The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nick Carter Stories No. 160, October 2, 1915: The Yellow Label; or, Nick Carter and the Society Looters
    
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Title: Nick Carter Stories No. 160, October 2, 1915: The Yellow Label; or, Nick Carter and the Society Looters

Author: Nicholas Carter

Contributor: Bertram Lebhar
        Hero Strong

Release date: June 17, 2022 [eBook #68338]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smaith, 1914

Credits: David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Northern Illinois University Digital Library)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NICK CARTER STORIES NO. 160, OCTOBER 2, 1915: THE YELLOW LABEL; OR, NICK CARTER AND THE SOCIETY LOOTERS ***





                              NICK CARTER
                                STORIES

  _Issued Weekly. Entered as Second-class Matter at the New York Post
      Office, by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Ave., New York.
      Copyright, 1915, by_ STREET & SMITH. _O. G. Smith and G. C.
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=No. 160.=            NEW YORK, October 2, 1915.            =Price Five Cents.=




                           THE YELLOW LABEL;

               Or, NICK CARTER AND THE SOCIETY LOOTERS.

                     Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.




CHAPTER I.

AN ENTERPRISING WAITER.


Alfred Knox Atherton was one of the most popular members of the
“Marmawell Club.” He was a man in the prime of life, but, in spite of
his wealth and good looks--and in spite of the schemes of designing
mothers--he was still unmarried.

He had a country house in the Berkshires, and a luxuriously furnished
bachelor’s apartment on Park Avenue. He was also the owner of a small,
up-to-date steam yacht, which bore the uncommon name of _The
Philosopher’s Stone_.

As is usually the case in such places, most of the waiters at the
Marmawell Club were foreigners. One among them is worthy of special
mention. He was the cardroom waiter, who went by the name of Max Berne,
and was understood to hail from that land of model hotel keepers and
waiters, Switzerland.

Max evidently had seen a great deal of the world, although he was still
a young man. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Madrid, St. Petersburg--we beg
pardon, Petrograd--mention any of these cities to Max, and he could tell
you which was the quickest way of getting there, which were the best
hotels to stay at, how much they would charge you, what the cooking was
like, and what quality of cigars and wines they stocked.

Needless to say, this made him very popular with the members of the
Marmawell. He was, in fact, a perfect encyclopedia of information on all
matters relating to the leading cities of Europe, and he could speak
French, Italian, and Spanish as fluently as he spoke English.

That evening he was hovering over one of the tables in the deserted
cardroom, giving a deft touch here and there, when Atherton walked in.

“Evening, Max!” the social favorite said affably. “Do you know if Mr.
Frost is about?”

He referred to Jackson Frost--“Jack Frost,” as his friends called him--a
young man of excellent family and expensive tastes, who belonged to the
so-called “sporting set.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Max, in his silky, deferential voice. “Mr. Frost is
in the writing room. He told me to let him know when you arrived. Shall
I tell him you are here, or will you go up to him?”

“Is he alone in the writing room?”

“No, sir--at least, he wasn’t when I was there. There were several other
gentlemen in the room.”

“Then ask him to join me here, and, after you have given him my message,
bring me some Scotch.”

Max noiselessly retired, and presently returned with the whisky.

“Mr. Frost will be down in a moment, sir,” he said, as he placed the
articles at Atherton’s elbow.

He had scarcely spoken before Jackson Frost appeared, a tall young
fellow, faultlessly dressed.

“So, here you are!” he said, addressing Atherton. “A bit late, aren’t
you?”

Before Atherton could reply, two other members of the club strolled into
the room, a fact which brought a frown of annoyance to the man’s
handsome face.

While the newcomers were giving their orders to Max, the latter stood
before them in an attitude of respectful attention. All the time,
however, he was straining his ears to catch what was passing between
Atherton and Frost.

“Is everything arranged?” he heard the latter ask, in a low tone.

“Yes,” Atherton replied. “I came to tell you what the arrangements are,
but we can’t talk here.”

“Come up to my room,” suggested Frost. “I’ll say I’m going up to dress
for dinner, and you can follow me in a few minutes.”

“Right,” said Atherton. “We’ll be safe from interruption there.”

By this time the others had given their orders to Max, and one of them
turned to Jackson Frost.

“We’re trying to make up a four for cards; would you and Mr. Atherton
care to join us?”

“Thanks, but I haven’t time,” said Frost. “I’m dining out to-night, and
I’m just going up to my room to change.”

“And I’m only staying for a few minutes,” put in Atherton. “As a matter
of fact, I only dropped in for a drink, and as soon as I’ve finished it,
I’m off. By the way, did I pay you for this Scotch, Max?”

“No, sir,” said the waiter.

Atherton paid, and Max left the room.

The club bar was in the basement, but instead of going there to procure
the drinks which had been ordered, Max glided to the end of the entrance
hall, walked leisurely up one flight of stairs, and then, being out of
sight from below, darted up two other flights.

It seemed a curious thing for a cardroom waiter to do. On the fourth
floor of the building were quite a number of private rooms, which were
reserved by members who wished to have a place where they could spend a
night, or where they could change into evening dress--or out of
it--without the trouble of going home. One of these rooms--it was number
twenty-five--was rented by Jackson Frost.

Reaching this fourth floor, Max did another curious thing--an extremely
curious thing for a cardroom waiter to do.

Approaching the door of Frost’s room, he drew a bunch of skeleton keys
from his pocket, selected one of them, and opened the door. Having
gained access to the room, he darted across to the window, opened it an
inch or two from the bottom, then hastily retreated, locking the door
behind him and hurrying back downstairs.

Halfway down the last flight of stairs, he met Jackson Frost. Max humbly
stepped aside to allow Frost to pass, and then went on to the bar,
secured the drinks which had been ordered, and took them to the
cardroom.

Atherton was still there, but two or three minutes later he rose to his
feet, nodded to the two other members, and left the room.

“He’s going up to Frost’s room,” thought the waiter.

He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was five minutes to seven. In
five minutes he would be off duty.

“Confound it!” he exclaimed inwardly. “Why couldn’t Atherton have waited
that long? However, I don’t suppose he and Frost will finish their talk
in five minutes. All the same, I hope Sachs won’t be late to-night.”

Sachs was the name of the waiter who was to relieve Max at seven
o’clock. He was very punctual as a rule, and this was no exception. Just
as the clock was striking seven, he appeared at the cardroom door.

“Anything new, Max?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Max answered shortly. “Good night.”

“What’s your rush?” asked Sachs, with a grin. “You seem to be in a
tearing hurry.”

“I am,” was the answer, and without another word Max left the room.

If he was in such a desperate hurry to be off, though, one would have
expected him to go straight down to the waiters’ room, change his
clothes, and leave the premises, but, instead of doing this, he
repeated most of his curious performances of a few minutes earlier.

That is to say, he dawdled up the first flight of stairs, and then, as
soon as he was out of sight of those in the entrance hall, he darted up
to the fourth floor.

With catlike steps he glided to the door of room No. 25, and stood for a
moment in a listening attitude.

A murmur of voices inside the room told him that Atherton and Frost were
there. He could not hear what they were saying, but he had anticipated
that, and that was why he had opened the window of Frost’s room.

Having satisfied himself of the whereabouts of the two, he stole to the
door of number twenty-seven, adjoining, picked the lock, glided into the
room, and closed the door behind him.

Groping his way softly along the dark room, he quietly opened the window
and stepped out on the fire escape.

The platform of the fire escape extended from the window of number
twenty-seven to that of number twenty-five, and all Max had to do was to
creep along the iron grating until he was beside the window with which
he had previously tampered.

When he reached it, he crouched down, hidden by the dark shade which had
been drawn, and put his ear close to the crack.

He could now hear every word that was spoken, and, it was plain to be
seen, it afforded him the liveliest satisfaction.

“So I was right!” he thought triumphantly, “I suspected it for some
time, but now I know it. I must have some more tangible proof, though. I
must see the thing done, and find out who else is in the plot. And
then--farewell to the old Mar, and hurrah for a life of ease and
luxury.”




CHAPTER II.

THE WAITER HAS A WIFE.


The waiter remained outside the window until he heard Atherton leave the
room, then he stole back to number twenty-seven, left things exactly as
he had found them, and descended to the waiters’ room, where he changed
to street attire.

Ten minutes later he left the premises, and at the end of half an hour
he let himself into a modest little flat in a “model” tenement house on
East Seventy-seventh Street, near the river.

Here he proceeded to do other things which were out of the ordinary for
a club waiter.

For instance, he changed his clothes once more, and, after he had done
so, he loaded a revolver and stowed it away in one of his pockets. He
put a fresh battery into an electric flash light, and slipped that into
another pocket.

He next went down to a room in the basement, in which a motor cycle was
stored, and he spent half an hour in pumping up the tires, tinkering
with the lamp, oiling the bearings, filling the tank, and generally
putting the machine in order for a run.

Finally he returned to the little sitting room, set out a frugal supper
for two, consisting of cold beef and potato salad from a delicatessen
store, bread and cheese, and a bottle of first-class claret--the last
named being from the cellars of the Marmawell.

When all these preparations were completed, he lighted a pipe and
consulted his watch.

“Half past nine,” he mused. “I needn’t start for the theater for another
hour yet.”

He opened a black leather case and drew out a well-worn mandolin.
Dropping into an easy-chair, he started to play the instrument in a
fashion which proved that he was both a passionate lover of music and a
capable performer.

Any one popping into the little room and seeing him leaning back in that
easy-chair, with a far-away, dreamy look in his half-closed eyes, and a
rapt expression on his face, would have found it hard to believe that he
was capable of the side he had shown shortly before.

To say the least, he must have been a curious combination of the poetic
and the matter of fact, of the dreamer and the doer, otherwise that
revolver in his pocket, for instance, was decidedly out of place.

Such was the case, and, moreover, the man had had many ups and downs,
which his pretty wife had shared.

The latter was an American girl, who had married him some five years
before, and who now--because funds were low--had returned to her former
calling. In other words, she was back on the stage, in the chorus of a
Broadway production.

Elaine Stowe was the name by which she was professionally known.

Max was a most devoted husband, and never allowed his young wife to
return from the theater alone. As a rule, he left the flat about half
past ten, and was waiting at the stage door when Elaine came out.

To-night, however, he was so absorbed in his mandolin--and in other
things--that he forgot all about the flight of time, and he was
positively amazed when the door opened and there walked into the room a
remarkably attractive and well-formed young woman, cheaply but
effectively dressed, with an innocent, babyish face lighted by a pair of
big blue eyes.

“Elaine!” he ejaculated, jumping up and laying his instrument aside.
“Why are you home so early to-night?”

“Early!” the girl echoed with a laugh, unbuttoning her gloves. “Do you
call half past eleven early?”

“Never!” he cried, dragging out his watch. “By George, so it is! What a
thoughtless brute I am to let you come home alone. I fully intended to
come for you as usual, but I just sat down to play for an hour, and the
combination of the music and my plans for the future made me forget
everything else.”

“Your plans for the future?” Elaine repeated, with just a touch of irony
in her voice. “More plans of making our fortunes, I suppose?”

Her husband nodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “I know what you think, but you’re wrong this time,
as it happens. These plans are the real thing, and I’m going to put them
through.”

Elaine shrugged her dainty shoulders.

“I wonder how often I’ve heard that,” she said wistfully. “We’re always
going to make our fortunes, but somehow or other something always turns
up at the last moment and messes up our schemes.”

“I’ll tell you while we’re having supper,” Max replied. “I haven’t too
much time, for I must start in three-quarters of an hour.”

“Start? Where are you going?” his wife asked curiously, as she removed
her hat and coat.

“That doesn’t come until almost the end of the story,” was the answer.
“Sit down and you’ll hear it all.”

The girl obeyed wonderingly, and Max began.

“Do you remember,” he said, “that very shortly after I started work at
the Marmawell, I told you I had a suspicion that Alfred Knox Atherton
was more or less crooked?”

“Yes,” answered Elaine, “you’ve said so often, and you made the same
statement about another member of the club--Frost, I think was the name.
You told me you thought he was so crooked that if he ever fell out of
bed he could rock himself to sleep on the floor.”

“That’s right,” agreed the waiter, with an appreciative grin. “I
couldn’t give you any reason for my suspicions, though. It was just
instinct, I guess. You know the old saying, ‘set a thief to catch a
thief.’ It must have been that. Being a rogue myself, I instinctively
spotted a fellow rogue when I saw him. Anyhow, I was convinced that
Atherton and ‘Jack Frost,’ as they call him, were playing some deep game
of a crooked nature, and I determined to find out what it was.”

“And have you found out?” asked Elaine.

“I certainly have, and it is a deeper game and a more crooked one than
ever I dreamed of.”

“This sounds interesting,” remarked the girl, pouring out a glass of
wine for herself. “Do tell me what you have discovered.”

“Well, about half past six this evening,” her husband explained, “Frost
came to the club and asked me if Atherton was there. When I told him he
was not, he said he would go up to the writing room, and I was to let
him know when Atherton arrived. There was nothing much in that, of
course, but it showed me that Atherton and Frost had arranged to meet at
the club this evening.

“Presently Atherton put in an appearance. He came into the cardroom,
which was deserted at the time, and asked me if Frost was about. I told
him Frost was in the writing room, and asked him if he would go up. His
answer showed me that he wished to see Frost alone, for he asked me if
there was anybody else in the writing room, and when I said there was,
he told me to tell Frost to come down to the cardroom. It was plainer
than ever that they shared some secret, so naturally I determined by
hook or crook to hear what they had to say to each other.

“I delivered Atherton’s message to Frost and the latter came down to the
cardroom. Before he had a chance to say anything of a personal nature to
Atherton, however, a couple of other men walked in, and I saw Atherton
scowl at them.

“While I was taking their orders, I kept my ears open, and heard
Atherton and Frost arrange to meet in the latter’s private room
upstairs.

“As soon as I got that tip, I slipped upstairs, used a skeleton key on
Frost’s door, and opened his window a little from the bottom. I passed
Frost on the lower flight, and a few minutes later Atherton left the
cardroom and went upstairs.

“That was five minutes to seven, and at seven I was relieved. The moment
I was free I sneaked upstairs once more, and made use of the room
adjoining Frost’s. By picking the lock of that room, and softly opening
the window, I managed to get out on the fire escape, and in that way
reached Frost’s window. The crack I had left made it possible for me to
hear every word they said, without the risk of being seen.”

“Very clever!” commented Elaine. “And what did you hear?”




CHAPTER III.

“GOOD-BY TO THE SIMPLE LIFE!”


He told her what he had heard, and her big, blue eyes grew bigger still
with incredulous amazement.

“You take my breath away!” she gasped. “Alfred Knox Atherton, one of the
idols of New York society, who is hand in glove with most of the ‘big
bugs’! It sounds unbelievable.”

“It’s a bit of an eye opener, isn’t it?” chuckled the waiter. “What a
sensation I could create if I hunted up a reporter and filled him up
with the details of that little conversation in Frost’s room! But, of
course, I’m not going to do anything of the kind. It’s too good a thing
to give away. It’s a veritable gold mine, and I’m going to work it for
all it’s worth.”

“Blackmail, I suppose?” the girl suggested calmly. “You will interview
Mr. Atherton and tell him what you have discovered, and threaten to
expose him unless he buys your silence?”

“Not so fast, my dear! That’s not quite the idea. I shall certainly
interview Atherton and tell him what I have discovered, but instead of
demanding money as the price of my silence, I shall demand a place in
the firm. In other words, I shall say to Atherton: ‘I know everything.
Let me stand in with you and share the loot, or I’ll give away the
show!’”

The girl nodded approvingly.

“Yes, that will be much better than merely demanding money,” she said.

“You bet your life it will!” declared her husband, and it was curious to
note that he seemed perfectly at home with American slang. Indeed, there
was nothing suggestive of Switzerland about him now. “Instead of a lump
sum,” he went on, “it means a comfortable income for the rest of our
lives. Better still, it means action, excitement, risk. Perhaps, even
the chance of a tussle with Nick Carter.”

Elaine shivered at the mention of the great detective’s name, but the
man laughed light-heartedly.

“You don’t like to hear that name?” he asked teasingly.

“I don’t,” his wife confessed. “Nick Carter has never really caught us,
but he’s spoiled more than one pretty plan of ours, and he has always
seemed a sort of bogy man to me. I wish you hadn’t mentioned him just
now, and I don’t see how you can think of him at such a time--at least,
how you can make a joke of it. Whenever Nick Carter comes to my mind, I
find my courage oozing out, and my feet getting cold.”

Her husband leaned over the corner of the table, gave her a great hug,
and kissed her.

“Cheer up, little girl!” he said. “Nick Carter isn’t going to hurt you.
Trust me for that.”

“But what if he catches you? Could anything hurt me more than that?”

“But he isn’t going to catch me, dear. I’ll admit that he hasn’t really
tried as yet, but I’m perfectly ready to have him do it. He’s certainly
a wonder, but I think I can tie him up in a knot, and I like to think of
him when I’m planning to turn a trick. It puts me on my mettle, and
makes me plan more carefully than I otherwise might. Therefore, I’m
really glad he’s on the job. You mustn’t have such fancies. They’re no
real part of you. You’re the pluckiest girl who ever bucked up against
the law, and you know you would tackle anything.”

Elaine’s smile was serious.

“I’ve proved that I’m not a coward, and I like excitement as well as you
do. I come nearer being afraid of Nick Carter, though, than of anybody
else. He’s been so successful. They say he never really went after a
crook, big or little, without getting him in the end, no matter how long
it took.”

Max reseated himself again.

“The longest string of victories is sometimes broken,” he said
confidently. “There’s no doubt that Carter has set a hot pace, but he
can’t keep it up. Somebody is going to spoil his record some of these
days--and why not yours truly?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“I know there’s no use of arguing with you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have
you different, anyway. If you weren’t so sure of yourself, you couldn’t
have done half the things you’ve done, and very likely you wouldn’t have
won me, either. Tell me this, though: Supposing Mr. Atherton tries to
bluff you when you go to see him? Supposing he indignantly denies your
charge, and orders you to leave the house, and all that sort of thing,
what will you do? You see, you can’t prove that he and Mr. Frost are
leading this double life. You were alone when you listened to their talk
this evening, and if they both deny that they said what you say they
did, you have no witness to bring forward.”

“Don’t you fret. I’ve thought of that,” the man informed her. “Before I
pay that little call on Atherton, I’m going to have positive proof of
his guilt, and I’m going to know who his other accomplices are.”

“But how can you obtain such a proof?”

“By going to Freehold. It’s now ten minutes to twelve, and the job is
fixed for three o’clock in the morning. I have tuned up my motor bike,
and everything is ready. If I leave here about quarter after twelve, I
ought to reach Freehold easily by two o’clock.

“When I do so,” he continued, “I shall hide my machine, and keep watch
on the Meadowview house. When I have seen all I want to see, I’ll come
back here, and to-morrow I’ll interview Atherton. He’ll have to accept
my terms when he finds out what I know, and then----”

He refilled his glass, and surveyed it with the critical eye of a
connoisseur.

“Good-by to the Marmawell!” he said. “Good-by to the front row of the
chorus! Good-by to the simple life in a tenement house! Exit all the
things we hate, and enter all the things we love--ease and wealth and
luxury!”

He drained the glass, and, twenty minutes later, mounted on his motor
cycle, started for Long Island.




CHAPTER IV.

LATE HOURS AT MEADOWVIEW.


Freehold is a sleepy little village on Long Island. It has no railway
stations, and its chief claim to distinction rests on the fact that it
is intimately associated with the life of a revolutionary hero.

We are speaking now of the village itself, not of its important
neighborhood, for the latter boasts of more than one pretentious country
house.

One of these is known far and wide as Meadowview. It’s a great pile of
white sandstone, which was built in 1900 by Charles P. Massey, a
millionaire banker.

The elder Massey died soon after Meadowview was completed, and it passed
into the possession of his son, Francis Massey, who was himself nearing
middle age.

At the time of which we write, the great house was occupied by Francis
Massey, his wife, two grown daughters, and a large staff of servants.

Meadowview was distant about a mile and a half from Freehold, and was
surrounded by spacious grounds.

These grounds were inclosed by a high stone wall, which divided them on
two sides from the neighboring estates, on a third from a turnpike much
favored by motorists, and on a fourth side from a narrow country lane.

The clock in the tower in one of Freehold’s churches was chiming a
quarter to two when Max Berne, seated on his motor cycle, sped swiftly
up the Main Street of the little village.

At that late--or early--hour, it need hardly be said that the
inhabitants were all in bed. Some wakeful women may possibly have heard
the clatter of his engine, but nobody saw him as he passed through the
village, continued along the road for a mile and a half, and eventually
into a narrow lane already mentioned.

“This is the lane Atherton spoke of, without a doubt,” he murmured, as
he dismounted from his machine. “Now, to find the door.”

He started to walk up the deserted road, pushing his motor cycle in
front of him. On one side was a low fence, overhung here and there by
low trees and bushes; on the other side was a high stone wall, which
marked the boundary of the Massey place.

