In the Dead of Night by John T. McIntyre - HTML preview

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.

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.