which depends upon one’s constant exercise of it.”
“No doubt. But when we found that you did not keep the supposed appointment, Yo suggested that I meet you at Union Square, according to the general understanding, as there might be reasons why you would not want to be seen at the ‘East.’ I had waited more than an hour when you came along; and when you did not stop, I thought you might be followed.”
“Would there be any use in our going to the Far East now?” asked Kenyon.
“Of course,” eagerly. “They are anxious to see you, for there are many points that they desire to make clear.”
“That is just what I’m after,” replied Kenyon. And for an instant he feared the result of his words; for he had allowed, unconsciously, a great deal of significance to creep into them. But Forrester did not catch this; apparently he was too much engaged with his own purposes.
“It’s no great distance from here,” he said, “and we might as well walk.”
“That suits me,” returned Kenyon, promptly.
And so they struck eastward along Canal and turned down an ill-lit street which was strange to the ex-lieutenant of Nunez. A maze of alleys and narrow ways were traversed, Forrester leading the way. And as they hurried on, Kenyon gradually became obsessed with the notion that a dark figure was lurking in their track. Several times he was upon the point of mentioning the matter to Forrester; but each time he thought better of it.
“It might be a little private arrangement of his own,” reasoned Kenyon, silently. “This would be a most excellent neighborhood for an artistic piece of assassination, and I shouldn’t wonder if that was his friend the Stalker back there. But,” and he gave a quick, puzzled look over his shoulder, “somehow I can’t get quite rid of the impression that it’s a woman.”
At any rate he quietly drew off his right-hand glove; and there was much comfort in the feel of the long, heavy Colt buried so deeply in his overcoat pocket.