The night was pitch dark, but his bicycle lamp gave him all the light he
required. Presently, after walking a few hundred yards, he found what he
was looking for--a wooden door let into the stone wall.

Having ascertained that the door was locked, he wheeled his machine
across the road, set it up against the low bank just outside the fence,
and cut a large branch from a neighboring tree. Armed with this branch,
which was covered with leaves, he returned to the motor cycle and
screened it in such a way that the foliage seemed to belong to a bush
growing out from the side of the bank.

“That was a happy thought of one,” he told himself. “It wouldn’t have
been easy to lift the machine over the fence, and there isn’t any
natural shelter for it this side--at least, there’s none near enough to
the gate to suit me.”

Before hiding the motor cycle in this way, he had extinguished the
light. Now he retraced his steps to the wooden door, turned the lock
with the skeleton key, and stepped into the well-kept grounds.

He closed and locked the door behind him, after which he drew out his
electric torch. A momentary flash revealed the fact that a footpath
started at the door and ran through the grounds, doubtless in the
direction of the house.

“Just as Atherton said,” he muttered. “Now, shall I wait here until they
arrive, or shall I spend the interval in having a look at the outside of
the house?”

He consulted his watch.

“Two o’clock,” he soliloquized. “They won’t be here for an hour yet.
I’ll stroll up to the house, and then come back and wait for them.”

So numerous and closely planted were the trees that even if it had been
lighted, the intruder could not have seen the house from where he stood.
In fact, it was not until he had groped his way along the path for three
or four hundred yards that he suddenly emerged from among the trees, and
found himself in full view of the front of the house.

It was an imposing frontage, four stories high, and was approached from
the main gates by a long, straight drive. A balustraded terrace ran
along the whole front of the building, and outside the principal door
were a handsome stone porch and a broad flight of steps.

At such an hour the waiter had naturally expected to find the house in
darkness, and all its occupants in bed. Judge then of his surprise, to
say nothing of his dismay, when he saw that a light was burning in the
entrance hall, that the front door was wide open, and that two men--they
appeared to be a butler and a footman--were standing on the porch.

“Jerusalem!” he exclaimed, whistling softly to himself. “This looks as
if Atherton’s calculations had miscarried. He and his pals will
certainly have to postpone their little enterprise, or else they’ll find
themselves----”

His musings ended in a startled gasp, for at that moment his quick ears
caught a sound which filled him with added dismay.

It was the distant chug-chug of a motor car, faint and far off at first,
but growing louder and louder every moment.




CHAPTER V.

“HERE THEY COME.”


“Alfred Atherton and his bunch!” muttered Max, quivering with suppressed
excitement. “They must have changed their plans at the last moment. I
distinctly heard Atherton say to Frost that they would reach here about
three o’clock, and it’s just after two now. Of course, they won’t be
able to tackle the job under the circumstances. When they discover that
the people in the house are astir, they’ll give up the attempt, and
hotfoot it back to the big town--if they don’t blunder into hot water
before they get wise.

“However,” he added to himself, “they won’t find out the state of
affairs until they’ve entered the grounds through that door in the wall
and followed the footpath to this spot. Consequently, if I hide behind
these bushes, I shall be able to see who they are and hear what they
say.”

He glided toward a neighboring clump of bushes, and was about to crouch
down behind them when a pair of great, flashing eyes came into view at
the foot of the drive. In other words, the car which he had heard had
just turned in at the main gates of Meadowview.

For a moment, but only for a moment, Max was completely taken aback,
then the truth dawned on him, and the look of bewilderment vanished from
his face.

“I see the point,” he thought. “This isn’t Atherton, it must be Massey
himself and his womenfolk coming back from the opera. Atherton told
Frost that they would probably arrive about half past twelve, but they
must have had a breakdown. At any rate, they’re an hour and a half
late.”

The waiter was right. Earlier in the evening Mr. and Mrs. Massey and
their two daughters had motored to New York in order to attend the
closing performance at the Metropolitan. They had started back for
Freehold shortly after eleven, but engine trouble had delayed them for
over an hour, and later they had had the bad luck of a blow-out, so that
instead of reaching the house about half past twelve, they had not
arrived until just after two.

The car, which was a closed one, swept up the drive, and halted before
the entrance. The butler and the footman hurried down the steps, and the
latter opened the door of the car. The first to alight was a middle-aged
man in evening dress, who the waiter rightly guessed was Francis Massey.

“Here we are at last!” Max heard him say. “Did you think we were lost?”

“We were beginning to grow anxious, sir,” replied the butler. “James and
I were just discussing whether we ought not to set out in search of you.
Have you had an accident, sir?”

“Nothing but a blow-out and a cranky engine,” was the reply. “Are the
rest of the servants in bed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you and James can follow their example as soon as you’ve locked
up. We don’t want any supper. We’re all tired out, and we’re going
straight to bed.”

While he was speaking, he had assisted his wife and daughters to alight.
As they passed up the steps and into the house, the waiter saw that each
of the three ladies was wearing quantities of jewels in their hair, at
their throats, and on their fingers. Lustrous pearls glowed softly, and
priceless diamonds scintillated.

How the waiter’s eyes sparkled at the sight! He had often heard of the
famous Massey jewels--collected in all parts of the world by the late
Charles P. Massey--but never before had he seen them, and now that he
saw them, he was only too ready to believe that popular rumor had not
exaggerated when it estimated their value at nearly half a million.

“Atherton was right,” he muttered, under his breath. “A prize like that
is worth the risk, even if the risk were ten times greater than it is.”

By this time the Masseys had entered the house, and the butler had
followed them. The footman exchanged a few words with the chauffeur,
then he, too, disappeared, closing and locking the door behind him. The
driver slipped in his clutch--the engine was still running--and a moment
later the car vanished round the end of the house on its way to the
garage at the back.

Max glanced at his watch again, and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

“This is shaving it pretty closely,” he thought. “Atherton calculated
that everybody would be fast asleep by half past one at latest, but it
will be nearly quarter to three at this rate before they quiet down. And
those fellows will be here at three.”

He shook his head.

“I’m afraid it can’t be done to-night,” his thoughts ran on. “However, I
may as well wait until they show up, and see what happens.”

The front of the house was all in darkness now, but presently lights
appeared in three of the bedroom windows.

“So they’ve gone straight to their rooms, as Massey said,” soliloquized
the waiter, “but surely he’ll lock up the jewels before he turns in.
Atherton said he always did----”

The sentence was left unfinished, for at that moment lights sprang up in
the entrance hall once more, and a little later one of the windows on
the ground floor was illuminated.

Curtains were drawn across the window, but they did not completely cover
it, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Max stole up on the terrace and
cautiously peered through into the room.

Its fittings indicated that it was a combination of library and
study--evidently Massey’s den or office. Books lined the walls, there
was a big flat desk in the center, and a small safe to one side.

At the moment when the lurking waiter peered into the room, Massey was
in the act of opening the door of this safe. On a chair by his side was
a tray, and on this tray lay a pile of leather cases, the appearance of
which proclaimed that they contained the articles of jewelry which had
recently adorned his wife and daughters, and which they must have turned
over to him to lock up in the safe.

It goes without saying that the jewels were not kept permanently in this
safe. They were stored, as a rule, in the safe-deposit vaults connected
with Massey’s bank in New York. They had been brought from the bank that
afternoon, however, in order that Mrs. Massey and her daughters might
wear them at the opera, and doubtless they would be taken to the bank
the next day.

In the meantime, for one night only, they were to repose in the safe at
Meadowview. Plainly, that situation was the one for which Atherton had
been waiting, and of which he had received advance information, thanks
to his wife and intimate acquaintance with wealth and aristocracy.

Little dreaming that two keen eyes were watching his every movement,
Massey placed the cases in the safe, closed the door, scattered the
combination, and left the room after switching off the lights.

A few moments later the light in the entrance hall went out, then, one
by one, the bedroom lights were extinguished, and the stately house
wrapped itself in darkness and silence.

Max had returned to his chosen hiding place in the bushes, and crouched
down there. Now, turning his back to the house, he pressed the button of
his flash light and turned the white rays on the face of his watch for a
moment.

“Twenty minutes to three,” he mused. “Perhaps, after all, they may be
asleep by three o’clock. Anyhow, it’s Atherton’s risk, not mine. I think
I’ll go and post myself where I can see them when they arrive.”

He retraced his steps along the footpath, until he came to the door
which opened into the lane.

As already mentioned, there were many trees at that point, and one of
them stood a couple of yards to the right of the door, and quite close
to the wall.

“What is the matter with taking a reserve seat up there,” Max muttered.
“I shall then be able to see in the road without going outside the wall,
and without being seen myself.”

He climbed the tree, and flattened himself along one of the lower
branches, from which point of vantage he could command a view not only
of the road, but of the footpath through the trees.

Ten minutes passed, then a faint, pulsating sound, like the purring of
some gigantic cat fell on his ears.

“Here they come!” he told himself. “They’ve evidently got a first-class
silencer on their car, and ten to one they’re driving without lights.”




CHAPTER VI.

THE WAITER MEETS WITH A SURPRISE.


Soon Max heard the approaching car turn out of the main road into the
lane, and a moment or two later he could dimly see a bulky, shadowy
object gliding up the latter.

“Stop!” said a cautious voice, which the waiter instantly recognized as
that of Alfred Atherton. “Here’s the door, I think. You can switch on
the light for a moment now, for there’ll be nobody about at this hour of
the morning.”

The electric searchlights of the car flashed out, and by their dazzling
illumination the waiter saw that the car was a big, open touring car,
and contained five men. The front seat was occupied by the
chauffeur--who was a stranger to Max--and Atherton. In the rear seat
were three other men, all of whom, strangely enough, were known by sight
and reputation to the man in the tree.

One of them, of course, was Jack Frost, the well-groomed man about town,
whom Max had seen at the Marmawell Club a few hours earlier. His
presence in the machine was no surprise to the waiter, for he had
expected to see him there, but, at the sight of the other two, Max had
hard work to suppress an exclamation of incredulous amazement.

The distinguished-looking man who was seated on Frost’s right was the
famous Professor Tufts, a scientist of country-wide reputation. The
little man with the crafty face, who was seated on Frost’s left, was the
well-known society lawyer, named Frank Kinsley, who was popularly
supposed to know more of the family secrets of the “Four Hundred” than
any man in New York.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” was the waiter’s inward declaration, as he
restrained himself with an effort from making a start that might have
dislodged him from his precarious position. “It was enough of a poser to
discover that Alfred Knox Atherton and Jackson Frost were engaged in
this sort of game, but Professor Tufts and Kinsley--that’s enough to
take one’s breath away!”

Atherton stepped out of the car, and the others, except the chauffeur,
followed suit.

“Yes, this is the door,” said the former, producing a bunch of skeleton
keys. “Get out the things while I manipulate this lock.”

While Frost and Professor Tufts were lifting out an oblong case and a
leather bag from the back of the car, Atherton picked the lock and
opened the door.

“We’d better put on our masks now,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ll meet
anybody, but it’s just as well to be on the safe side.”

Each of the four men produced a mask of black silk, and adjusted it over
the lower part of his face.

“Put out those lights now,” ordered their leader, turning to the driver.
“You know your orders. See that you obey them, and, above all, remember
to keep your engine running, and if you hear any disturbance, have
everything ready for flight the instant we return.”

The chauffeur switched off the electric lights, and a moment later
Atherton and his three companions were walking slowly in single file
along the footpath toward the house.

Atherton led the way with a small electric torch in his hand, which he
turned on for a moment now and then. Professor Tufts came next, carrying
the wooden case. Frost followed with the leather bag, and the lawyer
brought up the rear.

The waiter remained where he was until the sound of their footsteps had
died away, then, with no more noise than a cat would have made, he
slipped down the tree and glided after them.

By the time he came in sight of the house, Atherton had forced the catch
of the study window--a French window--and he and his three companions
were in the act of stealing into the room.

Kinsley was the last to enter, and as soon as he was inside, the
curtains were again drawn across the window, but it was left open.

For five or ten minutes Max Berne stood at the edge of the open space,
staring at the open window. Then his curiosity overmastered him, he
crept up on the terrace, fell on his hands and knees outside the window,
and cautiously raised the lower edge of the curtain.

What he saw caused him no surprise, for it was what he had expected to
see.

Out of the wooden case Professor Tufts had taken an ingenious little
apparatus, of which the essential feature was an oxyhydrogen blowpipe.
With the assistance of his companions he was directing the flame to that
part of the safe door which surrounded the lock.

So intense was the heat of the flame, that it melted the steel as easily
as a hot knife cuts through butter. In an incredibly short time a
circular hole had been cut through the door. A minute or two later the
safe was open, and Kinsley and Frost were about to pack the cases of
jewelry into the leather box.

Suddenly the waiter saw something which almost caused his heart to stop
beating.




CHAPTER VII.

A SHOT FROM THE DARK.


The study door was opposite the window. It was shut, but not locked, of
course, and all at once Max saw a knob begin to turn.

Apparently it made no sound, for the four men went on with their
work--the lawyer and Frost opening the bag preparatory to putting the
jewel cases into it, and Atherton and Professor Tufts stowing away the
apparatus in its case.

Every fiber of the waiter’s being tingled with suppressed excitement. It
was only too plain that somebody was outside the door, preparing to
burst in and take the burglars by surprise.

What ought he to do? Should he call out and warn them of their danger?
Should he make his own escape before the storm burst?

He had no time to decide, for all at once, with dramatic suddenness,
the door was flung open, and Francis Massey sprang into the room clad in
dressing gown and slippers, and armed with a revolver.

“Hands up, if you don’t want a bullet in you!” he cried, leveling his
weapon at Atherton with one hand, while with the other he pressed the
switch beside the door and flooded the room with light.

The intruders had been content with their electric torches and the
brilliant flame of the blowpipe.

With simultaneous cries of dismay the four men spun around and faced the
owner of the house.

“Stop that instantly, or I’ll fire!” cried the latter, as Atherton’s
hand stole toward his pocket. “Put your hands up, all of you! This
revolver is loaded in every chamber, and as you may be aware, I have
some little reputation as a crack shot.”

This was true enough, for Francis Massey had been a famous sportsman in
his younger days, and was still an expert with the revolver.

Half the length of the room separated him from the four men, and if they
had attempted to rush him, he could have--and probably would
have--dropped all four of them before they could have reached him.

“That’s better!” he said grimly, as the quartet quickly raised their
hands above their heads. “Now, kindly oblige me by walking backward and
standing with your backs to that wall behind you. Be quick about it!”

The waiter outside could have laughed at the ignominious spectacle
presented by the four masked burglars as they silently and sullenly
shuffled backward, and ranged themselves in a line against the wall.

Although the scene appealed to his sense of humor, it also had its
serious side--even from Max’s point of view.

All his plans for the future would be ruined if these men were captured
and their identity unmasked. At any rate, they must be allowed to
escape, and, after a moment’s hurried thought, the waiter drew out his
own revolver and cautiously pushed the muzzle under the lower edge of
the curtain.

“Massey doesn’t happen to be the only crack shot on hand,” he told
himself.

“I’m now going to ring for help,” the millionaire announced, moving
slowly toward an electric button set into his desk. “You’ll remain just
where you are until the servants come, and the very first man among you
who attempts to play any tricks will be shot down like a dog, without
any further----”

Crack!

At that moment Max Berne pressed the trigger of his revolver, and the
bullet, true to its aim, struck Massey on the wrist, shattering the bone
and causing him to drop the weapon with an involuntary howl of pain.

What happened next the waiter did not stop to see. As soon as he had
fired and had thereby given Atherton and his companions a chance to make
their escape, he leaped to his feet and dashed off in the direction of
the wooden door, which opened into the lane.

Long before he reached the door, he heard the four men racing across in
the same direction. As he did not wish them to see him, however, he hid
himself behind some bushes, but as soon as they had passed him, he
emerged from his hiding place, and followed them at a little distance.

Meanwhile, the report of the revolver had aroused the occupants of the
house, and by the time Max reached the door in the wall, he could hear
the servants running out of the house and calling to one another through
the darkness.

By that time, though, Atherton and the others had scrambled into their
machine, and the car was halfway down the lane.

Swiftly, yet without any trace of flurry, the waiter darted across the
road, snatched away the screen of leaves from his motor cycle, and
wheeled the machine into the lane.

While he was starting the engine, he heard a number of servants running
toward the door, and, just as he mounted, two of them dashed out.

“Here’s one of them!” called the foremost servant, and, as he uttered
the words, he rushed at Max and tried to seize him by the arm.

A blow in the mouth, however, sent him reeling back into the arms of the
other servants, and the next instant the waiter was scorching down the
lane at a speed which defied pursuit.

Half an hour later, after passing through Freehold, Berne caught sight
of the tail lights of Atherton’s car. He easily could have overtaken it
had he wished, but he preferred to follow it at a respectful distance.

Eventually, to make a long story short, he saw it thread its way through
the outlying districts of Long Island City, across the Queensborough
Bridge, and plunge into the narrow streets of the East Side.

Even then he did not leave the trail, but followed until the big car
drew up in front of the huge apartment house in which Alfred Atherton
maintained his luxurious bachelor quarters.

As the leader of the kid-gloved crooks alighted from the car, Max Berne
rattled past on his motor cycle.

He could not resist the temptation.

“Good night, Mr. Atherton,” he called out.

The society man wheeled about with thumping heart, but was too late to
see more than the cyclist’s back.

“That will give him something to think about!” murmured the waiter. “I
hope he hasn’t got a weak heart!”

“Great heavens!” ejaculated the startled Atherton. “Who was that, and
how long has he been following us?”

But none of the others could say, and although they tried to shake off
the uneasy feeling it gave them, they were not altogether successful.




CHAPTER VIII.

A DARING VENTURE.


About quarter of two the following afternoon, Alfred Knox Atherton
descended in the elevator of the big apartment house, and was about to
enter his handsome electric coupé when Max Berne stepped up to him and
respectfully raised his hat.

“Hello, Max!” Atherton exclaimed good-naturedly. “What are you doing
here? Brought me a message from the club?”

“No, sir,” replied the waiter. “I’ve left the Marmawell. I gave up my
position this morning, and paid them a month’s wages in lieu of notice.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” declared Atherton. “We shall miss you
greatly. You’ve got another and better job, I suppose?”

“Not yet, sir, but with your assistance I hope to get a very much better
job. That’s why I’ve come to you now.”

“I see. Well, I will be very glad to do what I can to help you, but I’m
sorry to say that I cannot talk with you now. I’m just off to lunch with
Professor Tufts. Call again this evening between seven and eight, and
we’ll talk the matter over.”

“Thank you, sir, but I can’t wait until this evening. I must see you
now.”

Atherton raised his brows.

“Must!” he repeated. “Really, Max, you’re forgetting yourself. That’s
hardly the way to speak to me, if you desire my help. However, I don’t
suppose you meant to be impertinent.”

“Not at all,” was the reply. “All the same, sir, I repeat that I must
see you now.”

“And I repeat that I can’t and won’t see you!” Atherton replied, growing
angry.

“I think you will, sir,” Berne assured him suavely.

“And why, pray?” demanded the society man.

The waiter came a step or two nearer, so that the chauffeur could not
hear.

“I was at Meadowview at three o’clock this morning,” he murmured.

Alfred Atherton went suddenly white, but he recovered himself almost
instantly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “but as you seem to
think you do, I suppose I can give you five minutes. Come along.”

Without another word he led the way into the building, and entered the
waiting elevator. They were shot up a few floors, and Max Berne was
ushered into a luxuriously furnished room overlooking the wide avenue.

“Will you sit down?” Atherton asked, in tones of icy politeness.

He pointed to a chair in the middle of the room, but his visitor
smilingly shook his head and seated himself at one of the windows.

“This will suit me better, I think,” the waiter answered blandly. “It
will be easier for me to attract the attention of the people in the
street--if I need to. Also,” he added, as he drew a loaded revolver from
his pocket. “I shall feel more at home if I hold this in my hand while I
talk.”

Atherton shrugged his shoulders and seated himself in the chair which he
had offered to the waiter.

“Well, I’m waiting to hear why you have come to see me,” he said coldly.
“Please be as brief as you can, for I can only spare you five minutes.”

Max assumed an air of injured innocence.

“What an ungrateful world it is!” he remarked, with a sigh. “Surely, I
deserve a more cordial reception than this, considering the fact that
only about twelve hours ago I saved you from arrest and ruin.”

Atherton gave a perceptible start.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“I mean,” was the reply, “that it was I who fired that bullet which
smashed Francis Massey’s wrist, and enabled you and your friends to
escape.”

His host jumped to his feet and planted himself in front of Max.

“Is that true?” he demanded.

The waiter nodded.

“I was crouching outside the study window,” he explained, “when Massey
burst into the room and covered you with his revolver. I slipped my own
gun under the curtain, and drew a bead on him.”

