“He is a young man of quick observation and sure judgment.
And once he has made up his mind, he acts like lightning.”
—Extract from a letter of Nunez.
FOR a moment Dallas Gilbert and Steele Kenyon stood looking into each other’s face in silence; each was reading a suspicion akin to their own.
“I’m inclined to think that Anna has the packet,” stated Kenyon, slowly.
“I am sure of it,” cried the girl. “Oh, I have always hated myself for not believing in her! She seemed so child-like in some things, and she is so clinging and pretty.”
“Ah! Then there has always been a sort of distrust of her?”
“Yes. I could not make up my mind, at times, that she was quite sincere; I often thought that I detected a hidden purpose in her apparently artless questions. Once or twice I have noticed—” But she paused, hesitatingly, then broke out: “But I must not talk this way to you. You do not understand the situation.”
Kenyon bowed.
“There are a great many things, as I have had occasion to remark upon one or two previous occasions, that I do not understand in this case,” said he, smiling.
Again he saw hesitancy in her eyes; then she suddenly held out her hand.
“I ask your pardon,” she said, simply.
Quickly he took the hand; but his manner told her that he did not understand.
“For things that I have said, and things that I have done. I did not believe in you—then.”
“And now?” eagerly.
“I know you to be a brave man.”
A slight shadow came upon his face.
“There are many sorts of brave men,” he said. “Some of the greatest villains have been as courageous as lions.” She understood and hung her head. “Do you know,” he went on, “I think I have been much more generous than you in this matter. You have come upon some sort of evidence that has proven to you that I am not an out and out blackguard; and so, in part, you have repented your first opinion of me.”
She colored, but her beautiful eyes were lifted to meet his, inquiringly.
“I did not require any evidence to prove your worth to me,” Kenyon continued. “You suspected me because you were convinced that I was associated with Hong Yo and the others. I had every reason to believe the same of you—at first—but I did not.”
An impulsive answer seemed to tremble upon her lips; her eyes shone through the gathering tears. But she held herself in check.
“I can tell you nothing now,” she said, and her voice faltered a little. “Because it would seem so strange and unconvincing. I am but a girl, and for months have been circumstanced as a girl has never been before. When one is constantly surrounded by hidden dangers and secret foes, one fears to trust—anyone.”
“I wish I could do something to make you trust me,” he said. “It is not enough for a man to have a girl tell him that she thinks him brave. Mere courage is not an uncommon thing. I don’t know what this evidence is that you have discovered in my favor, but I do know that it must be incomplete. I do not ask to know the meaning of any of the strange things that I have encountered during the past week. All I know is that, somehow, and for some reason, you are engaged in a sort of warfare with a number of men. Let me complete the testimony. Let me fight upon your side and convince you that I am honest, as well as brave.”
For a long time—it seemed minutes to Kenyon—she searched his face. Then with sudden resolve she said:
“I will. I accept you as a recruit.”
“And I,” exclaimed Kenyon, “will serve you as I never served a leader before! Name the deeds that you desire done,” laughing, “and I shall do them.”
But her face was grave; indeed, discouragement was written heavily upon her.
“Oh, I am so helpless to deal with it all,” she almost sobbed, suddenly breaking down. “It is more than a girl’s work. At every turn I see things that appear beyond my strength to overcome. I cannot plan with these men; their cunning overmatches mine. Even at this moment everything seems black. If Anna took the packet from the secret drawer, she has turned it over to Griscom Forrester before this, and he—” She paused suddenly, drawing in her breath in short gasps, then she sprang toward Kenyon and grasped his arm. “Quick, quick!” she cried. “The Wizard.”
He looked at her in astonishment.
“It is Griscom Forrester’s yacht; she lies in the East River not far from Twenty-third Street. If she has given him the packet he will get up steam at once.”
Like lightning his mind grasped the situation. He stepped to the desk, took up the ’phone that stood there, and asked for the Waldorf-Astoria. With the receiver to his ear awaiting a reply he turned to her, calmly.
“What sized yacht is the Wizard?”