“But why were you outside the window? What were you doing at Massey’s
place at that hour?”

“It’s rather a long story,” Berne drawled. “If you’ll sit down again,
I’ll tell you all about it.”

Atherton hesitated, staring at him, then resumed his seat.

Max began by explaining how for some time past he had suspected that
Atherton and Frost were “in the know,” how he had kept watch on them,
and how he had listened to their conversation in Frost’s room at the
Marmawell.

“I need not tell you,” he continued, “that what I heard more than
confirmed my previous suspicions. I heard you tell Mr. Frost that you
had ascertained that Massey had sent to the bank for the family jewels,
and that his wife and daughters were going to wear them at the opera
last night. You calculated, you said, that they would return to
Meadowview about half past twelve, and that the stuff would be deposited
for the night in the safe in Massey’s study.

“You explained to Mr. Frost that there was a deserted lane on the north
side of the grounds, and that there was a wooden door about in the
middle of the wall on that side, from which the footpath led round to
the front of the house. You told him to be at your apartment at twelve
o’clock, and you said you and he and ‘the other two’--those were your
words, but you didn’t mention any names--would motor out to Meadowview,
reaching there about three. You said you would leave the car in the lane
in charge of the chauffeur while the four of you broke into the study,
forced the safe, and made away with the sparklers.

“From certain other remarks which you let fall,” the waiter went on, “I
gathered that this was not the first job of the kind on which you and
Frost had been engaged. In fact, I came to the conclusion that you and
he were members of an organized gang--a secret society, or something of
that sort--which had been carrying on a systematic campaign of robbery.
At any rate, I realized that I had made a discovery which ought to be
worth a great deal of money to me, but before interviewing you and
laying my terms before you, I decided to go to Meadowview, partly to
find out who ‘the other two’ were, and partly to see you actually commit
the burglary.”

He described his visit to the Massey country place and all that he had
seen and done there.

“After I had winged Massey,” he concluded, “I hid behind some bushes
until you and your friends had entered your car. I then mounted my motor
bike, and followed you back to the city. You may possibly remember that
just after you had got out of the machine in front of the building, a
motorcyclist passed you and called out ‘good night.’ No doubt you
wondered who it was. Now you know. It was I.”

“A very interesting story,” Atherton commented sarcastically, as his
visitor paused. “May I ask you why you were good enough to fire at
Massey, and so enable us to make our escape?”

“That’s plain enough, isn’t it? If you had been captured, all my plans
for making money out of my discovery would have been ruined.”

“So I thought. Very well. We’ll get down to business. You spoke just now
of laying your terms before me. That means, I take it, that you wish me
to purchase your silence?”

“Naturally.”

“In other words--blackmail! Unless I buy your silence, you denounce me
and my friends to the police?”

“Blackmail is an ugly word, Mr. Atherton, and I should prefer not to
have it brought into this discussion. I certainly intend to denounce you
to the police, if you’re foolish enough to reject my terms, but I
haven’t come here to demand money as the price of my silence.”

“Then what do you want?”




CHAPTER IX.

MAX REVEALS HIMSELF.


“I want to become a member of your gang, or organization, or secret
society, or whatever you call it,” Max informed him coolly. “I want to
share your excitements, your risks, and your plunder. That’s all I ask.
Take me into partnership, and you’ll not only secure my silence about
last night, but you’ll also have enlisted a valuable and experienced
recruit, though I say it myself.”

Alfred Atherton rose to his feet and paced the room for a moment or two.
At length he halted and once more planted himself in front of his
caller.

“You’re a remarkable fellow, Max,” he said, with just a suspicion of
irony in his voice. “By your unaided wit you have discovered what all
the trained intelligence of the police has failed to discover, or even
to suspect. I congratulate you.

“You’re quite right,” he went on. “Frost and Kinsley and Tufts and
myself are all members of a secret society, which obtains its revenues
from the public by means of burglary, arson, forgery, impersonation, and
similar unconventional methods. The society was founded by myself some
years ago, and I have the honor of being its president.

“At first it consisted of less than a dozen members, but at the present
time it numbers over a hundred. At first we did not bother about a name
for it, but one day, in a fit of jocular inspiration, I christened it
‘The Order of the Philosopher’s Stone,’ and the name has stuck to it
ever since.”

“A curious name,” suggested Max. “What made you choose a name like
that?”

“You’re an intelligent fellow, and you seem to be well read,” was the
answer. “Doubtless, therefore, you’ll remember that the ‘Philosopher’s
Stone’ was the name given by the alchemists of the middle ages to the
touchstone for which they were always searching, and which they believed
would change the baser metals into gold. Well, all our members are very
fond of gold, and everything which can be converted into gold--the
Massey jewels, for instance--so what better name could I have found for
our organization?”

“_The Philosopher’s Stone_ is also the name of your yacht, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but the yacht really isn’t mine. Strictly speaking, it belongs to
the society, and is chiefly used for the purpose of smuggling our loot
out of the country. The officers and crew are all members of the
organization, of course, and so are the servants in this apartment.”

He paused, and regarded Max Berne with a mocking smile.

“And so are the servants in this apartment,” he repeated meaningly. “As
I said just now, my dear Max, you’re a remarkably clever fellow in your
way, but doesn’t it begin to strike you that you were rather foolish to
come here and threaten me?”

“No, I can’t say that it does,” was the calm reply.

Atherton shrugged his shoulders.

“Then you’re not as bright as I thought you were,” he declared. “I’ve
been very frank and open with you. I’ve admitted that I’m a criminal;
I’ve involved the most important members of our board of directors, and
I’ve told you quite a lot about the society itself. Hasn’t it occurred
to you to wonder why I’ve been so indiscreet?”

“I suppose because you’re going to admit me into the society,” the
waiter answered promptly.

Atherton’s laugh had a disagreeable ring.

“Not at all,” he said. “Better guess again, Max. I’ve told you so much
because I know you will never be able to reveal what I’ve told you to
any one else. In other words--I’m sorry to say it, because I’m really
fond of you in a way--you’ll never leave this apartment alive!”

As he spoke, he touched a bell, and in hardly more time than it takes to
tell it, three stalwart menservants glided into the room.

“Fine specimens, aren’t they?” queried Atherton. “I call them my
bodyguard. As I’ve told you, they’re all members of the order, and are
sworn to obey my commands even at the cost of their own lives. Now,
perhaps you see that you’ve made a little mistake in coming here so
trustfully?”

But the waiter never turned a hair. He toyed with his revolver, glanced
for a second at the street below, and then coolly studied the newcomers,
making no attempt to rise from his chair.

“These melodramatic proceedings leave me cold,” he said wearily. “I’m
quite able to defend myself with this old friend here, and, what’s more,
if you or these fellows were to attempt to molest me, I should instantly
smash this window and shout for help.”

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be of much use to you,” Atherton informed him.
“You would be dead long before anybody arrived, and my men here would
unanimously swear that you had attacked me, and that I had shot you in
self-defense. You hadn’t thought of that, I suppose?”

“I confess I hadn’t,” Max returned, unmoved. “Perhaps there’s something,
though, which you haven’t thought of. My death wouldn’t save you from
exposure and ruin. I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Alfred Knox Atherton.
Before I came here, I wrote out and signed a full account of all that
happened at Meadowview last night. I gave the paper to my wife, and I
told her that if I hadn’t returned by six o’clock she was to take the
document to police headquarters.”

Atherton bit his lip, and a spasm of baffled rage distorted his face.

“Your wife!” he snarled.

“The most charming woman in the world,” the waiter assured him, in the
silkiest of voices, but with a curious touch of sincerity. “You may
perhaps have heard of her, for she has an international reputation. Her
name is Elaine Wilhelm, and she’s sometimes called ‘The Countess!’”

Atherton uttered a shout that was a curious blend of amazement and
delight.

“Elaine Wilhelm--The Countess!” he cried. “You don’t mean it! Then
you--you are Johann Wilhelm?”

“‘The Count,’ at your service!” murmured the man, rising from his chair
and bowing low.




CHAPTER X.

THE COUNT IS WELCOMED ROYALLY.


Atherton dismissed the servants with a peremptory wave of his hand.

“I shan’t need you now,” he said.

Then he turned to his visitor.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me this at first?” he demanded. “There was
no need for you to try to gain admission to our society by threats.
Surely, you might have known that you had only to mention your name to
be welcomed with open arms.

“And your wife, too,” he added. “In fact, if you won’t be offended at my
saying so, your wife will be almost more welcome than yourself. Only
last week I was saying to Frost that I’d give five thousand dollars if I
could lay my hands on Elaine Wilhelm. We know what you’ve both done and
can do, how you defied the police again and again in a dozen cities,
over here, and most of the capitals of Europe. We’ll give you a royal
welcome, both of you, but it just happens that your wife will come in
particularly handy at the present time.”

“She’s a handy person at any time,” remarked the Count, with a laugh,
“and the police would give more than five thousand to get their hands on
her. I don’t suppose that you want her in the same sense that the police
do.”

“Hardly,” returned Atherton. “We want the Countess because we have a
scheme in view which can only be carried out by a woman of exceptional
ability and courage. Unfortunately, we have no such woman in our
society, and that’s why I’ve been longing to get in touch with your
remarkable side partner. She’s the very one I want.”

“May I ask what the scheme is?”

“Of course. Briefly, it’s a plan for kidnaping old Enoch Pyle’s
grandson, and holding him for ransom.”

“Who is Enoch Pyle?”

“You have heard of ‘Pyle’s Pink Pellets’?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, Enoch Pyle is the originator and proprietor. He’s a millionaire
two or three times over, but he’s uncouth and uneducated. He and his
wife, who is as impossible as himself, live at a place called Pyle’s
Park, which is a few miles on this side of Freehold. You passed the
place on your motor cycle this morning.”

“And who is his grandson?”

“The boy’s name is Tommy Pyle. He’s the son of Enoch’s only boy, who
died years ago. His mother is gone, too, and Mr. and Mrs. Pyle have
taken him in, of course. Some day he’ll inherit Pyle’s pile, so to
speak.”

“How old is he?”

“About five. He’s the apple of the old man’s eye, and if we could kidnap
him, I haven’t a doubt that old Enoch would not hesitate to give a
quarter of a million--or even a half--to get him back.”

The Count nodded.

“It oughtn’t to be a difficult matter to kidnap a child of five,” he
said.

“But it is in this case. Some gypsies tried it a couple of years ago,
and ever since then old Pyle has been haunted by the fear of another
attempt. The boy’s bedroom is provided with steel-lined shutters and
electric alarms. Whenever he goes outside the grounds--and most of the
time in them, for that matter--he’s accompanied by two burly guards
armed with revolvers. In fact, he could not be more carefully guarded if
he were a royal prince.”

“Then how do you propose to get hold of him?”

“It was Jackson Frost who suggested the scheme. Now that I’ve told you
what sort of people the Pyles are, you won’t be surprised to hear that
none of the best people call on them or invite them to their house.
That’s a very sore spot with Mr. and Mrs. Pyle, who long for social
recognition. There’s Mrs. Brook-White, for instance. She lives quite
near to the Pyles, and is the acknowledged leader of society in that
neighborhood. You’ve heard of her, in all probability? If she were to
drop in at the Park some afternoon and take tea with them, their cup of
joy would be filled to overflowing.”

“But what has this to do with kidnaping old Pyle’s grandson?”

“Everything. Frost’s idea is this: He suggests that we select some
capable woman who can look and act the part, disguise her as Mrs.
Brook-White, and send her to the Park in a swagger motor car. The Pyles
have only seen the lady at a distance, so they would be taken in. The
supposed Mrs. Brook-White would chat with them, take tea with them, and
ask to see the boy. In some clever way she would get him to ride with
her as far as the Park gates. The old people would be delighted with
such condescension; the boy would be lifted into the car, the car would
dash off, the coveted Tommy would be smuggled aboard our yacht--and
there you are!”

“Very neat,” commented Wilhelm, whose surname had suggested his
sobriquet of the Count. “I didn’t think Frost had brains enough to
concoct such a clever scheme, but why haven’t you carried it out
before?”

“Because, as I’ve already told you, we couldn’t find a woman with the
requisite daring and ability to impersonate the aristocratic Mrs.
Brook-White. But your wife---- Ah, your wife! She’s the very woman! Do
you think she would be willing to play the part?”

“I’m sure she would,” replied the German, without a moment’s hesitation.
“And she would play it to perfection.”

Alfred Atherton glanced at his watch.

“There’s no doubt about it,” he said, with conviction. “I must be going
now, though. I promised to lunch with Tufts at two. Frost and Kinsley
will be there, and one or two others. Will you join us? I’ll take you
there in my car, which is outside, and I’ll introduce you to your fellow
members. We can then discuss the scheme in greater detail, and
afterward, if you’ll be so good, you might take me home with you and
present me to your charming wife.”

The Count approved of this suggestion, and a few minutes later he and
Alfred Atherton were on their way to Professor Tufts’ house.




CHAPTER XI.

AN ANGEL VISITS PYLE’S PARK.


A week had elapsed.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and in the drawing-room at Pyle’s
Park, Mr. and Mrs. Enoch Pyle were having tea.

The custom did not come naturally to them, but they believed it was the
proper thing, and so they adopted it. It was particularly a trial to the
old man, who, since his retirement, had been obliged to fight hard
against an ingrained preference for shirt sleeves and slippers; but he
had denied himself heroically, for the most part.

The merest glance about the room, with its costly furniture and costlier
pictures and statuary, was enough to show that its owner was a man of
great wealth; but one might have looked in vain for any signs of culture
or good taste.

For Enoch Pyle and his wife, as Atherton has said, were old-fashioned
country people, who had had few advantages.

Having said this, however, it is only fair to say that they had their
good points--many of them. There was nothing mean or uncharitable about
them. They were kind-hearted, hospitable, and generous to a fault.

At the same time, it must be admitted that they dearly loved
“society”--at a distance--and that it was the greatest disappointment of
their lives that none of the neighboring social lights would have
anything to do with them.

At the moment the old couple were talking about the “sensational
affair,” as the newspapers called it, at Meadowview--the attempted
burglary of the Massey jewels, and the wounding of Francis Massey’s arm.

For unluckily--from the standpoint of The Order of the Philosopher’s
Stone--the rich haul had not been carried away. The jewel cases had not
yet been placed in the waiting bag when the Count had fired, and that
unlooked-for shot, coming from some mysterious quarter, had so unnerved
the rascals for the time being that they had decamped without their
booty.

Probably, also, they had feared with good reason, that the shot would
alarm the household and bring the servants about their ears in short
order.

At any rate, Johann Wilhelm had subsequently learned, to his deep
disgust, that the burglary had been unsuccessful with all he had done.

“I heard down in the village to-day,” said Mr. Pyle, “that the doctors
ain’t very encouragin’. They’re afraid they’ll have to ampytate Mr.
Massey’s hand. They say the bones----”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about bones at tea time!” protested his wife.
“It don’t seem proper, and it sort of takes my appetite away.”

“Excuse me, ma,” Mr. Pyle said humbly, and lapsed into silence.

“Ain’t the police discovered any clew to the thieves yet?” his wife
asked presently.

“Neither hide nor hair of one,” was the answer. “An’ that reminds me of
somethin’ else I heard in the village to-day. Mr. Massey has gone and
sent for Nick Carter.”

“That’s what he’d ought to have done a week ago,” declared his wife.
“Has Mr. Carter been to the house yet?”

“He’s there this afternoon. Him and one of his assistants--Chick, I
think they call him. I’ll bet it won’t be long before they find a clew.”

Mr. Pyle helped himself to another piece of buttered toast, then he
coughed uneasily.

“Do you know, ma,” he said, “I’ve been wonderin’ if we oughtn’t to call
at Meadowview and leave a card--jest to show our sympathy, you know.
What d’you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” sighed Mrs. Pyle. “I was readin’ a book on
etiquette this mornin’, and it said when any of our friends was sick, it
was the correct thing to stop at the house and leave your card. But we
couldn’t honestly say that Mr. Massey was a friend of ours, could we?
He’s never taken no notice of us since we came here. In fact,” she added
bitterly, “none of ’em takes any notice of us. We could buy lots of ’em
up and never miss the money, but----”

Suddenly she paused, and her eyes grew round and big with excitement.
She was sitting near a window, and could see the drive which ran from
the entrance gates to the front door of the house.

“Enoch,” she said breathlessly, “there’s a moty car comin’ up the drive!
Such a swell turnout, too. Who can it be?”

Mr. Pyle hurriedly set down his cup, tiptoed to the window, and
cautiously peered out from behind the curtain. By that time the car had
pulled up outside the front door, and an aristocratic-looking,
fashionably dressed lady of middle age was in the act of stepping out.

“Marier,” gasped Mr. Pyle, staggering back from the window, “as sure as
you live, it’s--it’s Mrs. Brook-White comin’ to call on us.”

“And me in my second-best dress!” groaned Mrs. Pyle agitatedly. “Ain’t
that jest my luck! Put your tie straight, Enoch! Pull down your vest!
And wipe that butter off your chin!”

In frantic haste the worthy couple strove to make themselves more
presentable. A few moments of nerve-racking suspense followed, then the
liveried footman flung open the door and announced:

“Mrs. Brook-White!”

Elaine--for it was she, of course--sailed into the room with an air that
a queen might have envied. Her disguise was perfect, and her acting
superb.

“My dear Mrs. Pyle!” she gushed, tripping forward and holding out her
hand to that agitated woman, “I know what you must have been thinking of
me for not having called upon you before. I’ve really wanted so much to,
you know, ever since you came here, but you see, my time is so fully
occupied--and this is your husband, is it? Charmed to make your
acquaintance, Mr. Pyle! What a delightful place you have here. I hope
now that I’ve made the plunge, that I shall be able to come often--if
you’ll let me.”

“As often as you like, ma’am,” said Mr. Pyle, who hardly knew whether he
was standing on his head or his heels. “We’ll be tickled to death to
have you! But won’t you sit down?”

“And won’t you have a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Pyle, when Elaine had
seated herself.

The girl murmured her thanks, and the footman was dispatched in quest of
another cup and a fresh supply of cakes and buttered toast. By the time
these arrived, Elaine had completely won the hearts of her hosts, and
had put them quite at their ease.

“By the way,” she said presently, in her most dulcet tones, “you have a
little nephew living with you, haven’t you? Or is it a grandson?”




CHAPTER XII.

THE KIDNAPING.


“A grandson,” replied Mr. Pyle. “Such a cute little feller, too! Only
five, but as big as most boys of seven or eight. He’s all we’ve got, you
see, and some day all this will be his. Would you like to see him, Mrs.
White?”

“Don’t be foolish, Enoch!” protested his wife. “A lady like Mrs. White
ain’t interested in children.”

“Indeed, I am!” declared Elaine. “I should dearly love to see the little
man. Where is he?”

“In the nursery,” said Mr. Pyle. “I’ll bring him down.”

The proprietor of Pyle’s Pink Pellets left the room, and presently
returned, leading Tommy by the hand--a curly-headed little chap wearing
his first sailor’s suit.

The boy was naturally shy at first, but he soon succumbed to Elaine’s
charming manners, and allowed her to take him on her knee.

How Mr. and Mrs. Pyle beamed! Here was their grandson sitting on the lap
of a real social leader! Without a doubt, it was the proudest moment of
their lives.

Presently Elaine announced that she must go.

“This has been a most delightful visit,” she said, “but I’m afraid it
must come to an end, as all good things do. You’ll come and see me soon,
though, won’t you, and bring Tommy with you? I’ve quite set my heart on
it.”

She rose to her feet and held out her hand to the boy.

“Will you escort me to my car, Tommy?” she asked, with a dazzling smile.

The lad shyly took her hand, and they walked out of the room, Mr. and
Mrs. Pyle following close behind them.

“This is a much nicer car than any of ours,” Tommy announced, as Elaine
took her seat, and the chauffeur solicitously tucked her in. “I wish we
had a car like this, granddad.”

“I’m sure you have much nicer ones as it is,” the girl said, patting him
on the head. “You just think this is better, because it is new to you.
However, if you like it, would you care to ride with me as far as the
gate?”

“Yes,” Tommy said eagerly. “Can I go, granddad?”

Elaine turned to Mr. Pyle.

“Do you think you can trust me with him as far as the road?” she asked,
throwing him a mischievous glance.

The glance struck home, and Mr. Pyle looked at her reproachfully.

“What a question!” he ejaculated. “Of course, I’d trust him with you
anywhere. You--you can have anything we’ve got, Mrs. White.”

“That’s perfectly dear of you!” she said, holding out her hand to assist
Tommy to climb into the car; then turned to the driver. “Go slowly down
the drive,” she said, “so that Tommy’s ride won’t come to an end too
soon, and stop at the gates.”

The chauffeur--who was none other than the Count in disguise--touched
his cap, and the car began to move slowly down the drive.

Mr. and Mrs. Pyle walked beside it, responding to Elaine’s lively
sallies in their slow, embarrassed way, and feeling several inches
taller than they had felt an hour ago.

At last the car reached the gates and turned into the road. Wilhelm
glanced ahead and saw that the way was clear, after which he looked back
over his shoulder at Elaine, who replied, with an almost imperceptible
nod.

Then suddenly the car leaped forward like a thing alive, and the next
instant it was thundering along the road with the speed of an express
train.

Mr. Pyle let out a cry of alarm, but no thought of treachery crossed his
mind.

He merely thought the chauffeur had made a mistake, and had increased
the speed of the machine instead of shutting off the power.

“Stop! stop!” he shouted, running after the car. “Shut off your engine
and put on your brakes!”

Mrs. Pyle meanwhile stood still and wrung her hands. She was certain
that the big car was running wild and that a terrible accident was
imminent.

Then an extraordinary thing occurred.

The dignified Mrs. Brook-White--or, rather, the lady who Mr. and Mrs.
Pyle believed to be Mrs. Brook-White--turned around in her seat with a
mocking laugh, and daintily blew them a farewell kiss.

Mr. Pyle could hardly believe his eyes.

To use his own words, he was “completely flabbergasted.” He pulled up
with a gasp of incredulous bewilderment, and even as he did so, the car
swung around a turn in the road and vanished from sight.

It was evident that Tommy Pyle was to have a much longer ride than
either he or his grandparents anticipated, but where that ride would
end, no one could say--except “Mrs. Brook-White,” her eminently
respectable-looking chauffeur, and certain of the leading members of The
Order of the Philosopher’s Stone.




CHAPTER XIII.

NICK COMES TO MEADOWVIEW.


It was quite true, as Mr. Pyle had heard, that Francis Massey had sent
for Nick Carter.

He had first left the case in the hands of the local police, but when at
the end of a week they had frankly confessed that they were baffled, he
had wired for Nick Carter.

The detective promptly responded to the summons, and arrived at
Meadowview in one of his private cars, accompanied by Chick and Captain,
their police dog.

Massey received them in the study, his right hand swathed in bandages,
and his left arm in a sling.

“If I had followed my own inclination,” he said, “I should have sent for
you at first. I was persuaded to place the matter in the hands of the
police, but although they have been searching and investigating and
inquiring and cross-examining for just a week, they’re as far as ever
from discovering any clew to the identity of the scoundrels. I sincerely
trust you will be more successful.”

The detective looked a little dubious.

“You haven’t improved my chances by waiting a week before sending for
me. However, I’ll do my best, of course. Needless to say, I’ve read the
newspaper accounts of the case, but I should be glad to hear your
version of the affair.”

“If you’ve read the newspapers,” replied Massey, “I don’t suppose I can
tell you anything that will be very new. We’d been to the opera--my wife
and daughters and myself--and, in the ordinary course of events, we
should have returned about half past twelve. Owing to engine troubles
and a blow-out, however, it was just after two when we got here.

“We were all rather tired,” he continued, “and we decided to go straight
to bed. Before my wife and daughters retired, however, they handed me
their jewels. I placed the latter in their proper cases, brought them to
this room, and locked them in that safe.”

He pointed to the mutilated safe in the corner. It was empty now, but
was otherwise in the same condition as when the burglars had left it.

“After I’d locked up the jewels,” Massey resumed, “I switched off the
lights and went to bed. For some reason or other I could not get to
sleep at once, and when I’d been in bed about half an hour I thought I
heard somebody moving in the study. I got up quietly, put on a dressing
gown and slippers, armed myself with a revolver, and stole downstairs.

“When I’d crept up to the door here,” he went on, “I distinctly heard
men at work in the room. I waited for a few seconds, and then I suddenly
flung the door open and sprang in, switching on the lights as I did so.
One glance showed me that the safe had been forced and the jewels
removed. Two men were about to stow the cases in a leather bag, and two
others were packing up the apparatus with which they had opened the
safe.”

“All the four men wore masks, I understand,” Nick put in.

“That’s true.”

“So you never saw their faces?”

“Unfortunately I did not. From the cut of their clothes, however, and
the appearance of their hands, I judged them to be men of a much
superior type to the common housebreaker. Their hands were as white as
my own, and their clothes were as good as those I’m wearing at this
moment.”

“That’s interesting. Now, tell me what you did.”

Massey described how he had covered the men with his revolver, and had
ordered them to raise their hands and stand with their backs to the
wall.

“They obeyed without a word,” he said. “I thought I’d cowed them, and
that I only had to ring for help in order to make my capture complete.
But evidently they had posted a fifth man outside the window, to keep
watch, and just as I was about to ring the bell--this bell on the
desk--the scoundrel fired at me through the window and broke my wrist.”

“Did you ever see the fifth man?”

“No, I should never have known of his existence had he not fired. It was
very clever on their part to leave him out there.”

“I see. What happened next?”

“Then for a moment the four masked men seemed almost as startled as
myself--at least, so it appeared to me, although I had troubles of my
own just then, and was hardly in a position to study them at my leisure.
At any rate, panic seized them, I suppose, owing to the fear that the
shot would be heard all over the house. The pain of my shattered wrist
made it impossible for me to do anything more. I was helpless, and the
jewels were at their mercy, but, to my amazement, they seemed to forget
all about them.”

“They bolted at once?”

Massey nodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “They rushed to the window, tore down the curtain in
their haste, and took to their heels through the grounds.

“The report of the revolver had aroused the household,” he continued,
“and, in a remarkably short time, the servants were scouring the grounds
in all directions. Two of them saw a man in the act of mounting a motor
cycle in the little lane at the back here. They tried to capture him,
but he got away, and from that day to this nothing more has been seen or
heard of any of the five of them.”

“The man whom your servants saw in the lane--was he one of those in the
study?”

“Apparently not. My people describe him as a young man of rather foreign
appearance, wearing a dark-blue suit. There was no such man in this
room. It seems clear to me that he was the one who was posted outside
the window, and who fired at me.”

“He escaped, you say, on a motor cycle? How did the others get away?”

“The police have a theory that they came here in a motor car, in which
they afterward made their escape. If is only a theory, however. At
least, there doesn’t seem to be any proof. There was a heavy thunder
shower an hour or two later, and that may have obliterated the marks of
the car.”

“They left the jewels behind, I understand.”

“Yes, and they also left their apparatus and the leather bag in which
they were about to pack the jewels when I disturbed them. Would you like
to see the things?”

       *       *       *       *       *

=The continuation of this story will be found in the first issue of
DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, out October 5th. See the announcement on the
next page, telling about this new magazine, which in future will
contain, not only Nick Carter stories, but many other narratives dealing
with the detective art.=

=It will be published twice a month, and the price will be ten cents a
copy.=

       *       *       *       *       *


GETTING OUT OF A DIFFICULTY.

At a certain school, one day, the teacher had occasion to examine his
class in arithmetic, previous to the final examination.

On finding that he had a very dilatory boy, and thinking to make him
look a fool, he set him the under-mentioned task:

If a man was to fall down a well fifty feet deep, how long would it take
him to get out if, for every foot he climbed, he fell down two?

The boy started figuring out the above sum.

After filling six slates with figures, the teacher stopped him, and
asked what he was doing.

“Trying to get that man out of the well, sir,” replied the boy.

“But that’s not the way to do it.”

“I don’t know,” said the boy. “Just you give me another half a dozen
slates. I’ll get that man out of the well if I have to take him right
through to China.”




_Announcement Extraordinary_


Readers of Nick Carter Stories, and lovers of narratives dealing with
the detective art and the solving of mysterious crimes, there is a great
treat coming to you. Nick Carter Stories has outgrown its present form
and we are going to publish it in magazine style. It will be edited by
Nicholas Carter, and will be called DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE. It will be
published on the fifth and twentieth of each month, and will contain,
besides a rattling good serial, telling of the exploits of Nick Carter,
serials and short stories dealing with the detective art in all its
forms. The stories will be the very best that can be obtained, and the
magazine will contain one hundred and twenty-eight pages of them. The
first number will be out October fifth. Don’t miss it, and get your copy
early, or you will get left, for they will sell fast.




SNAPSHOT ARTILLERY.

By BERTRAM LEBHAR.

     (This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 of NICK CARTER
     STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer
     or the publishers.)




CHAPTER XXXII.

THE OUTLAW NABBED.


Although Mayor Henkle had declared his intention of removing Chief of
Police Hodgins from office as a result of the _Bulletin’s_ revelation of
the police conditions which prevailed in Oldham, he had not done so.

There were several reasons why his honor had changed his mind about
taking this step. In the first place, Hodgins was the mayor’s wife’s
cousin, and his honor feared that Mrs. Henkle would have something to
say if he fired her relative. Tyrant thought he was at the city hall,
the Honorable Martin Henkle stood in considerable awe of his little
wife.

A second reason was that if he had removed Hodgins on account of those
snapshots, the mayor, in order to be consistent, would have had to
dismiss from the department the delinquent policemen whose pictures had
appeared in the _Bulletin_. Some of these men had a strong political
pull, and Mayor Henkle was disinclined to take such action against them.

Besides, the _Chronicle_, at the mayor’s suggestion, had published a
long editorial denouncing those police snapshots as atrocious fakes, and
denying that the members of the force were really guilty of the
misconduct of which the _Bulletin’s_ pictures had seemed to convict
them. Consequently, the mayor could not have punished his chief of
police without going back on the administration organ.

So Chief Hodgins still held on to his job. But he was not happy. The
fact that Hawley had come back to Oldham, and was once more at work with
his camera, was one of the things which prevented him from being so.

Goaded by the jeers and snarls of the mayor and by his own frantic
desire for vengeance, he sought desperately to capture the Camera Chap;
but, try as he would, he could not succeed in laying hands on that
elusive man.

Hawley had become a veritable will-o’-the-wisp. Although every member of
the force was as anxious as the chief to catch him, and kept a sharp
lookout for him day and night, he seemed as immune from capture as a
mosquito buzzing around the head of an armless man.

Hodgins stationed detectives outside the _Bulletin_ office, in the hope
of being able to apprehend him when he came to deliver the pictures;
but, greatly to his chagrin, these sleuths reported that the Camera Chap
did not come to the _Bulletin_ office. Evidently anticipating this
ambush, he had made secret arrangements with Carroll to get the films to
the _Bulletin_ without bringing them in person; but what this method was
the police were unable to find out.

Hodgins also sent detectives, armed with a warrant, up to the mountain
retreat of Hawley’s host; but the latter informed the policemen that he
had not seen the Camera Chap for several days. Evidently Hawley,
anticipating this move, too, had seen fit to change his boarding house;
and the police were unable to find his present residence.

Through the medium of the _Chronicle_, the chief of police appealed to
all good citizens to aid in the capture of the “notorious camera
bandit.” Had this appeal met with a general response, the chances are
that Hawley would soon have been caught; but, fortunately for him, the
sympathies of the citizens of Oldham were largely on his side. The new
anticamera law was not proving at all popular. People thought it a shame
that the _Bulletin_ should be discriminated against, and the public in
general was rather pleased than otherwise by Hawley’s success in dodging
the police.

But at last Hawley’s phenomenal luck deserted him. Chief Hodgins,
strolling along Main Street one afternoon, saw a sight which astonished
him so much that for a moment he was inclined to believe himself a
victim of hallucinations.

There, only a few yards ahead of him, stood a man with a camera in his
hand, photographing an ornamental fountain in which several urchins were
paddling and splashing--a thing forbidden by law, but ignored by the
indolent police.

It was the Camera Chap! His profile was turned toward the chief, and the
latter recognized him at first glance.

With a gasp of joy, Hodgins bounded forward. Hawley was so intent upon
getting a focus that he did not perceive his danger until a heavy hand
clutched him roughly by the coat collar and a hoarse voice exclaimed:

“Got you at last! Try to get away, and I’ll let daylight into you!”

Hodgins had drawn his revolver as he rushed toward the Camera Chap, and
he pressed the barrel of the weapon against his prisoner’s ribs. It was
not usual for him to indulge in such spectacular gun play when making an
arrest for a misdemeanor, but he had the legal right to shoot if his
prisoner attempted to escape, and so bitter was he against Hawley that
he would not have hesitated to avail himself of that right if the latter
had made it necessary.

But the Camera Chap proved to be a most submissive prisoner. Although he
knew that he was booked now for a six months’ stay in the county jail,
he accepted the situation with a rueful smile. The prospect was
decidedly unpleasant, but there was nothing to be gained by “going up in
the air.”

Hodgins slipped handcuffs on his wrists, and marched him to police
headquarters. Thrusting him into a cell and bidding the turnkey keep a
vigilant watch over him, the chief hurried to the city hall to tell the
mayor the good news.

Half an hour later, as the Camera Chap sat in his cell, pondering on how
he was going to get out of this predicament, there came to his ears the
sound of a violent detonation, as though somebody had exploded a
dynamite bomb in the vicinity of the headquarters building.

Hawley wondered greatly as to the meaning of this. As the hours went by,
he wondered, too, why he was not taken before a magistrate, instead of
being kept at police headquarters. He put both of these questions to the
turnkey, but could get no answer from that taciturn official.

At length, however, his curiosity was satisfied in a most startling
manner. The door of his cell was suddenly opened, and a powerfully built
man, struggling desperately in the grip of two burly policemen, was
dragged into the cage.

As the iron gate closed with a clang, Hawley turned to this new captive
in great astonishment.

“Ye gods, Fred!” he exclaimed. “Have they got you, too? What on earth
for?”

Carroll, bleeding from a deep gash on his left temple, and badly bruised
about the face, laughed bitterly.

“There’s been a tragedy,” he said. “The Chronicle Building has been
blown up by dynamite, and old man Gale killed--or, at least, fatally
injured. And that fathead, Hodgins, accuses me of being responsible for
the outrage.”




CHAPTER XXXIII.

A BOMB OUTRAGE.


Chief of Police Hodgins had been to the city hall to tell the mayor the
good news that the Camera Chap had been captured, and was on his way
back to police headquarters when the explosion in the Chronicle Building
occurred.

As he passed the office of Gale’s newspaper, the chief thought that he
might as well drop in and tell his old friend the glad tidings, too. He
knew that the proprietor of the _Chronicle_ and his son would be
delighted to hear that Hawley’s wings had been clipped at last, and that
Mayor Henkle had agreed that the “young desperado” must be sent to jail,
public sentiment to the contrary notwithstanding.

Hodgins was just about to enter the building when there came a violent
report, followed instantly by a crash and loud cries of alarm.

“Great grief!” he gasped. “What has happened? Sounds as if a bomb had
gone off. And it came from inside the building, too!”

Rushing up the stairs, which were strewn with pieces of plaster that the
explosion had torn from the walls, the chief entered the private office
of Delancey Gale--or, to be more exact, all that was left of the private
office.

The room was a total wreck. Its door had been torn from its hinges; the
panes of the two windows were completely blown out; the ceiling had come
down; great holes had been torn in the plastering of the walls; the
office furniture was smashed.

And, stretched on the floor, lying so still that Hodgins thought at
first that he surely must be dead, was old Delancey Gale, so badly
banged up by the explosion that his face was scarcely recognizable.

In the hope that there might still be some life left in that inert form,
the chief of police grabbed the telephone which stood on the ruin of
what had been a fine mahogany desk. Fortunately the instrument was still
in working order, and in a few minutes he had the hospital on the wire,
and was imploring them to send an ambulance to the _Chronicle_ office
with as little delay as possible.

When the ambulance surgeon arrived, he announced that there was still a
spark of life left in the proprietor of the _Chronicle_, but that it was
exceedingly doubtful whether he would survive his injuries.

“Anybody else hurt, chief?” the surgeon inquired, as he and his driver
placed the wounded man on a stretcher and prepared to take him to the
hospital.

“It seems not,” Hodgins replied. “A couple of chaps in the reporters’
room got a few scratches, I’m told; but nobody except poor Gale is
injured seriously. The whole building was jarred by the explosion, but
most of its force seems to have been confined to this room.”

“How did it happen?” the surgeon inquired, as he lifted one end of the
stretcher and started to carry the unconscious man to the ambulance.

“Looks to me like a bomb outrage,” the police official replied, with a
scowl. “See that clockwork affair over there on the floor? I reckon it
was that contraption which caused the damage. But I ain’t had time to
make an investigation. I’ve got my suspicions, though, as to who is
responsible for this atrocity.”

Just as they were lifting the stretcher into the ambulance, young Gale
pushed his way through the crowd which had gathered on the sidewalk. He
had gone out on an errand for his father about an hour before the
explosion, and the sight of the ambulance and the crowd gathered in
front of the _Chronicle_ office was the first intimation he had that
anything was wrong. His face was white as he approached Chief Hodgins.

“Is the governor dead?” he inquired hoarsely.

“Not quite,” was the gruff reply. “But the doc says he don’t stand much
show. What do you know about this explosion, my boy?”

“Nothing at all,” Gale replied nervously. “I can’t understand how it
happened.”

“I reckon I’ve got a pretty clear idea how it happened, all right,”
growled Hodgins. “Somebody sent the old gent an infernal machine. The
pieces of it are lying on the floor of the office now. And it ain’t hard
to guess who that somebody was, eh?”

“No, indeed,” young Gale replied. “My father has only one enemy--at
least, only one who would be capable of such a cowardly attack. That
cad, Carroll, is responsible for this, as sure as you’re standing here,
chief! I demand that you place him under arrest at once!”

“You won’t have to ask that of me twice,” Hodgins replied grimly. “My
fingers are just itching to get hold of that big stiff’s coat collar.
But first let us go in and look the ground over, and see if we can’t
find a little more evidence against him. Suspicion ain’t evidence, you
know.”

A more affectionate son might have preferred to accompany the ambulance
to the hospital, in order to be present, or near at hand, while the
surgeons made a thorough examination of his father’s injuries; but this
course did not seem to suggest itself to Gale.

Eagerly he followed the chief of police up the plaster-strewn stairway
to the wrecked private office of the proprietor of the _Chronicle_.

They examined the fragments of the exploded infernal machine, and found
there some clews which caused Gale to turn excitedly to Hodgins.

“It’s Carroll, sure enough!” he cried triumphantly. “We’ve got enough
evidence here to send him to the chair, if the governor dies, and to
prison for life if he doesn’t. Come on, chief; let’s march to the
_Bulletin_ office and place him under arrest.”

The chief of police took the precaution of providing himself with an
escort of four stalwart members of his force before he went to arrest
the proprietor of the _Bulletin_.

Not possessing the sunny, placid disposition of his friend Hawley,
Carroll’s indignation took the form of physical resistance when he
learned the intentions of his visitors concerning himself. Hodgins and
his posse had to send for reënforcements before they could get him out
of the building.

That was why the proprietor of the _Bulletin_ presented such a battered
appearance when he joined the Camera Chap in the cell at police
headquarters.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

DUBIOUS PROSPECTS.


“The _Chronicle_ office blown up!” exclaimed Hawley, staring at his
cellmate in horrified astonishment. “Who could have done it, Fred?”

“I don’t know who did it,” the proprietor of the _Bulletin_ answered,
with a scowl, applying his handkerchief to the deep cut in his scalp
which Chief Hodgins had inflicted with the butt of his revolver. “I only
know that I didn’t have anything to do with the outrage.”

“Of course you didn’t, old man,” said the Camera Chap soothingly. “I
know you too well to believe you capable of anything like that. What
grounds have they for trying to put it up to you?”

Carroll laughed grimly. “Oh, they claim to have plenty of
evidence--enough to send me to the chair, if old Gale dies. Hodgins told
me that the box in which the infernal machine was inclosed has been
identified as a box which was previously in my possession. He claims,
too, that they have the wrapper of the package, and that the address is
in my handwriting. If they can prove these things, they’ve got a strong
case against me.”

“_If_ they can prove them!” exclaimed Hawley, with a confident laugh.
“But of course there’s no danger of that. The whole thing is a palpable
frame-up.”

“There’s no doubt about its being a frame-up,” said Carroll; “but I’m
not so sure that it’s palpable. Hodgins is an expert at manufacturing
evidence, and if he’s careful not to make any breaks, he’ll probably be
able to convince a jury that he’s got the goods on me. You see, Frank,
there’s the question of motive to be considered. I’m afraid they’ve got
me there.”

“Motive?” the Camera Chap repeated, with an interrogative inflection.

“Certainly. Everybody in Oldham is aware of the enmity which existed
between myself and the Gales. Isn’t it only natural that I should be the
first person suspected of sending that infernal machine?”

“Not at all,” Hawley protested indignantly. “You are illogical at your
own expense, Fred. Even assuming that you could be coward enough to have
done such a thing--which, of course, is quite out of the question, old
man--what logical reason could you have had for resorting to such
desperate tactics? You were winning. Everything was going your way. You
had no cause to use violence.”

Carroll brightened up a trifle at this argument. “I suppose there’s
something in that,” he agreed, once more dabbing with his handkerchief
at the gash on his temple.

“By the way, old man,” said Hawley, noticing this act; “you haven’t told
me yet how you came by that cut and battered countenance. You weren’t in
the Chronicle Building when the explosion took place, were you?”