“About seventy tons.”
“And her crew?”
“I think, fifteen men.”
“Thank you.” Then he spoke into the ’phone: “Ah, is that the Waldorf? I’d like to speak to Mr. G. A. Webster, if you please.”
While the connection was being made with Webster’s apartments, Kenyon said to the girl, quietly:
“Take the ’phone book, and find me the name Schmelzer.”
She nervously took up the book and began to flutter the pages. Just then Webster called:
“Hello.”
“Hello, Garry. This is Kenyon.”
“Ah, still on the quest?”
“I want you to meet me at the foot of Twenty-third Street, East River, as soon as you can get there.”
There was a snort of astonishment at the Waldorf end of the wire. Then Webster demanded, excitedly:
“What’s doing, Ken?”
“There promises to be plenty.”
“All right,” exultantly. “I’m with you.”
“Good; ring off, and call an auto. You can’t get there too quick.”
Kenyon hung up and turned to Dallas.
“Well?” he inquired.
“Here they are.”
She laid the directory before him and indicated a list of names. He ran his finger along this, and then gave an exclamation of satisfaction. Schmelzer, who kept the pool-room in Pell Street, also possessed a telephone; so in a few moments he was talking to the ex-divekeeper, Gypsy Brady.
“What do you want the men for?” asked the latter, after some talk.
“A tough job, perhaps. And I want tough men. The pay will be large.”
“I’m your man,” answered Brady. “The large pay is the thing that counts. I’ll be at the place with the bunch as soon as you will.”
Calmly, and without the slightest indication of hurry, Kenyon called up a neighboring garage and ordered a motor-car; then he had himself connected with the information-desk of a popular newspaper, and received much concise information upon the subject of power-boats and where they were to be had. Person after person was summoned over the humming wire; then he hung up, finally, with a satisfied air.
“I think I have done about all I can do in the way of precaution,” said he, smiling. “If the matter stands as you think, I will be ready to offer some sort of opposition to Mr. Forrester’s departure.”
“You are wonderful!” she said. And then she threw back her head and laughed.
It was as though all her anxiety and fear had been dissolved before the sudden rush of his thorough personality. In an instant he had assumed all her cares; she felt herself strangely at peace and weakly willing to allow him to bear the weight of everything. His masculine grasp and sharp military decisions had wonderfully comforted and soothed her.
Kenyon as he looked at her gathered some of this, and his heart beat swiftly. It was the sort of thing that tells heavily with a woman; and he had progressed.
“If I can succeed,” was his thrilling thought, “there will be no one stand higher than I! And I will succeed!”
He heard the gruff grunting of the car’s signal outside; and he turned to Dallas, catching up his hat.
“I must go; the men whom I have engaged will be waiting for me; and then Forrester must not be given too much time.”
She pinned on her hat and took her long coat from a chair where it had been thrown.
“Good-bye,” said he.
“I’m going with you,” she told him, briefly.
“Impossible!” he cried.
“And why so?” She drew herself up in that proud fashion which he had come to know so well; the head lifted imperiously and the beautiful eyes flashed.
“There will be danger, perhaps.”
She laughed, scornfully.
“Danger! Am I not accustomed to danger? The past week has been crowded with perils that I could not see. This, to-night, will be at least visible.”
He looked at her with quick admiration. And at that moment he learned that it was her spirit and not her beauty alone that drew him to her.
“You are determined?” he asked, after a short pause.
“I am.”
“Very well.”
Without another word he led her out to the car which stood at the curb. The night had turned overcast, and a damp wind blew from the east.
“It will be a bad night upon the river,” commented Kenyon.
He assisted her into the huge car.
“Foot of Twenty-third Street, East,” he said to the driver. “And make good time.”
They spoke hardly a word all the way uptown; when the foot of Twenty-third Street was reached Kenyon noticed another car.
“That must be Webster,” he exclaimed. Sure enough, in the tonneau he espied Garry, enveloped in a huge overcoat and holding a cigar between his teeth.
“Hello, Kenyon,” cried that young gentleman, removing the cigar and waving his hand. “Here I am, on deck and waiting!”