“Not exactly,” Carroll answered, with a sheepish grin. “I received these
wounds in the Bulletin Building. When Hodgins and his men came and told
me that they wanted me for sending that bomb, I--well, I’m afraid I lost
my temper for a little while.”

Hawley shook his head disapprovingly. “That was foolish of you, old man.
I gave you credit for possessing more poise. What will the citizens of
Oldham say when they learn that the man who is to be their next mayor
was so lawless as to resist arrest?”

Carroll laughed bitterly. “Don’t deceive yourself about any strong
chance of my being Oldham’s next mayor. That’s out of the question now.
Even if I’m fortunate enough to be able to clear myself of this charge
in court, I’ll have a hard job convincing the public that I didn’t send
that bomb to the _Chronicle_ office. You ought to have seen how the
crowds on the streets acted when I was being brought here. Their
attitude was so ugly that I was afraid they were going to take me away
from the police and string me to a lamp-post. The people of this town
are always willing to believe the worst of a man. You never saw such a
community of backbiters. I guess this arrest means the finish of my
political aspirations.”

“Nonsense!” Hawley returned reassuringly. “Don’t worry about that, Fred.
The public may be inclined to suspect you at first, but we’ll soon swing
them around to our side again. We’re going to put you in the mayor’s
chair, old man, in spite of this little trouble.”

“We?” exclaimed Carroll pointedly. “Good heavens, man, you don’t seem to
realize your own position at all!” He laid his hand sympathetically upon
his friend’s shoulder. “Poor old chap! There’s precious little you’ll be
able to do between now and election. Even if I do manage to get out of
this mess, your goose is cooked for sure. There isn’t any doubt that
they’ll send you to jail for six months for taking pictures without a
license. They’ve got a clear case against you, and I can’t see how
you’re going to get out of it.”

The Camera Chap smiled. “Yes, I must admit that it does look very much
as if I’m slated to spend the next six months in practicing the gentle
art of converting large stones into little ones. You are wrong in
supposing that I don’t realize the position I’m in, Fred.”

“Then how the deuce can you be so cheerful?” Carroll demanded. “By
jinks, Frank, you’re the most unselfish fellow I’ve ever met! Here you
are worrying about me, and trying to cheer me up, when you have plenty
of cause to be brooding over your own impending fate.”

Hawley shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the use of brooding? I’ve never
seen anybody get any farther by doing that. Besides, I’m not absolutely
positive that I’m going to jail. I’ve still got a faint ray of hope.”

“What is it?” Carroll inquired eagerly.

“The New York _Sentinel_,” the Camera Chap replied. “If I can get word
to Tom Paxton, I haven’t any doubt he’ll come to my rescue with bells
on. The good old _Sentinel_ stands by its men through thick and thin,
and, although I don’t quite see how he’s going to work it, I am hopeful
that Tom Paxton will find some way of saving me from jail.

“The trouble is, though,” he added, “how the deuce am I going to get
word to him? Hodgins isn’t going to let me get in touch with my friends,
if he can help it.”

“But he wouldn’t dare do that,” Carroll protested indignantly. “It is
illegal. It is your constitutional right to confer----”

“Pshaw! A little thing like a prisoner’s constitutional rights doesn’t
bother our friend Hodgins,” the Camera Chap interrupted. “Besides, it is
a condition and not a theory which confronts us. I asked the turnkey to
let me send a telegram from here, and was curtly refused. The man told
me that he had orders not to let me communicate with any one. They
wouldn’t even let me send word of my arrest to you. Still, I am
confident that I’ll be able to find some way of getting a C. Q. D. call
to the _Sentinel_.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Carroll assured him. “Word has
already been sent to the _Sentinel_. I guess by this time, Frank, Paxton
is aware of your predicament.”

“Why, what do you mean?” Hawley demanded eagerly.

“I mean that as soon as I heard of your arrest, old man, I took the
liberty of wiring to Paxton, advising him of the situation,” Carroll
explained.

“And you took that step without waiting to consult with me?” It seemed
to Carroll that there was a trace of resentment in the Camera Chap’s
tone.

“Yes; I remembered how you used to hate to appeal to the paper when you
were in difficulties in the days when I was on the _Sentinel_ staff. I
was afraid that you wouldn’t hear of letting Paxton know of your plight,
so I decided to go ahead on my own hook. Hope you’re not mad with me for
doing so, old man?”

“Mad with you? I should say not, indeed,” Hawley replied, with a joyous
laugh. “I am mighty glad that you sent that telegram, Fred. Generally,
as you say, I don’t like to bother the paper when I’m in trouble; but
this is one of the times when I can’t get along without the _Sentinel’s_
help.”




CHAPTER XXXV.

A C. Q. D. CALL.


Only a few days previous, Tom Paxton, managing editor of the New York
_Sentinel_, had received a letter from the Camera Chap. It ran as
follows:

     “MY DEAR TOM: I am having a great time out here in the beautiful
     Catskills. The peace and quiet of this picturesque mountain retreat
     are just the things for my jaded nerves. I have not forgotten my
     physician’s instructions to avoid all forms of excitement, nor your
     kind advice to try to forget that there is such a thing in the
     world as a camera. I like this calm, inactive life so much that if
     you can possibly spare me, I should like to stay out here a few
     weeks longer than I had contemplated. Hope this will be
     satisfactory, as I should really hate to leave here just now.”

Now, Paxton knew the Camera Chap too well to be entirely deceived by
this ingeniously worded missive. He knew that peace, inactivity, and
picturesque scenery were not sufficiently alluring to Hawley to cause
him to wish to prolong his absence from Park Row. He had strong doubts,
too, whether it was within the bounds of possibility for Hawley to go
for so long a time without using a camera.

He read the letter over again, and chuckled. “He says that he has not
forgotten his physician’s instructions to avoid all forms of excitement,
or my advice to try to forget that there is such a thing in the world as
a camera,” he mused. “He says he has not forgotten that advice, but he
does not say that he has followed it.

“I wonder what mischief the young dare-devil is up to?” he went on.
“There must be something pretty good going on up there to make him ask
for a longer vacation. He wasn’t at all keen on going away.”

Then Paxton took his pen, and answered Hawley’s letter:

     “MY DEAR FRANK: By all means, take as long as you like. Things are
     pretty slow in town, and your presence here is not needed. But even
     if we did need you, I should hesitate to take you away from the
     ‘peace and quiet of the picturesque Catskills,’ since you appear to
     be deriving so much enjoyment and benefit from them.”

It happened that the letter was never mailed. Paxton had inclosed it in
an envelope, and was about to address it, when some important business
matter claimed his attention. The missive was thrust into a pigeonhole
of the managing editor’s desk, and it was not until several days later
that Paxton came across it, and reproached himself for his carelessness.

He was just putting a stamp on it, with the intention of sending it out
to the mail chute, when an office boy entered the private office, and
handed him a telegram:

NIND
“PAXTON, Managing Editor, New York _Sentinel_.

     “Frank Hawley, _Sentinel_ staff photographer, arrested here to-day.
     He is in a bad fix, and will surely go to jail for six months
     unless you can save him. Send help at once.

RIGHT
OLDHAM DAILY BULLETIN.”



Paxton was a man of quick action. Without wasting any time trying to
read between the lines of this laconic message, he grabbed the receiver
from the telephone on his desk, and gave an order to the switchboard
operator.

“Get the Oldham _Bulletin_ on the long-distance wire immediately,” he
commanded, “and let me talk to the managing editor.”

Fred Carroll had been arrested and taken to police headquarters before
this telephonic connection was made, but one of the _Bulletin’s_ staff
spoke to Paxton over the wire, and gave him the details of the Camera
Chap’s predicament.

Then the managing editor of the _Sentinel_ did some more telephoning.

“Call up Powers & Hands’ law office, and ask Mr. Hands to be kind enough
to step over here and see me as soon as possible,” he said to the
switchboard operator. “Tell him to be prepared to take a little trip out
of town right away.”

Powers & Hands was the firm which attended to all the _Sentinel’s_ legal
business. They were one of the most prominent law firms in New York, and
saved the _Sentinel_ thousands of dollars annually by squelching
incipient libel suits brought against that newspaper, or successfully
fighting in the courts those which could not be squelched.

Mr. Horatio Hands, the younger of the partners, was not much to look at.
He was an insignificant little chap, with a red beard and a thin voice
that was almost falsetto. He was not much of a success at addressing a
jury--his partner, big Alexander Powers, attended to that part of the
work--but when it came to getting a client off on a legal technicality,
or winning a case by picking flaws in a law, there wasn’t another lawyer
in New York who was his equal. That was why Tom Paxton had chosen him to
go to the rescue of the Camera Chap, instead of calling for the services
of his more oratorical but less keen-witted partner.

Mr. Hands came over to the _Sentinel_ office right away. “Well, Mr.
Paxton?” he squeaked, as he entered the managing editor’s sanctum. “What
unfortunate citizen has the _Sentinel_ been traducing this time?”

“It isn’t a libel suit, Mr. Hands,” Paxton explained, with a smile.
“It’s one of the young men of our staff. He’s got into a little trouble
in Oldham--a small town in the vicinity of the Catskills. I have just
received word of his plight, and would appreciate it very much if you
would go out there right away and help him out of this scrape.”

The lawyer frowned. “Only a reporter in a scrape, eh? Couldn’t one of
our clerks attend to that just as well? Surely it isn’t necessary for me
to go out there personally.”

“Yes, it is,” Paxton declared. “I understand that he’s in a pretty bad
fix, and it’s require the best of legal talent to get him out. That is
why I have sent for you, Mr. Hands.”

The lawyer bowed in acknowledgment of this compliment, but his frown
deepened.

“Well, I’m very busy just now,” he said, “and I shall have to charge you
a good fee if it is necessary to give my own time to this case.”

“I don’t care what it costs!” Paxton rejoined vehemently. “When the
Camera Chap is in danger of going to jail, the _Sentinel_ doesn’t
consider the question of expense. You’ve got to get him out, Mr. Hands,
even if you have to take his case all the way up to the United States
supreme court.”




CHAPTER XXXVI.

A TYPOGRAPHICAL ERROR.


When Chief of Police Hodgins learned that a prominent lawyer had come
from New York to take the case of the Camera Chap, he was somewhat
worried; but when he got a glimpse of Mr. Horatio Hands, his anxiety
vanished, and he expressed his opinion of that legal luminary by a
guffaw of derision.

“You just oughter to see him, Mr. Mayor,” he said to the Honorable
Martin Henkle. “He’s a little bit of a pink-whiskered runt that don’t
look as if he’s got nerve enough to swat a fly. I guess we ain’t got
nothin’ to fear from him.”

“Well, you can’t always go by appearances,” Mayor Henkle replied. “He
must be a pretty good lawyer, or that newspaper wouldn’t have sent him
here. However, we have no cause to worry that I can see. We’ve got a
clear cut-and-dried case against that fellow Hawley, and all the lawyers
in the world couldn’t keep him out of jail.”

Hodgins nodded. “Sure! He might as well plead guilty, and save the
court’s time. What defense can he offer? None that I can think of. By
the way, Mr. Mayor, I met my friend Timmins, the warden of the county
jail, on Main Street this morning. I spoke to him about that Camera
Chap, and Timmins has promised to make things hot for him when he
arrives there. Timmins has his own little ways of rubbing it into an
inmate of his institution when he don’t like him. I guess by the time
that young loafer gets through servin’ his time he’ll have had all the
chestiness taken out of him.”

Although Hawley, according to his legal rights, should have been brought
before a magistrate on the same day that he was arrested, he was not
taken to court until the following morning.

The delay was due to the explosion in the Chronicle Building. Hodgins
had been so busy working on that case that he had not had time to go to
court, eager though he was to see the Camera Chap’s case disposed of as
soon as possible.

The latter, with Carroll to keep him company, spent the night in the
cell at police headquarters. The next morning both of them were taken to
the police court, but while Hawley, his offense being only a
misdemeanor, was to have his fate settled right away in that court,
Carroll, being charged with a more serious crime, was to have merely a
preliminary examination.

The explosion in the Chronicle Building had created a lot of excitement
in Oldham, and the courtroom was crowded when the two newspaper men were
arraigned. The Honorable Martin Henkle was among those present. He sat
on the bench beside the magistrate, a smile of grim satisfaction upon
his face.

Carroll was the first to be given a hearing. As he was arraigned at the
bench, a little man with a reddish beard stepped briskly to his side.

“Who are you, sir?” the judge inquired.

“Counsel for the defense, your honor,” the little man answered, in a
shrill, piping voice that caused many in the courtroom to smile.

Chief Hodgins scowled. “But I thought you was the lawyer for the other
one--the camera feller,” he protested.

“I am not responsible for your thoughts, my friend,” the lawyer
retorted. “If I were, my responsibilities would be light. However, in
order to satisfy your curiosity, I don’t mind informing you that I have
been retained as counsel in both cases. Mr. Carroll has honored me by
asking me to look after his interests, too.”

The lawyer turned to the magistrate. “Your honor, in this case, although
I am convinced that my client’s arrest is an outrage, as we shall easily
prove later on, we will waive examination.”

“Very good, sir,” said the judge. “I will remand the prisoner to the
county jail, to await the action of the grand jury. Call the next case.”

“Frank Hawley to the bar!” yelled the court officer.

As the Camera Chap stepped forward, his eyes met those of the Honorable
Martin Henkle. The latter’s face wore an expression resembling that of a
cat which is about to swallow a canary. It was an exact duplicate of the
expression which at that moment adorned the countenance of Chief of
Police Hodgins.

It did not take the latter long to present his evidence against the
prisoner. Three recent victims of Hawley’s camera came forward, and
identified him as the man who had snapshotted them on the streets of
Oldham. Hodgins swore that these pictures had been taken without a
license.

Copies of the _Bulletin_ containing reproductions of these snapshots
were offered in evidence. Counsel for the defense asked to be permitted
to examine these exhibits. After he had glanced at them, the lawyer
addressed the court.

“Your honor,” he cried shrilly, “admitting that my client took those
snapshots without a license, I move that the case be dismissed on the
grounds that he has violated no law.”

The magistrate stared at him in astonishment. Mayor Henkle, rendered
vaguely uneasy by the lawyer’s confident tone, fidgeted nervously in his
seat. Chief Hodgins uttered a loud snort of contempt; never in all his
experience had he heard such bosh.

“On the grounds that he has violated no law?” the magistrate repeated
witheringly. “I don’t understand you, sir. It appears to the court that
the prisoner has violated the law prohibiting the taking of photographs
on the streets of Oldham without a license.”

“There is no such law, your honor,” squeaked the little attorney.

“What!” cried the magistrate fiercely. “You had better be careful, sir.
If you attempt to trifle with the dignity of this court you will quickly
find yourself committed for contempt. I don’t care if you come from New
York or----”

“There is no such law,” the counsel for the defense repeated, his voice
even more shrill than before. “If your honor will inspect the original
copy of the ordinance requiring the licensing of cameras, you will
realize the truth of my assertion.”

The judge frowned. “I think you had better explain, sir,” he said
sharply. “Your statements are most extraordinary. They almost warrant a
suspicion either that you are mentally unbalanced or that you have been
imbibing too freely. With one breath you say there is no camera law, and
with the next you ask me to inspect the original copy of the camera law.
How can I inspect it if there isn’t any?”

“I beg your pardon,” said the lawyer, with a smile. “I did not say that
there was no camera law. My contention is merely that there is no law
which forbids the taking of photographs on the street of Oldham without
a license.”

“Oh, indeed?” the magistrate sneered. “Then what does the law forbid--as
you understand it?”

“It forbids the taking of photographs of the streets of Oldham,” the
lawyer replied. “It’s wording is very clear.”

“Nonsense!” cried his honor peevishly. “It says on the streets, not of
the streets. Somebody has been misleading you.”

“Not at all, your honor. I have seen the original copy of the ordinance
myself. I had occasion to examine it less than an hour ago, and I was
very particular to notice its exact wording. If your honor will take the
trouble to inspect the original draft of the ordinance--the one which
was signed by the mayor--you will find that I am right.”

“If such is the case,” Mayor Henkle broke in, with a scowl, “it is
merely a typographical error. Everybody knows that it was the intention
of the framers of the ordinance to regulate the taking of photographs on
the streets of Oldham.”

“I am willing to concede that, sir,” counsel for the defense replied
smilingly. “But, fortunately for my client, intentions don’t count. The
use of the word of, instead of on, may be a typographical error, but the
law must be interpreted precisely as it reads. It isn’t by any means the
first time that a typographical error has saved a man from jail. I have
known cases where even a misplaced comma has had that result.”

Then he turned once more to the magistrate. “I repeat my motion, your
honor, that this case be dismissed. Since none of these snapshots which
my client is accused of taking--and which he admits having taken--is a
photograph of the streets of Oldham, he is guilty of no violation of the
law.”

The magistrate frowned. “We will adjourn court while we go and inspect
the original draft of the ordinance,” he announced. Then, turning to the
Honorable Martin Henkle, he whispered to that discomfited official’s
ear: “If this typographical error really does exist, Mr. Mayor, I am
afraid that we will have to throw the case out of court. As this lawyer
has said, the accused is entitled to a strict interpretation of the law.
If I decided otherwise, they would go to a higher court.”

Once more the Camera Chap’s phenomenal luck, which never seemed to
desert him when he was in tight places, had come to his rescue. The
carelessness of a typist in striking the letter “f” instead of the
letter “n,” and the fact that the mayor had put his signature and seal
to the document without noticing the error, enabled him to leave court,
half an hour later, a free man.

But Hawley did not give all the credit to his lucky star. When the
magistrate, returning from the vaults in which the original drafts of
Oldham’s ordinances were preserved, very ungraciously granted Lawyer
Hands’ motion that the case be dismissed, the Camera Chap turned to his
counsel with a grateful smile.

“I owe my liberty to you, sir,” he exclaimed. “I shan’t forget it in a
hurry. How on earth did you happen to guess that you would find that
mistake in the wording of the law?”

“Oh, I always make it a rule in cases of this sort to examine carefully
the original draft of the law, in the hope of finding some point on
which to base a legal technicality,” the lawyer replied. “I had no idea,
though, that I should find such a glaring typographical error as that.
You certainly are a very fortunate young man.”

“I surely am,” the Camera Chap agreed heartily. “I only hope that my
friend Carroll will be equally as fortunate.”




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE MAIN RESOURCE.


Although the Camera Chap had so provokingly slipped through their hands,
Mayor Henkle, Chief Hodgins, and young Gale were confident that no legal
technicality could save his friend Carroll.

True, he was no longer in danger of going to the electric chair. The
surgeons at the hospital, who at first believed that old Delancey Gale
was fatally injured, had a little later revised that opinion, and
announced that, barring unforeseen complications, he would pull through
all right. But Carroll’s enemies were not greatly disappointed at the
thought of his escaping capital punishment. A sentence of life
imprisonment for the proprietor of the _Bulletin_ would be quite
satisfactory to them.

That they had enough evidence to convict him of “assault with intent to
kill” they felt sure. Chief Hodgins, with the assistance of his young
friend Gale, had built up a strong case against Carroll.

In the first place, there was the box in which the infernal machine had
been inclosed. The explosion had smashed this box, but the pieces were
all there, and they had managed to put them together again.

It was a small, oblong wooden box, and undoubtedly it had come from the
_Bulletin_ office. This could be proved by the marks stenciled on the
lid.

Carroll had been in the habit of receiving each day from a New York
syndicate two half-tone cuts of woman’s fashions for publication in the
_Bulletin_. These cuts were shipped in small, oblong wooden boxes. It
was one of these boxes which had been used for the infernal machine.

But the strongest proof of all that Carroll had sent the explosive
package to the _Chronicle_ office was the fact that the package was
addressed in his own handwriting.

Chief Hodgins had on file at police headquarters a personal letter which
the proprietor of the _Bulletin_ had once sent to him. He had taken this
letter from the file, and compared it with the handwriting on the
wrapper of the infernal machine. Although he was not a handwriting
expert, he was willing to wager every dollar he had in the world that
both had been penned by the same hand.

So confident was he that Carroll could not succeed in breaking down the
case against him that when young Gale asked to be allowed to photograph
the wrapper of the infernal machine and reproduce it on the front page
of the _Chronicle_, the chief consented.

“Generally speaking, it’s a bad thing to let the other side get a
glimpse at your evidence the day of the trial,” he said; “but I can’t
see that it’s going to do any harm in this case. Even that
pink-whiskered lawyer fellow from New York won’t be able to make a jury
believe that the address wasn’t written by Carroll. So go ahead, my boy,
and publish it, if you want to.”

When the Camera Chap and Lawyer Hands saw this exhibit on the front page
of the _Chronicle_, they were greatly interested.

“It certainly does look like Fred’s handwriting,” Hawley declared. “But
it must be a clever forgery.”

The lawyer shook his head. “I’m not so sure that it is a forgery at
all,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it were really
Carroll’s own handwriting.”

Hawley stared at him in astonishment. “But I don’t understand. How could
it have been written by him if he didn’t send the bomb--and I am quite
sure that he didn’t.”

“So am I,” the lawyer answered, with a smile. “But let me read you a
paragraph from to-day’s _Chronicle_. Then I think a solution of the
mystery will suggest itself to you.”

Hawley listened intently while Mr. Hands read aloud this extract from
the article which young Gale had written for the front page of his
father’s newspaper:

     “‘The cut published on this page is a photographic reproduction of
     the wrapper in which the deadly infernal machine was inclosed. The
     mechanism was packed in a small wooden box. This box was wrapped in
     stout blue paper, on which was pasted a small label of white paper.
     On this label the words, “Delancey Gale, Esquire, Chronicle
     Building, Personal,” was written in ink. That this address is the
     handwriting of Frederick Carroll, proprietor of the Oldham’s
     _Bulletin_, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt.’”

The Camera Chap’s face lighted up. “A label of white paper, eh?” he
exclaimed, with a grin. “About the size of an ordinary correspondence
envelope, I suppose?”

The lawyer nodded. “I see that you get the idea. At some time or other
Carroll must have had occasion to send a personal letter to Gale. They
happened to save the envelope of that letter, and they used the front
part of it as the label for the infernal machine.”

“That’s a very likely theory,” the Camera Chap agreed. “Quite an
ingenious idea on their part, wasn’t it? But do you really think that
old Gale fixed up that bomb himself?”

“Certainly. Don’t you? The whole thing is perfectly clear to me. They
wanted to discredit Carroll in the eyes of the public, to make it
impossible for him to win at the coming election, so they planned this
bomb outrage. I think ‘planted’ is the word you newspaper men use, is it
not?”

“But is it logical to suppose that old Gale would go to the length of
deliberately blowing himself up?” the Camera Chap exclaimed.

“It is not,” the lawyer answered, with a smile. “And I don’t suppose
anything of the kind. I feel perfectly sure that Gale had no intention
of having that bomb explode in his hands.”

“Then how do you suppose it happened?”

“It was an accident, of course. My theory is that the Gales didn’t
intend to have the bomb explode at all. They planned merely to have it
‘discovered’ in the Chronicle Building, timed to go off at a certain
hour. They were going to send for Chief Hodgins, and have him remove the
package to police headquarters. If the plan had gone through all right,
Hodgins would have taken the package to headquarters, soaked it in a
pail of water, and then examined its contents. He would have announced
that it was a genuine, sure-enough infernal machine of the most deadly
type. Within a few hours everybody in Oldham would have heard of the
dastardly attempt to blow up the Chronicle Building.”

“And that Fred Carroll was responsible for it,” the Camera Chap added,
with a grim smile.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” the lawyer answered. “I don’t think
that they would have sprung that sensation right away. If they had a
proper sense of the dramatic, they would have allowed the identity of
the sender of the infernal machine to remain a mystery for several days.
Then, when the people of Oldham were keyed up to a proper pitch of
excitement, Hodgins would suddenly have announced that the infernal
machine had been sent by Carroll, and would have produced his evidence
to prove his startling charge.”

“You certainly possess a vivid imagination, Mr. Hands,” the Camera Chap
declared. “I have no doubt, though, that that is just about what they
intended to do, if the bomb hadn’t gone off accidentally while old Gale
was handling it in his private office, and made the thing much more
serious than they contemplated.”

“I am confident that my theory is correct,” said the lawyer; “but the
trouble is, we are going to have a hard job proving it. In order to do
so, we shall have to show that Gale made the infernal machine himself. I
am afraid that is going to be a poser.”

“I’ve got an idea, Mr. Hands,” said Hawley. “I think if I were to go out
and take a snapshot of young Gale it might help us a lot.”

“How?” the lawyer queried, with a bewildered frown. “A snapshot of young
Gale? I must confess that I can’t perceive what good that’ll do.”

But when Hawley had explained what he intended to do with the picture
when he got it, Mr. Hands smiled upon him approvingly.

“An excellent plan!” he cried enthusiastically. “Go ahead and carry it
out. I congratulate you upon your bright idea. If it succeeds, it will
surely get your friend Carroll out of his predicament; and I have strong
hopes that it will succeed.”




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A CLEVER SCHEME.


The younger Gale was greatly astonished when, as he was walking along
Main Street, Hawley suddenly appeared a few yards in front of him with a
camera in his hand, and coolly proceeded to take his picture.

Gale’s first impulse was to summon a policeman and have the Camera Chap
placed under arrest; but he suddenly recollected that, as the city
council had not yet passed an amended anticamera law, Hawley had a
perfect right under the existing ordinance, with its typographical
error, to take snapshots on the streets of Oldham without a license,
provided he did not take pictures of the streets. Therefore, Gale gave
up the idea of having Hawley arrested.

His next impulse was to rush forward, grab the camera out of Hawley’s
hands, and crunch it beneath his foot. But he did not carry out this
impulse, either. The Camera Chap was muscular, and, as Gale well knew,
not wanting in physical courage. Gale thought that an encounter with him
might prove painful.

“Oh, well, what do I care if he takes my picture?” he muttered
philosophically. “Let him go ahead and enjoy himself. I’d give ten
dollars, though, to know what his game is. I suppose he intends to
publish my phiz in the _Bulletin_, but I’ll be hanged if I can imagine
what for.”

The next morning Gale eagerly searched the pages of the _Bulletin_ in
the expectation of finding his picture there; but there was no sign of
it.

“Possibly they’re holding it over until to-morrow,” he reflected. But
his portrait did not ornament the _Bulletin_ the next day, or for
several days following.

Gale had just about decided that, after all, he had been mistaken in
supposing that the Camera Chap had taken the snapshot for publication,
when one morning he saw on the front page of Carroll’s newspaper
something which well-nigh paralyzed him.

Stretched across the top of the page was the following “scare head”:

“The Truth About the _Chronicle_ Explosion.--Daring Conspiracy Laid
Bare.--The Innocence of Mr. Frederick Carroll, the People’s Party
Candidate for Mayor. Fully Established.--The _Bulletin_ in Possession of
Positive Proof That He Is the Victim of Bold Frame-up Engineered by His
Desperate Political Enemies.--Real Facts of Case to be Laid Before Grand
Jury.”

There were other headlines beneath these, and several columns of smaller
type were devoted to the details of the conspiracy.

In the center of the page was a half-tone portrait. Beneath it, in
heavy-faced type, was the following:

“This is one of the scoundrels really responsible for the bomb outrage.
It was this man who supplied the materials out of which the infernal
machine was constructed. By means of the photograph, here reproduced, he
has been positively identified by a man from whom he tried to purchase a
stick of dynamite, and the jeweler who sold him the cheap alarm clock
from the works of which the mechanism of the infernal machine was made.
Further details are given elsewhere on this page.”

It was the fact that Gale recognized the picture as a very good portrait
of himself which caused him to turn pale and utter an exclamation of
dismay as he read these startling lines.

With much trepidation he proceeded to read every word on the page. It
was soon made very clear to him why there had been such a long interval
between the taking of the snapshot and its publication on the front page
of the _Bulletin_.

After taking the picture, Hawley had visited all the towns in the
vicinity of Oldham. In each town he had gone to all the jewelry stores,
and, showing Gale’s picture, had asked the salespeople if they recalled
having sold a clock to the man within the past few days.

This was the plan which the Camera Chap had suggested to Lawyer Hands,
and which had earned the attorney’s enthusiastic approval.

Hawley had reasoned that in all probability the clockwork used in the
construction of the infernal machine had been purchased by the younger
Gale. He had reasoned, also, that Gale would not be so careless as to
purchase the clock in Oldham, but would take the precaution of going out
of town for it. His scheme was to visit every nearby town in the hope of
striking the store at which the purchase had been made.

It was a long and tedious task, and he realized that there was a good
chance that he would have all his trouble for nothing; but Hawley
resolutely stuck to it, and, after several days of discouragement, he
met with success.

In a town called Roxbury, thirty-five miles from Oldham, he found a
jeweler who positively identified the snapshot which the Camera Chap
showed him as the photograph of a man who had bought a cheap alarm clock
there a few days before.

The jeweler’s wife and clerk also remembered Gale very well. Both of
them had been present when the sale of the alarm clock was made, and
were positive that the customer was the young man in the picture.

Highly elated with his success, the Camera Chap was about to return to
Oldham to tell the good news to Lawyer Hands, when, quite unexpectedly,
he made another very important discovery.

A block from the jewelry store some workmen were engaged in excavating
for the foundation of a building. As Hawley passed this spot, he noticed
that the men were blasting some rock with dynamite.

An inspiration came to him. Was it not possible, he thought, that Gale,
too, had passed by this place, and, seeing the blasting going on, had
tried to obtain from the workmen the explosive needed for the infernal
machine?

There was only the merest chance, of course, that such was the case; but
he was not in the habit of overlooking mere chances. He decided that
this “hunch” was well worth investigating.

Stepping up to the foreman of the gang of workmen, he once more produced
his snapshot, and showed it to the man.

“Ever seen this fellow before?” he inquired.

The man stared hard at the picture. “Why, sure,” he answered; “that’s
the guy who came to me the other day and offered me ten dollars for a
stick of dynamite.”

“And did you sell it to him?” the Camera Chap inquired eagerly.

“I did not,” replied the man. “I thought he might be one of them
anarchists, and I wasn’t going to be responsible for no bomb outrages. I
told him that if he wanted dynamite, he’d have to go somewhere else for
it.”

Hawley was disappointed at this answer. It would have been more
satisfactory, of course, if he could have obtained proof that Gale had
actually bought the explosive.

When he got back to Oldham, he told Lawyer Hands that it was his
intention to go over all the ground once more in the hope of finding the
place from which the explosive had been obtained. But the lawyer
discouraged this plan.

“I am quite sure that you wouldn’t succeed,” he declared. “The chances
are a hundred to one that the man who sold him the dynamite, or whatever
explosive was used, would be afraid to admit it for fear of getting into
trouble. Anyway, we have got evidence enough now to save your friend
Carroll. The fact that Gale tried to purchase dynamite from those
workmen, plus the fact that he purchased that alarm clock, would be
enough to convince any jury that the bomb outrage was a frame-up.”

“But suppose he claims that he bought the alarm clock for another
purpose?” suggested the Camera Chap.

“In that event, he will be called upon to tell what he did with it. If
he can’t produce the clock, he will have a hard job getting anybody to
believe his story.

“Besides,” the lawyer added, “you are not the only one who has been
making discoveries. I have found out where they got that wooden box in
which the infernal machine was inclosed. Young Gale got it from in front
of the Bulletin Building the other day. I have found a couple of
witnesses who saw him pick it up.”

“Great work!” Hawley exclaimed joyously. “How long do you think it will
be before poor Carroll is free, Mr. Hands?”

“Not more than a couple of days,” was the encouraging reply. “The grand
jury meets to-morrow. I’m going to make it my business to see that they
hear the real facts about this case. When they learn the truth, there’ll
be no indictment against Carroll.”

Hawley’s face lighted up. “You’ve certainly done us a great service,” he
said feelingly. “If ever I get a chance to show my gratitude----”

“You’ve got a chance now,” the lawyer interrupted, with a smile.

“How?” Hawley demanded, with an eagerness which was ample proof of his
sincerity.

“By agreeing to return with me to New York,” the lawyer explained. “Mr.
Paxton, your managing editor, made me promise that I would bring you
back with me. He says he thinks you’ve had quite enough of the peace and
quiet of the picturesque Catskills.”

Hawley laughed. “I guess he’s right about that,” he said. “I think I can
promise to return to New York with you, Mr. Hands, as soon as Fred is
set free. I don’t suppose he’ll need my services any longer. When the
_Bulletin_ publishes the truth about the _Chronicle_ explosion, there’ll
be such a wave of public sentiment in Fred’s favor that he’s sure to win
at the coming election. I predict, too, a big boom in the _Bulletin’s_
circulation from now on.”




CHAPTER XXXIX.

BACK ON PARK ROW.


As Lawyer Hands had confidently expected, the grand jury, after
considering all the facts pertaining to the _Chronicle’s_ explosion
case, refused to find an indictment against Fred Carroll.

As soon as the proprietor of the _Bulletin_ was set free, the Camera
Chap accompanied the lawyer back to New York, and received a warm
welcome from Managing Editor Paxton and the _Sentinel_ staff.

One of the first persons whom Hawley met after his return was Doctor
Hugo Allyne, the eminent specialist, who had ascribed the Camera Chap’s
headaches to nervous indigestion, and advised him to go to some quiet
spot and take the “rest cure.”

It was on Broadway that Hawley encountered the man of medicine. Although
the latter had a good memory for faces, he had some difficulty in
recognizing in the ruddy-complexioned, clear-eyed young man who greeted
him, the pale, tired patient who had come to his office for advice a few
weeks before.

“Well, you’re certainly looking much better,” Doctor Allyne observed,
when Hawley had finally succeeded in identifying himself. “You must have
carried out my orders with great fidelity. How are the headaches?”

“Haven’t had a single one since I saw you,” the Camera Chap answered.
“I’m feeling as fit as a fiddle.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said the specialist, much gratified. “There is
nothing like a rest cure for cases such as yours. A few weeks in the
clear mountain air, and a careful avoidance of all forms of excitement,
will work wonders.”

“They certainly will,” Hawley agreed, trying hard not to grin.

For the next few months the Camera Chap was so busy that he did not have
time to go back to Oldham to visit his friend Carroll; but he kept track
of what was going on in that town by means of the copies of the
_Bulletin_ which the mail brought him each day.

One day, just as he was stepping out of the _Sentinel_ office, on his
way to take some snapshots of a society wedding, he almost collided with
a tall, broad-shouldered young man who was about to enter.

“Why, hello, Mr. Mayor!” he exclaimed delightedly. “This is indeed a
pleasant surprise. What on earth is your honor doing so far away from
Oldham?”

The Honorable Fred Carroll, mayor of Oldham, smiled expansively as he
gripped the Camera Chap’s hand.

“I’ve come to New York especially to look you up,” he announced. “I have
just discovered, old man, that I am even more in your debt than I
thought I was.”

As Carroll spoke, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a folded slip of
pink paper, and handed it to Hawley.

“Why, what’s this?” exclaimed the latter, feigning great astonishment.
“A check for five thousand dollars made out to my order! What is the
meaning of this, Mr. Mayor?”

“It means,” replied Carroll, a break in his deep voice, “that I have
learned the secret of that five thousand dollars’ worth of advertising
which your friend Mr. Cheston brought to the _Bulletin_ at a time when
the money was sorely needed. I was suspicious of that advertising from
the start, Frank, but it was only yesterday that I learned the truth
about it--that it was nothing but a ruse on your part to get me to
accept a loan from you. Old man, I shall never forget your kindness. You
certainly are the best friend a fellow ever had. You had done so much
for me already; then, to cap it all, you went and drew your savings----

“Oh, quit it!” Hawley interrupted gruffly. “For Heaven’s sake, put out
the stump speech, Fred. The money was idle in the bank. I had no
immediate use for it, and I knew that you had; so it was only logical
that I should let you have it until such a time as the _Bulletin_ was
making enough money to enable you to pay me back. If that time has now
arrived, I’ll accept your check, and we’ll consider the incident closed.
But I can’t take half of that amount. Rest assured, I didn’t give all
those people free advertising. I made contracts with them through an
agency, gave them very low rates, and in a little while I had part of
the money back in the bank.”

As Carroll still seemed intent on thanking him, the Camera Chap headed
him off by hurriedly changing the subject.

“How is Mrs. Carroll?” he inquired.

“First-rate, thank you. Melba joins me, Frank, in thank----”

“And how are you making out as mayor?”

“Fine! If I do say it myself, I seem to be making a great hit with the
people of Oldham. I’ve already put into effect several important
reforms. One of them was the repealing of the anticamera ordinance. It’s
a different town since the People’s Party succeeded that bunch of
grafters who were running things in Henkle’s time. But I say, Frank, I
really must express my thanks for----”

“By the way, what has become of Henkle?” the Camera Chap inquired
hastily.

“He has retired to private life--says he’s had enough of politics. I
shall never forget, old man, what you have done for----”

“And the Gales? Are they still running the _Chronicle_? I understand
they escaped being indicted for that bomb conspiracy.”

“Yes,” Carroll answered. “Henkle used all the influence he could wield
to save them, and managed to get them whitewashed. Of course, for
Melba’s sake, I was mighty glad to have it turn out that way. But
they’re not running the _Chronicle_ any more. Old Gale found himself so
unpopular as a result of that explosion affair that as soon as he was
able to leave the hospital he sold his paper at a ridiculously low
figure; sold his house, too, and left town for good.”

“And did his son go with him?”

“Yes. I understand, though, that he’s trying to get back his old job on
the New York _Daily News_, so possibly you’ll have the pleasure of
seeing him again before long. But I say, Frank, I’ve come all the way
from Oldham to tell you how much I appreciate----”

“And how about my old friend Chief Hodgins?” the Camera Chap
relentlessly interrupted. “I saw in the _Bulletin_ that you fired him
from the force as soon as you were sworn in. What is he doing now?”

Carroll laughed. “He has gone into the hotel business. He’s bought an
inn on Main Street, not far from police headquarters. He’s got a big
sign in the lobby, just before the clerk’s desk, and it says: ‘No
cameras allowed on these premises!’”


                               THE END.

                   *       *       *       *       *




                           THE BANK ROBBER.

                            By HERO STRONG.


I think it was some time in July that she came to Locust Cottage.

It was a house that most ladies would have feared to live in, for its
situation was lonely and secluded, and its reputation bad as possible.
Some one was murdered there several years before, and such a
circumstance is enough to blast the character of any house in the
country. In the city they are used to such things, and do not mind them.

Mrs. Leroy did not take a lease of Locust Cottage without knowing what
was just said of it. She heard old Granny Coe’s story of the “death
lights” that danced past the windows on stormy nights, and listened,
with tolerable patience to Peter Jones’ narrative of the immense black
dog that had howled at him one night when he was passing the house.
Peter was a brave fellow, according to his own estimate, and he averred
that he went to the fence and got a stake to make “daylight shine
through the sassy cur,” but when he struck at him the dog was not there.
There was nothing left to mark the spot where he had stood and growled,
except a speck of fire about as big as a dollar; and even that faded
away as Peter gazed upon it, and left just nothing at all.

Then there was another story of a fair young girl, with long, flaxen
hair, wreathed with water lilies; and this girl sat on the moldy piazza,
of wet nights, and sang plaintive airs to an old broken-stringed lute,
which, according to all descriptions, must have seen its best days long
before.

In a country neighborhood, no one ever forgets anything, and so when the
report transpired that Locust Cottage was haunted, every old crone in
the vicinity would remember some occurrence which made it very
reasonable that it should be haunted.

Captain Fox owned the cottage, and the captain was an extremely
conscientious man. In fact, his conscience was a great trouble to him,
for he was exceedingly fond of getting the best end of a bargain always,
and it seems very unfortunate for such a man to have a conscience.
Covetousness and conscientiousness never work well together. They go a
great deal better in single harness.

The captain informed Mrs. Leroy that the cottage had the reputation of
being inhabited by spirits, and this satisfied his conscientiousness.
Then he told her that the people who said so were all irresponsible
parties, and that satisfied his covetousness. Mrs. Leroy said it was
quite immaterial to her about the spirits. She was not timid about dead
people, and forthwith engaged the place.

Locust Cottage was very beautifully located, though it was fully half a
mile from any other dwelling. There were locust trees in front, and at
the rear of the house quite an extensive pond, where water lilies grew
in abundance.

I remember of hearing the ladies of our family speaking about the new
arrival, and I concluded that as they did not say anything against her
she was some ugly old crone, who wanted to get away by herself and hire
a house cheap. It is only young and pretty women who are slandered by
their own sex.

I was busy in the village for seven hours of the day, but I went home to
tea, and occasionally some lady caller of my mother’s would remark on
the pertinacity with which Mrs. Leroy kept herself secluded; but
further than that I knew and heard nothing. Neither did I care, for I
had never been a lady’s man, and at thirty-eight I was not likely to get
up much of an interest for one I had never seen.

I was cashier of the Southbridge Bank, and, as ours was a manufacturing
town, our institution did a very flourishing business, and kept one
stirring most of the time.

It was a hot day in August, and i sat down for a moment, with a new
number of a favorite magazine in my hand. It was so hot, and so near
noon, that no one would be in until after dinner, I thought, and i
should get a chance to read that article on South America of which there
was so much said.

Scarcely, however, had I cut the first leaf before the door opened and a
lady entered. As it was a lady, of course I could not do otherwise than
bow, and be very polite to her.

She wanted a check cashed. I looked it over. It was New Orleans paper,
and made payable to Eudora Leroy, or order.

Ah, thought I, looking at my fair visitor, so the old lady has a pretty
daughter; and then I wondered that no one had ever spoken of her.