“I knew you would be!” Kenyon’s car drew up beside the other. “Mr. Webster—Miss Gilbert.”
The girl inclined her head, but Webster, so great was his astonishment, blundered woefully.
“Great Cæsar!” was his mental exclamation. “Kenyon’s coming along, sure enough. And she is a beauty. I never saw such eyes and such a great lot of dark hair.”
“Wait here for us,” said Kenyon to his driver. Then to Webster he added: “And you’d better have your fellow wait, also; we may need him.”
He helped Dallas out, and the three of them made their way to a pier close by. Webster never asked a question; he knew that something of great importance was expected to occur, or Kenyon would never have summoned him. And then the presence of Dallas Gilbert lent an air of suspense to the thing which he would not have broken for the world.
From a dusky spot along the pier a man arose and approached them.
“Mr. Kenyon?” he asked.
“That’s right. Are you the man I spoke to over the ’phone?”
Kenyon was brusque and direct; for in times of emergency the old military habit was difficult to shake off.
“Yes, sir. I keep the public boat-house down below here a piece.” Then he turned and pointed out into the stream. “I gave an eye to the yacht Wizard as you told me. That’s her out there with all the lights going. Some people boarded her about a half hour ago; I had a night glass on her, and I think they are trying to get up steam in a hurry.”
“Have you the glass with you?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is.”
The east wind had driven the murk in masses above the city; and along the waters of the river a sort of thickening was noticeable in the darkness. But Kenyon’s keen eyes and the night glass managed to gather the salient features of the proceedings aboard the Wizard. Steam was up and the anchor was being weighed.
“Can you get us out to her before she starts?” asked Kenyon.
The boatman looked at the yacht through the glass.
“It’s too late,” said he, positively. “She’ll be off before I could get you to the launch.”
Kenyon handed the man a bill, the size of which made him stare; then with Dallas and Webster he hurried back to the place where they had left the cars. A group of men stood upon a corner not far from them.
“Ah, there are my fellows, now,” said Kenyon, in a tone of satisfaction. “Everything is moving on schedule. Take my car with Miss Gilbert, Webster, while I speak to them.”
He strode over to the group. There were seven altogether, and Gypsy Brady and Big Slim were among them.
“How are you, pal?” saluted the latter. “I’m taking a chance, being out, but I need the money.”
“What’s the game?” inquired the Gypsy.
“Jump into that car, there, the lot of you,” directed Kenyon, shortly, pointing to the machine that Webster had arrived in. As they scrambled in, hurriedly, he continued to the driver: “Follow the other car; keep close behind, or you might lose us in the darkness.”
Then he leaped into the car with Dallas and Webster.
“Morris Heights,” he ordered. “And let us see you break a record.”
“We’ll be pinched if we try that,” protested the driver.
“We must take the risk. It is late, and there are not many people upon the streets, so there is little danger of an accident. Open her up!”
“All right,” said the man, as the big car swept around. “The chances are all yours. I’m used to it.”
And he followed his instructions to the letter. The machine was a powerful one, as was the one behind; and stray pedestrians were startled to see the two big vehicles flash by and vanish amid a cloud of dust. Now and then a policeman waved a frantic club and shouted; but they never heeded him, burning the streets until they reached their destination.
“Now, then, all of you,” cried Kenyon to Gypsy Brady and his followers.
The men tumbled out, as Kenyon paid the drivers of the ears. Then they all made their way along the river front, until Kenyon halted them at a covered pier, the small, private door to which stood open.
A man with a big ship’s lantern stood there.
“Mr. Kenyon’s party?” inquired he.
“Yes. Is the Vixen ready?”
“Then let us get aboard.”
In a few minutes they were upon the tiny after-deck of a long, narrow power-boat of something less than fifteen tons. Brady and his men were gathered forward and upon the top of the low cabin. Kenyon saw the last one aboard; then he handed Dallas down into the cabin.
“Cast off,” said he to the men in charge. “And let us see what time you can make between here and North Brother Island.”