The face that gleamed on me through the black lace veil was a very
beautiful face, though masked somewhat by lines of care or sorrow.
Perhaps the old lady was tyrannical.

“Have you an order for the payment of a draft?” I asked.

“None is needed,” she replied quietly. “I will indorse it.” And, taking
up a pen, she wrote the name on the back, in a free, graceful hand,
Eudora Leroy.

“Then you are Mrs. Leroy?” I said, in some surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

I took a good look at her. She was a brunette, and I have always fancied
that style of woman. Some way, they look as if they would wash and wear
better than the light style.

Her hair and eyes were very dark; the hair combed loosely, but in these
days, when every woman’s hair curls, it is not worth while to mention
that fact, I suppose. She had some color, and her expression was sweet
in the extreme.

The hand which she had ungloved to indorse the draft was white and
shapely, not a hand unused to labor, by any means.

Her age was seven or eight and twenty, I judged; possibly she might be
thirty. Faces like hers do not show their age.

After that I saw Mrs. Leroy quite frequently. She came to the bank about
once a fortnight, and always on business of this kind. I mean with a
check to be cashed. She evidently had plenty of money, so my supposition
that she had taken Locust Cottage because the rent was low could not be
correct.

Sometimes she would stop a moment in the bank and answer my remarks
about the weather, or the news--for I always tried to have something
ready to say to her; but generally she seemed in a hurry, and I noticed
that she never went into the street, but always started directly for
home when she left the bank.

All her marketing was done by a colored woman, a great, strong-looking,
sphinx-faced creature, who never spoke an unnecessary word, and never
answered any questions.

Mrs. Leroy was a Southerner, so it was probable, and the village
concluded, that she had brought the woman from her old home with her.

I think I never told any one that I was getting quite well acquainted
with Mrs. Leroy. Somehow, I did not feel as if I wanted to discuss her,
or hear her discussed.

I slept at the bank nights, but I always closed at four o’clock and went
home to tea. And about eight in the evening I generally returned, and
went to bed in a back room adjoining the reception room.

One night in October, just as I was about to close to go home, Mrs.
Leroy came in. She seemed very much frightened, and her face paled and
flushed alternately.

“I wish to see you alone,” she said, in a low voice. “Lock the outer
door, if you please, and then listen to me.”

I did as requested, and then, sinking her voice to a whisper, she went
on to tell me of a plot which had been laid by three men to break into
the bank that night and rob the vault.

“Mr. Morelle,” she said, in conclusion, “if you had not slept here I
confess that I should have done nothing about it, because I risk my life
by betraying them. But I heard them say that if you awoke, the only way
would be to murder you, and I could not remain idle and suffer any one
to be killed.”

“But who are these men, and how did you learn their intentions? And from
whom are you in danger?” I asked.

“These are questions I cannot answer. I have warned you, but you must
not ask to know too much. Be on your guard. I think, if they discover
that you have means of defense they will go away. You will call in some
one, will you not?” And my heart beat a little faster as I marked the
ill-concealed anxiety of her countenance.

“I will be prepared----”

“Hush!” she said, laying her hand imploringly on my arm. “You must not
think of bloodshed! Promise me that you will not! Oh, Mr. Morelle,
promise me that you will not kill him, for my sake! I have risked my
life for you--now, in return, promise me that there shall be no
bloodshed!”

“Who is it that I must not injure?”

“Alas, I cannot tell you! Oh!” she cried, under her breath, “what if I
have doomed him to death?”

She evidently had a strong personal interest in one of the robbers, and
I felt myself growing nervous and uneasy at the thought. What if one of
the villains was her husband? Nothing more likely. One never knows
anything about these women who move into out-of-the-way houses and do
not join the sewing society, where every one is expected to put her
character into the common stock for discussion.

I thanked Mrs. Leroy for coming to me. I promised that, so far as I
could prevent it, there should be no bloodshed.

She went away with a sadly depressed air, and I went to call on Mr.
Jenkins, the president of the bank. We talked the matter over, though,
of course, I could not tell him how I had obtained my information. Then
together, we called on Davis and Lucas, two of our most efficient
policemen, and it was arranged that I should go home to tea, as usual,
return to the bank at my accustomed hour, and admit Davis, Lucas, and
Peabody, one of their set, by the back door.

We carried out the program. We were all well armed, and prepared for any
emergency. The policemen went to sleep, and I kept watch. About twelve I
heard a noise, like the grating of a file, but so dexterously was the
instrument handled that for some time I was not sure but the creaking of
the heavy shutters had deceived me.

Presently I heard the slightest touch in the world of iron against iron,
and then I knew that the strong staple which held the padlock of the
south window was being drawn out.

I touched Davis, and in a moment the three men were awake and on the
alert.

We let the burglars alone until they were fairly at work picking the
locks of the safe, and then we pounced upon them.

They were only two, and we were four; but they were desperate
characters, and did not stand bound by any promises not to shed blood.

“Betrayed!” cried one of them, the younger of the two, for the third one
had not entered the building, but was standing at the window, outside.
“I know who has done it, and I swear by the heavens above us she shall
pay dearly for it!”

“Submit quietly,” said Lucas, “and we will not fire on you.”

“Get out of my way!” returned the burglar defiantly, and at the same
time he drew a pistol and fired full in Lucas’ face.

He dodged, but the ball grazed his cheek, and the pain made Lucas forget
everything else.

Before one of us could lift a finger to stop him, he had dashed the
young man against the iron door of the safe, and, by the limp, helpless
way in which his head hung down, I knew that his neck was broken.

Lucas eyed his work with grim satisfaction.

“It’s the first one I ever killed outright, but I swear I’d do it again
under like circumstances.”

The other burglar submitted without resistance, but the third one was
never secured.

There was a coroner’s inquest on the dead body of the young robber, and
just in the gray light of the morning Mrs. Leroy forced her way through
the crowd to where the corpse lay.

I shall never forget the expression of the face she lifted to mine, so
sadly reproachful, so full of unutterable grief.

“You promised me that there should be no murder done!” she said
hoarsely.

“I could not help it. What was he to you?” I asked, with an eagerness I
could not repress.

“He was my half brother. I had no reason to fear that he would be
injured, for, when I heard their plan, it was arranged that he should
remain outside and receive the gold. But, still, I had apprehensions for
his safety, and that was why I asked you to promise what I did. Take me
to him now.”

I led her to his side, and saw her lift his cold head to her bosom and
shower kisses on his icy lips.

“Oh, Albert, Albert!” she cried, in agony. “If my life would have saved
yours! And to think that it was I who betrayed you to your death!”

Even as she spoke, I felt the strong shudder that shook her frame, and
the next moment I received her fainting form in my arms.

I did not care what people said. From the depths of my soul I believed
Eudora Leroy was pure and innocent, and she had no protector. So I took
it upon myself to care for her. I carried her home, engaged a nurse, and
called a physician.

And I am afraid that I answered my lady mother anything but politely
when she remonstrated with me on what she called my extraordinary
conduct.

But you will want to know about the burglar who was secured alive, and a
few words will give the facts regarding him.

His name was Granger. He was from New Orleans, and had known Mrs.
Leroy’s brother there. His name was Albert Harper. He was a rash,
high-tempered fellow, Granger said, and when in liquor easily
influenced.

Granger was tried, and committed for four years, but I think he died
before his time was out.

Mrs. Leroy was ill a long time. It was spring before she was able to see
any one, and then she sent for me. I had known all along that she would
do so, and had been awaiting her summons with nervous anxiety. For I
suppose you have already guessed that I loved Eudora Leroy.

She was downstairs, lying on a lounge, when I was shown into her
presence, but she arose instantly and took a chair by the window.

Before she spoke I had leisure to observe how much she had changed, and
how wan and dejected she was generally. Even her voice had lost much of
the silvery ring which I had loved so well to hear.

She began to tell me her little history. I had been kind to her, she
said, and she thought it but justice that I should know all she had to
tell.

By birth she was a Louisianian. Her father was a wealthy planter, who
had been twice married. Albert was the son of his last wife. He had been
a difficult child to manage from his birth, and, as he grew older,
caused his friends a world of trouble. When he was fifteen, his mother
died, committing him to the care of Eudora. She promised the dying woman
to use her best influence for his good, and faithfully had the vow been
kept. She had followed him into places where it brought a blush to her
face to enter, and, vicious as he was, he never refused to go back with
her. She had paid his debts--for all the property was left to her at the
death of her father--she had borne with all his vices patiently, she had
hoped always that he would eventually forsake his evil ways and become
the honest, respectable man she desired him to be.

He had become concerned in a disgraceful affair at New Orleans which
compelled him to leave the city, and she had settled up her affairs
there and come to New England with him.

He was remorseful, and promised her faithfully that if she would take
him to some secluded place, where he should never meet Granger again, he
would try to reform. Granger had been his bane; but for his baleful
influence he would never have sunk to such depths of degradation.

So, full of hope for the future, Eudora had come to Southbridge. She had
married, only a year previously, a man much her senior, who had been
thrown from his horse and killed only a year after the marriage.

I gathered from Eudora’s manner while speaking of this marriage, that
she had never loved her husband, but had become his wife because he
loved her, and because his influence was very strong over Albert.

And the idea gave me unqualified satisfaction. You may say it is foolish
to be jealous of the dead, but--well, never mind. Most of us are selfish
enough to want the entire affections of those we love. We do not care to
share a divided interest.

After their coming to Southbridge, Mrs. Leroy said, Albert had become
thoroughly changed. He remained in the cottage all the time, engaged in
painting, for he was possessed of considerable artistic talent. He would
not go out, even for a walk, and thus it had happened that no one knew
of his existence.

But Granger found him out at last, and then all hope of his reformation
was over.

He brought him brandy, which always made him partially insane, and at
such times Eudora’s life was in danger. Albert was kind to her when not
under the influence of drink, but brandy made a demon of him. There was
nothing too bad for him to do when he was intoxicated. It was while he
was having one of those frenzies that the plan to rob the bank was
started.

Eudora had refused to furnish him with the money he asked for, and
Granger suggested that they should get it at the bank. It was agreed
upon, and they made all their calculations at once. A confederate was
secured by Granger, and the two men had the boldness to come to Locust
Cottage and ask to see Albert.

Eudora dared not refuse them, but, suspecting some villainy, she
listened to the interview, and thus became aware of the intended
burglary. It was arranged that Granger and Sterling should enter the
bank, silence me, if I was disposed to be troublesome, and pass the gold
out to Albert.

Eudora said that much as she felt it her duty to warn me, she did not
know as she would have had the courage had it not been that she
believed, according to their plan, that Albert would be out of danger.

Did she say nothing of her discovery to her brother, do you ask?

She said that she went down on her knees to him, and besought him to
give up the mad scheme; and he told her that if she ever lisped another
word to him on the matter it should cost her her life.

She was weeping when she finished, but presently she grew calm.

She was going away, she said, as soon as she could arrange for the
change, where no one who knew her would ever see her again.

She looked so distant and so cold, when she said so, that she froze the
passionate words that sprang to my lips. I rose to take my leave, and
she just touched her fingers to the hand I extended, and said good-by as
calmly as she would have said good night.

Just outside the door, I discovered that I had left my glove. I went
back softly. I saw her holding it to her lips.

The next moment I had her in my arms, and I was telling her, in some
unstudied words, that I loved her, and that I would never let her go
anywhere.

She was very hard to convince. If I had been less in earnest than I was,
I should have lost her; but I threw my whole soul into the work, and by
and by she confessed that she did love me; that she had loved me a long
time.

After that I did not care for the obstacles she raised. Dear, little,
conscientious thing! She thought it would be wicked for her to disgrace
me by becoming my wife because her brother had tried to rob a bank.

But I am a very determined man, and I would not let her out of my arms
until she promised all I asked of her.

That day month I married her.

People talked about it, but Dora and I were happy enough to be able to
afford to let them talk. Probably they felt easier after it.


A SMART BOY.

The power loom was the invention of a farmer’s boy, who had never seen
or heard of such a thing. He fashioned one with his penknife, and, when
he got it all done, he showed it with great enthusiasm to his father,
who at once kicked it all to pieces, saying he would have no boy about
him who would spend his time on such foolish things. The boy was sent to
a blacksmith to learn a trade, and his master took a lively interest in
him.

He made a loom of what was left of the one his father had broken up, and
showed it to his master. The blacksmith saw he had no common boy as an
apprentice, and that the invention was a valuable one. He had a loom
constructed under the supervision of the boy. It worked to their perfect
satisfaction, and the blacksmith furnished the means to manufacture the
looms, and the boy received half the profits.

In about a year the blacksmith wrote to the boy’s father that he should
bring with him a wealthy gentleman, who was the inventor of the
celebrated power loom.

You may be able to judge of the astonishment at the old home when his
son was presented to him as the inventor, who told him that the loom was
the same as the model that he had kicked to pieces the previous year.


A BABOON WITH A BRAIN.

In the Transvaal some of the fruit gardens are much exposed to the
ravages of large cynocephalic apes, and a good guard has to be kept, or
the results of long labor would be lost. In some of those gardens grow
certain shrubs which are much affected by wasps, the insects liking to
attach thereto their nests.

These wasps, though small, have a very venomous sting. Baboons had often
been noticed eying with envious glances the fast-ripening fruit in one
certain garden, but feared to gather for fear of attracting the assaults
of the wasps.

One morning the farmer heard terrible cries, and, with the aid of a good
field glass he witnessed the following tragedy: A large, venerable
baboon, chief of the band, was catching the younger apes and pitching
them into the shrubs whereon hung the wasps’ nests. This he repeated
again and again, in spite of the most piteous cries from his victims.

Of course, the wasps assumed the defensive in swarms. During this part
of the performance the old brute quietly fed on the fruit, deigning
occasionally to throw fragmentary remains to some female and young
baboons a little farther off.




THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.


How Missouri River Lowers Land Surfaces.

The Missouri River carries more silt than any other large river in the
United States, except possibly the Rio Grande and the Colorado. It
gathers annually from the country that it drains more than 123,000,000
tons of silt and soluble matter, some of which it distributes over the
flood plains below to form productive agricultural lands, but most of
which finds its way at last to the Gulf of Mexico.

It is by means of data of this kind that geologists compute the rate at
which the lands are being worn away. It has been shown the Missouri
River is lowering the surface of the land drained by it at the rate of
one foot in 6,036 years. The surface of the United States as a whole is
now being worn down at the rate of one foot in 9,120 years.

It has been estimated that if this erosive action of the streams of the
United States could have been concentrated on the Isthmus of Panama, it
would have dug in seventy-three days the canal which has just been
completed after ten years’ work, with the most powerful appliances yet
devised by man.


Boy’s Life Like Fiction.

Like a romance reads the tale of Benny Wittig, picked up as Eddy Sires
by the police several days ago, and the happy climax of the story came
in his restoration to his mother, Mrs. Frank Hitchcock, of Peoria, Ill.

The story begins with the death of Judge Wittig, near Latham, Ill.,
eleven years ago. His wife was sick, and misfortune had followed him, so
that all he had was mortgaged and seized for debt. His two sons, Benny,
aged six, and Louis, aged nine, were placed in the Lutheran
Kinderfreund. Benny was adopted by a family named Sires, while Louis was
taken by a family living near Nashville, Ill.

The Sires family went to Kentucky, tired of the boy, and abandoned him
in the town of Somerset. The youngster beat his way by hook or crook to
the Far West, and his first recollection of places he visited is of Los
Angeles, Cal. Afterward he lived for over a year in Salt Lake City,
where he attended school. He found other friends in Denver, and attended
school there, also. It was while beating his way back to Kentucky to
find his supposed parents--Sires--that he happened into Peoria. The
police suspected that the handsome seventeen-year-old boy was a runaway,
and detained him while investigating.

His story, though it seemed improbable, interested Chief Rhoades, who
communicated with the police at Somerset and is awaiting a reply.

Meantime the story got into the city papers, and Mrs. Inez Ware and Miss
Josephine Hitchcock, sister and half sister of the boy, called at police
headquarters and identified him as Benny Wittig. In the good old
storybook way, a scar on his neck established his identity, although the
striking resemblance between the ladies and the boy is so great that it
alone is convincing.

The mother, Mrs. Wittig, had married Frank Hitchcock and moved to
Peoria. She is now partially paralyzed. She had made inquiries and put
forth every effort she could to find her boys, and was successful in
locating Louis, the eldest, who had led a dog’s life as a bound boy. He
had learned that his name was Wittig, and in a Decatur paper had read of
the marriage of a Mrs. Wittig and Hitchcock. He wrote to her on the
chance of her being his mother, and their relationship was established.
He now conducts a prosperous garage.

Benny is now seventeen years old. He has been a wanderer for nine of the
intervening years since his father’s death, and the chain of happenings
that have restored him to his mother is one that is read of in works of
fiction, but seldom in real life.


Red and Green Light Tests.

It is strange how the color of a light makes it more or less visible,
irrespective of its actual brilliancy. To test this, place two lights of
the same color--two candles of the same size will do--in two tin boxes,
and in each box perforate a pinhole. Cover one pinhole with green glass
and one with red, and place them in a perfectly dark room.

To a normal person the green light will appear five times brighter when
viewed obliquely than when viewed directly, but the red light behaves in
the opposite way. Most people will pick up the green light when looking
in some other direction and will be quite conscious of its presence, but
when they turn their eyes directly toward it, they will not see it at
all. The faint red light, on the other hand, will not be noticed at all
until looked at directly, then it appears quite bright, but the instant
the eyes are turned away from it it is gone.


New Mosquito Eradicator.

A genius of Jackson, Miss., has invented an electric motor which is to
act as a mosquito exterminator. His plan is to have his motor revolve at
just the right speed to make a humming noise like that of buzzing
mosquitoes. That attracts all the insects in the neighborhood, and, as
the motor is surrounded with a metal screen, charged with a powerful
current, the mosquitoes alighting on it are instantly electrocuted.


Nonskid Banana Peel Discovered.

According to a news item wired from San Francisco, we are soon to have
with us what one writer calls “the nonskid banana peel.” The edible
interior remains about the same as the ordinary kind, we are told, but
the new covering presents a new boon to humanity that should make its
discoverer famous, if not wealthy. The genius who is said to be able to
produce a nice large banana with a coat like sandpaper is one Frederick
Boegle, employed at the Burbank experiment farm near Hayward, Cal.

The discoverer of the so-called “nonskid peel,” as a casing for the
delectable contents guaranteed to be found inside, explains that the new
fruit was obtained by crossing the ordinary banana with the cactus pear.
Boegle says the new fruit has the usual delicious taste of banana, but
that the peeling may be dropped on the sidewalk with perfect safety to
pedestrians.

If this is the precise case, then the peeling must be “nonskid” on the
inside as well as the outer, but this is not to be considered, says a
_Blade_ expert, as it is contrary to all horticultural laws, past or
present. Therefore, he says, if the “nonskid peel” happens to be dropped
with the “nonskid” side downward, then the same old, treacherous,
greasy, deadly, never-failing, calamitous thing will no doubt bring down
its victims as it has always done since the Duke of Plazzatora, away
back in the days and voyages of Christopher Columbus, discovered the
banana and also that by craftily laying a strip of its covering in the
way of Don Frijolo de Mountebank, he could rid himself of a powerful
rival and thus get closer to the new world’s discoverer as well as to
the beautiful and charming Donna Isabella de Mendoza, back there in
Spain.

But time will tell.


Boy Banjoist, Local Wonder.

Little Victor Vanover is the champion banjoist of the “neck o’ the
woods” at Freeling, Va. Though Victor is a mere midget, and has passed
only his seventh milepost on the road of life, he can handle his banjo
with all the grace and dexterity that ordinarily comes through years of
practice, and, what is more to the young musician’s credit, he takes up
the instrument in a perfectly natural way, and without any apparent
desire to “show off,” and he is well aware of both his powers and
limitations.

Victor began to practice at the age of five with a natural aptitude, and
now he can “pick” any tune that he has ever heard, and that, too, with a
clearness that would almost put to shame many professional banjoists.

Among the tunes that he can pick may be mentioned: “Cumberland Gap,”
“Old Joe Clark,” “Casey Jones,” “The Blind Coon Dog,” “The Ship That
Never Returned,” “Sourwood Mountain,” “The Gambling Man,” “New River
Train,” and “Walking in the Parlor.”


Quicksand Devours Big Plant.

Three laborers were killed and eight injured as they fled in terror to
solid earth when quicksand devoured the big plant and three surrounding
acres of land of the Knickerbocker Cement Co., at Greenport, not far
from Hudson, N. Y. Here is a list of what was swallowed by the vortex:

A large power house.

An eighty-foot concrete smokestack.

A concrete storehouse.

A large frame barn which held three horses and an automobile, all of
which were buried.

A huge quantity of material, including forty thousand tons of trap rock.


Nick Altrock a Laugh Maker.

Nick Altrock, who, since the departure of Arlie Latham and “Germany”
Schaeffer for other fields, is the only diamond clown remaining with the
main show, forced a big laugh in the frolic between the Yanks and the
Senators in New York not long ago, when an injury to a player threatened
to cast a gloom over the festivities.

Fisher and several other Yankees started to run Shanks down between
second and third, and the pitcher finally dashed up behind the runner
and slammed him on the back with the clenched ball. The pellet happened
to strike Shanks on the spine, and he crumpled up and dropped in his
tracks.

As he was being revived, and the spectators were on tiptoes to know the
extent of his hurt, Nick rushed upon the field, hit himself on the head,
and pretended to fall unconscious. He picked himself up when his
teammate revived, and staggered toward the bench with him. The
performance broke the strain, made everybody laugh, and both Senators
were cheered throughout the stands.


Summer and Winter Butter.

Scientific experiments have demonstrated that, contrary to the general
belief, the yellow color of cream and butter is not necessarily an
indication of their richness. It was discovered long ago that most
vegetable matter contains a yellow substance called carotin, because it
exists abundantly in carrots.

It is this substance contained in the cow’s feed that gives rise to the
color of milk and butter. Carotin is most abundant in the green forage
available in spring and summer so that milk and butter produced then are
more yellow than in the winter, although the percentage of fat in winter
milk often is actually higher than in the rich-looking product obtained
in summer.


Lightning Throws Bugler.

Lightning struck the projecting room of a motion-picture show in the
brigade camp of the Sixth United States Infantry, at Douglas, Ariz.,
during a recent violent electrical storm. The bolt was deflected into
the officers’ section, throwing several of them down. Musician Greenspan
was hit while in the act of blowing taps. He was thrown several feet,
his head finally resting in a bucket of tar. His bugle was destroyed.


Bitten by Huge Water Snake.

Emil Nichau, an assistant in the office of City Engineer Wager, at
Sandusky, Ohio, was bitten three times on the right hand by a large
water snake while he was gathering lilies in the Black Channel section,
between Cedar Point and West Huron. While he was quite sick for some
time, he had fully recovered a few hours later.

The snake was killed. It measured fifty-two inches in length and nine
and one-half inches in circumference at the thickest part of its body.


Can’t Stop This Swimmer.

Incased in a straitjacket and carrying fifteen pounds of iron chain as a
sort of extra ballast, Henry Elionsky swam from the Battery, New York,
to Bay Ridge. The distance was about five miles and the time was two
hours and forty minutes.

Elionsky was helped by the rushing tide. He had several narrow escapes
from the harbor craft, and once a tugboat came within thirty feet of
running him down.


Robber Chief Gets Twenty-five Years.

Henry Starr, of Chandler, Okla., pleaded guilty to bank robbery in the
district court, and was sentenced to twenty-five years in the
penitentiary. He was charged with the robbery of two banks at Stroud,
Okla., into which he led his gang last March and took five thousand
dollars. Starr was wounded and four of his men--Claude Sawyer, “Bud”
Maxfield, Charles Johnson, and Louis Estes--were captured.

Starr’s life has been full of action. He has made rich hauls in bank,
robberies, engaged in the looting of trains, battled with posses seeking
to arrest him, aided in quelling a jail outbreak, and unsuccessfully
tried to reform following a pardon by President Roosevelt in 1903.


Highway Built in One Day.

When ten thousand volunteer workers, engaged in the construction of an
interstate highway between Paducah, Ky., and Memphis, Tenn., laid down
their picks at six o’clock at night, they had completed, in its most
important details, the entire roadway for 150 miles.

To put the finishing touches to that section of the road from Paducah to
the Kentucky State line, work was continued the next day. Congressmen,
judges, city and county officials along the line of the highway were
among the most active workers. Dinner was served by the women of the
various cities and towns along the route.


Joe Shugrue’s Eyes Better.

Joe Shugrue, the Jersey City lightweight boxer, recovered his sight and
will go on the stage. He made up his mind that he might as well use his
dramatic talent while he gives his eyes plenty of time to recover from
the operation performed on them some months ago.


Sees Black Cat is Injured.

Black-cat superstition has been thoroughly confirmed, for, when James
Jensen, of St. Paul, Minn., was bowling down the residence district on a
motor cycle, a black cat crossed just in front of him. One moment later
he crashed into the rear of Ed Fisher’s automobile.

Police and physicians are caring for Jensen, and he is going to look for
the cat.


Polecat is Basely Libeled.

Some one has said that the polecat never takes a bath, and that he is
afraid of water. He is wrong, and Doctor D. O. Norton, of Fort Collins,
Col., is ready to prove the assertion. He recently returned from a
fishing trip in North Park, where he tempted the rainbow in the Platte.

One morning his attention was attracted to six young animals which were
playing on a sand bar a short distance away. A careful observation
disclosed that they were of the genus skunk.

With “safety first” uppermost in his mind, the doctor crawled cautiously
to a point of vantage, from which he could watch the animals more
closely, and declares that after they had apparently tired of play, all
six ran to the water and swam out into the swift current as though they
had been so many ducks.


Trouble with His Turtles.

Chickens come home to roost, and so do turtles. A few days ago there
were eight turtles in the basin around the fountain in the center of
Commercial Park, at Columbus, Ind. A big snapping turtle declared war on
the fish in the basin. The turtle killed a three-pound bass, and the
little turtles “chewed up” several sunfish. Then Preston Shaw, park
custodian, fished out the turtles, gave each of them a swift kick, and
told them never to return.

Interval of several days to change reels.

Then came one of the exiled turtles, snooping around the wall that
surrounds the basin, and saw no welcome sign. But that made no
difference to the turtle. It finally scaled the wall, dropped into the
water with a contented “plunk,” and was home again. However, the
custodian found the turtle before it had time to take a nap. He yanked
it out, gave it two swift kicks this time, and threatened to use harsh
words if it comes back again.


Lineman Battles Big Eagle.

Walter B. Sutton, of Bridgeton, N. J., a telephone lineman, while at
work on a pole in the country near here, was attacked by a large eagle.
Sutton saw the bird coming, and, as it swooped, he withdrew his hooks
and quickly slid to the ground. The eagle followed and attacked him
savagely.

Sutton had only his bare hands to defend himself and beat off the bird
as best he could until finding a large stone, with which he was able to
stun the bird with a well-directed blow. Grasping it by the neck, he
choked it until it was helpless, and, taking it to his automobile, wired
it fast, so that he could handle it safely.

He brought the big bird to his home, and now has it in a coop. It
measures seven feet from tip to tip.


Blind Telephone Operator.

Despite total blindness, K. S. Thompson, of Erie, Ill., is an efficient
telephone operator. He says it is much easier for him to hold his
position than it was for him to get it in the first place, the telephone
company having been doubtful as to his ability to make good.

Thompson overcomes his handicap by a very keen sense of hearing and by
some added touches to his exchange equipment. In “plugging in” he
depends upon brass points along a special designation strip. Sense of
touch makes it possible for him to perceive which line he is plugging in
on, and it is said that he makes fewer mistakes than are made by the
usual full-visioned operator.

The blind operator takes much interest in his work and is constantly
striving to improve his service.


No Border for United States Flag.

The recent display of an American flag with a white border around it, by
a society at Fort Dodge, Iowa, promoting world peace, caused Attorney
General Cosson to issue instructions to the Fort Dodge authorities to
take action if the display is repeated.

Attorney General Cosson instructed the Fort Dodge authorities to invoke
the law against mutilation of the flag, if it became necessary.


Birthday Party for a Horse.

Mrs. M. K. Grant, one of the wealthiest women in Wilmington, Del., gave
a party in honor of the fourteenth birthday of her pet carriage horse,
Prince Grant. The affair took place in the stable, where a luncheon was
served to the stablemen, the household servants of the Grant family
being at their command. An orchestra furnished music.

The horse, a roan gelding, with a trotting record of 2:23¼ has been in
possession of Mrs. Grant since it was a colt. Prince Grant shared in
the celebration to the extent of eating four plates of ice cream, six
pieces of cake, and a box of candy. He was gayly decorated with ribbons.

Every year, since the horse was three years old, Mrs. Grant has
celebrated his birthday.


Boy Adopted by Nine Mothers.

Every one has heard of a cat with nine lives. But did any one ever hear
of a boy with nine mothers?

Los Angeles has one. His name is Charles Fulmer. Here’s the why and
wherefore:

Fulmer recently finished Manual Arts High School. His teachers say they
can see in him the budding genius who will, some day, give to the world
great, new discoveries in medicine and surgery.

But he has none other than himself to whom to look, or he didn’t have
until the City Mothers of Los Angeles--nine of ’em--adopted him.

City Mother Mrs. Bret Harte Harris, one of the nine, is so sure their
protégé is worth troubling about, she has voluntarily set about seeking
a position for him that will help him to secure the wherewithal and the
time to pursue his studies. All the other City Mothers are lending first
aid.

This adoption scheme is just one of a thousand humanitarian acts which
the City Mothers’ bureau of Los Angeles has put into effect in its
effort to aid the young people of the city in any way within its power.


Conductor Fights Hobos.

This is the story of how L. G. Moyer, conductor, of Fairbury, Neb.,
cleaned up a bunch of hobos and compelled several of them to seek local
physicians for repairs:

When Passenger No. 8 pulled out for the East, probably fifty “sons of
rest” attempted to ride out, but part of them were forced to get off
while the others hid and made their get-away. The first section of
ninety-four, of which Moyer was conductor, was due out for Council
Bluffs at six o’clock, but did not start until eleven o’clock.

About twenty-five hobos got in a box car. The train stopped at the
main-line switch, and Moyer got in the car and ordered the tramps out.
They offered resistance, and he cleaned up the bunch with an iron brake
rod in a very short time.

The tramps had given the train crews all kinds of grief recently. Every
outgoing crew has had trouble ridding the train from ten to one hundred
of these passengers. This last bunch are bitter toward Moyer, and
declare they will remain here until they kill him.


Takes Hikes Barefooted.

Eugene Willard, of Chelsea, Mass., easily is the champion barefoot
walker of the United States. A dozen years ago Willard decided to take
up barefoot pedestrianism as a pastime, and has kept at it ever since.
Of course, he occasionally gets out his shoes, brushes off the dust
which has accumulated on them, and puts them on, but he doesn’t keep
them on any longer than is absolutely necessary.

“Barefoot Gene,” as he is known in his home city, has made some long
barefoot walks. One of those was between Philadelphia, Pa., and St.
Louis, Mo., and at another time he covered the entire distance between
Savannah, Ga., and Tampa, Fla. He has under consideration a barefoot
walk between Boston, Mass., and El Paso, Texas.


In Prison Twenty-one Years, Weds.

After serving twenty-one years in the Joliet Penitentiary, William
Roach, paroled last week, is on his honeymoon. Roach was sent up for
murder. Toward the latter part of his sentence he became a “trusty.” As
trusty he was allowed to visit the town. On one of his visits he met
Hannah Edwards, who worked in the restaurant owned by her mother, Mrs.
William Edwards.

Although Roach never knew that he would be free, he was unable to keep
from falling in love. Once a week he saw Hannah, and then the
authorities decided that he had been in prison long enough. Roach was
paroled. He came back to Chicago, and went to his old home in Wilmette.
And then he returned to Joliet for Hannah. They were married by the
Reverend T. de Witt Tanner.


Shot Stealing Bread for Starving Family.

Shot twice through the body as he was attempting to steal a loaf of
bread from the rear gallery of the home of Joseph Haseman, John Reou, of
New Orleans, La., was rushed to the Charity Hospital. From his hospital
cot he explained the motive for the attempted theft.

“My eight children were crying all night for food,” he said. “I listened
to their sobs until I could not bear their suffering any longer. So I
went out to steal them a loaf of bread.”

Haseman, who is a street-car conductor, did the shooting. He has been
arrested. The police say the case is the most pitiful that has come
under their notice in several years. The charge against Reou will
probably be dropped.

One of the bullets Haseman fired at the father of eight hungry children
struck him in the right arm and another in the left side. Neither of the
wounds is considered serious.

Reou, now broken in health and spirits, married twenty-one years ago. He
has always borne a good reputation, which is vouched for by several
members of the police department who know him and by friends and former
employers. Recently he lost his position as a clerk in a grocery store
because his eyesight was failing and his health was broken. He tried
many times to get work, and failed. Gradually the small sum saved by him
and his wife was gone.

His oldest daughter, Julia, aged twenty, got a position which pays her
six dollars a week. Charles, his oldest son, aged sixteen, took a
position as office boy, and earns two and one-half dollars a week.
Olivia, another daughter, aged twelve, receives a half dollar a week for
helping a dressmaker. The house they live in costs them twelve dollars
per month.




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[Illustration]




The Nick Carter Stories

ISSUED EVERY SATURDAY      BEAUTIFUL COLORED COVERS


When it comes to detective stories worth while, the =Nick Carter Stories=
contain the only ones that should be considered. They are not overdrawn
tales of bloodshed. They rather show the working of one of the finest
minds ever conceived by a writer. The name of Nick Carter is familiar
all over the world, for the stories of his adventures may be read in
twenty languages. No other stories have withstood the severe test of
time so well as those contained in the =Nick Carter Stories=. It proves
conclusively that they are the best. We give herewith a list of some of
the back numbers in print. You can have your news dealer order them, or
they will be sent direct by the publishers to any address upon receipt
of the price in money or postage stamps.


730--The Torn Card.
731--Under Desperation’s Spur.
732--The Connecting Link.
733--The Abduction Syndicate.
738--A Plot Within a Plot.
739--The Dead Accomplice.
746--The Secret Entrance.
747--The Cavern Mystery.
748--The Disappearing Fortune.
749--A Voice from the Past.
752--The Spider’s Web.
753--The Man With a Crutch.
754--The Rajah’s Regalia.
755--Saved from Death.
756--The Man Inside.
757--Out for Vengeance.
758--The Poisons of Exili.
759--The Antique Vial.
760--The House of Slumber.
761--A Double Identity.
762--“The Mocker’s” Stratagem.
763--The Man that Came Back.
764--The Tracks in the Snow.
765--The Babbington Case.
766--The Masters of Millions.
767--The Blue Stain.
768--The Lost Clew.
770--The Turn of a Card.
771--A Message in the Dust.
772--A Royal Flush.
774--The Great Buddha Beryl.
775--The Vanishing Heiress.
776--The Unfinished Letter.
777--A Difficult Trail.
782--A Woman’s Stratagem.
783--The Cliff Castle Affair.
784--A Prisoner of the Tomb.
785--A Resourceful Foe.
789--The Great Hotel Tragedies.
795--Zanoni, the Transfigured.
796--The Lure of Gold.
797--The Man With a Chest.
798--A Shadowed Life.
799--The Secret Agent.
800--A Plot for a Crown.
801--The Red Button.
802--Up Against It.
803--The Gold Certificate.
804--Jack Wise’s Hurry Call.
805--Nick Carter’s Ocean Chase.
807--Nick Carter’s Advertisement.
808--The Kregoff Necklace.
811--Nick Carter and the Nihilists.
812--Nick Carter and the Convict Gang.
813--Nick Carter and the Guilty Governor.
814--The Triangled Coin.
815--Ninety-nine--and One.
816--Coin Number 77.


NEW SERIES

NICK CARTER STORIES

1--The Man from Nowhere.
2--The Face at the Window.
3--A Fight for a Million.
4--Nick Carter’s Land Office.
5--Nick Carter and the Professor.
6--Nick Carter as a Mill Hand.
7--A Single Clew.
8--The Emerald Snake.
9--The Currie Outfit.
10--Nick Carter and the Kidnapped Heiress.
11--Nick Carter Strikes Oil.
12--Nick Carter’s Hunt for a Treasure.
13--A Mystery of the Highway.
14--The Silent Passenger.
15--Jack Dreen’s Secret.
16--Nick Carter’s Pipe Line Case.
17--Nick Carter and the Gold Thieves.
18--Nick Carter’s Auto Chase.
19--The Corrigan Inheritance.
20--The Keen Eye of Denton.
21--The Spider’s Parlor.
22--Nick Carter’s Quick Guess.
23--Nick Carter and the Murderess.
24--Nick Carter and the Pay Car.
25--The Stolen Antique.
26--The Crook League.
27--An English Cracksman.
28--Nick Carter’s Still Hunt.
29--Nick Carter’s Electric Shock.
30--Nick Carter and the Stolen Duchess.
31--The Purple Spot.
32--The Stolen Groom.
33--The Inverted Cross.
34--Nick Carter and Keno McCall.
35--Nick Carter’s Death Trap.
36--Nick Carter’s Siamese Puzzle.
37--The Man Outside.
38--The Death Chamber.
39--The Wind and the Wire.
40--Nick Carter’s Three Cornered Chase.
41--Dazaar, the Arch-Fiend.
42--The Queen of the Seven.
43--Crossed Wires.
44--A Crimson Clew.
45--The Third Man.
46--The Sign of the Dagger.
47--The Devil Worshipers.
48--The Cross of Daggers.
49--At Risk of Life.
50--The Deeper Game.
51--The Code Message.
52--The Last of the Seven.
53--Ten-Ichi, the Wonderful.
54--The Secret Order of Associated Crooks.
55--The Golden Hair Clew.
56--Back From the Dead.
57--Through Dark Ways.
58--When Aces Were Trumps.
59--The Gambler’s Last Hand.
60--The Murder at Linden Fells.
61--A Game for Millions.
62--Under Cover.
63--The Last Call.
64--Mercedes Danton’s Double.
65--The Millionaire’s Nemesis.
66--A Princess of the Underworld.
67--The Crook’s Blind.
68--The Fatal Hour.
69--Blood Money.
70--A Queen of Her Kind.
71--Isabel Benton’s Trump Card.
72--A Princess of Hades.
73--A Prince of Plotters.
74--The Crook’s Double.
75--For Life and Honor.
76--A Compact With Dazaar.
77--In the Shadow of Dazaar.
78--The Crime of a Money King.
79--Birds of Prey.
80--The Unknown Dead.
81--The Severed Hand.
82--The Terrible Game of Millions.
83--A Dead Man’s Power.
84--The Secrets of an Old House.
85--The Wolf Within.
86--The Yellow Coupon.
87--Tn the Toils.
88--The Stolen Radium.
89--A Crime in Paradise.
90--Behind Prison Bars.
91--The Blind Man’s Daughter.
92--On the Brink of Ruin.
93--Letter of Fire.
94--The $100,000 Kiss.
95--Outlaws of the Militia.
96--The Opium-Runners.
97--In Record Time.
98--The Wag-Nuk Clew.
99--The Middle Link.
100--The Crystal Maze.
101--A New Serpent in Eden.
102--The Auburn Sensation.
103--A Dying Chance.
104--The Gargoni Girdle.
105--Twice in Jeopardy.
106--The Ghost Launch.
107--Up in the Air.
108--The Girl Prisoner.
109--The Red Plague.
110--The Arson Trust.
111--The King of the Firebugs.
112--“Lifter’s” of the Lofts.
113--French Jimmie and His Forty Tiheves.
114--The Death Plot.
115--The Evil Formula.
116--The Blue Button.
117--The Deadly Parallel.
118--The Vivisectionists.
119--The Stolen Brain.
120--An Uncanny Revenge.
121--The Call of Death.
122--The Suicide.
123--Half a Million Ransom.
124--The Girl Kidnapper.
125--The Pirate Yacht.
126--The Crime of the White Band.
127--Found in the Jungle.
128--Six Men in a Loop.
129--The Jewels of Wat Chang.
130--The Crime in the Tower.
131--The Fatal Message.
132--Broken Bars.
133--Won by Magic.
134--The Secret of Shangore.
135--Straight to the Goal.
136--The Man They Held Back.
137--The Seal of Gijon.
138--The Traitors of the Tropics.
139--The Pressing Peril.
140--The Melting-Pot.
141--The Duplicate Night.
142--The Edge of a Crime.
143--The Sultan’s Pearls.
144--The Clew of the White Collar.
145--An Unsolved Mystery.
146--Paying the Price.
147--On Death’s Trail.
148--The Mark of Cain.
        Dated July 17th, 1915.
149--A Network of Crime.
        Dated July 24th, 1915.
150--The House of Fear.
        Dated July 31st, 1915.
151--The Mystery of the Crossed Needles.
        Dated August 7th, 1915.
152--The Forced Crime.
        Dated August 14th, 1915.
153--The Doom of Sang Tu.
        Dated August 21st, 1915.
154--The Mask of Death.
        Dated August 28th, 1915.
155--The Gordon Elopement.
        Dated Sept. 4th, 1915.
156--Blood Will Tell.

=PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY.= If you want any back numbers of our
weeklies and cannot procure them from your news dealer, they can be
obtained direct from this office. Postage stamps taken the same as
money.

STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Ave., NEW YORK CITY




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NICK CARTER STORIES NO. 160, OCTOBER 2, 1915: THE YELLOW LABEL; OR, NICK CARTER AND THE SOCIETY LOOTERS ***


    

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