CONSPIRACY 
 
 ROBERT BAKER 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN EMERSON
 
 THE CONSPIRACY
 
 ALL THE WORLD IS INTERESTED IN A CROOK.
 
 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 BY 
 ROBERT BAKER 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN EMERSON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 1913
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913 
 BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I A QUEER FISH 1 
 
 II THE AFFAIR AT THE ROSSAMANO . . 13 
 
 III AT THE REFUGE 24 
 
 IV THE BLUE DRESS AND THE RED HAT . 31 
 
 V JACK HOWELL 41 
 
 VI WINTHROP CLAVERING SECURES A 
 
 STENOGRAPHER 51 
 
 VII A NEW CONSPIRATOR 73 
 
 VIII MARGARET'S STORY 96 
 
 IX A WHITE SLAVE 116 
 
 X THE MURDER OF JAMES MORTON . . 133 
 
 XI CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL . . . .154 
 
 XII JACK Ho WELL DOES THINGS . . .172 
 
 XIII THE OTHER STORY 193 
 
 XIV To BE CONTINUED 214 
 
 XV THE MURDER 239 
 
 XVI A RELATIVE OF THE LATE JAMES 
 
 MORTON 254 
 
 XVII THE TRAP 276 
 
 XVIII THE PLOT 302 
 
 XIX THE END OF THE STORY . . 321 
 
 1521107
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " Margaret Holt " Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 " All the world is interested in a crook "... 3 
 ' Well ? ' he said, looking fixedly at her " . .72 
 
 " And you to think that a little girl like you 
 
 should pit yourself against these demons!" 154 
 
 " Haven't I told you never to allow any one in 
 
 this house? Haven't I?" 227 
 
 " She had eyes like yours, and she was about your 
 
 height, too " 243 
 
 " You are the woman who murdered James Mor- 
 ton and I'm going to give you up ! " . . . 280 
 
 'Is it all good ? No counterfeits ? ' he queried, 
 taking up a huge magnifying glass " . .312
 
 THE CONSPIRACY
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A QUEER FISH 
 
 THERE are some queer fish in New York, 
 queer human fish that swim and wriggle in 
 the great pool of life that spreads from shore 
 to shore of Manhattan. They come seldom 
 to the surface, and when they do it is only to 
 blink and dive beneath again to seek their 
 own familiar haunts. They are a school by 
 themselves, these queer fish; book- worms, 
 savants, inventors, philosophers, so buried in 
 their own thoughts and pursuits that they 
 neither know nor see how time and progress 
 gradually change them, at least in outward 
 appearance, into veritable specimens for 
 museums. 
 
 In a red brick house in a certain part of 
 old Greenwich village, where the dwellings
 
 2 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 have not yet grown higher than two or three 
 stories, and the streets are not yet canoned 
 and made straight by the rage for sky- 
 scrapers, and the sun still gets through a 
 lower window now and then, lived one of 
 these queer beings, Winthrop Clavering, the 
 author. Such classics as "The Unseen 
 Hand," "The Second Floor Front," "The 
 Murder of Father Dominick" and scores of 
 other thrillers had made his name familiar to 
 the public, though he kept himself unseen. 
 Living like a hermit, his few wants attended 
 to by an old negress Martha, he wrote his 
 blood-curdling stories and took his vicarious 
 part in the passions and emotional crimes of 
 the metropolis. One after the other his tales 
 had appeared, at first in paper form, and 
 then as the taste of the newspaper public 
 needed more and more the stimulation of sen- 
 sationalism, finding place in the pages of the 
 great dailies ; with such success too that now 
 each new instalment of a serial by Winthrop 
 Clavering was taken with keener appetite 
 and relish all the time.
 
 MARGARET HOLT.
 
 A QUEER FISH 3 
 
 "All the world loves a lover," and it was 
 Winthrop Clavering's observation that "all 
 the world is interested in a crook." It was 
 the instinct of self-preservation coming out 
 in people, he told himself; the instinct in 
 most people that made them want to see an- 
 other man, even a wrong-doing one, save his 
 life and neck and get away as if he were 
 themselves. He wove his stories about the 
 crimes and misdemeanours of the genus 
 crook, and there was always a new kind of 
 crook to write about too. He never racked 
 his brain to invent an original plot or story; 
 he found it in some crime that had been com- 
 mitted close at hand, in New York, gener- 
 ally one that as yet remained shrouded in 
 mystery, though all the circumstances were 
 in the news. In such a selection he was sure 
 of a popular theme; something that every 
 one was talking about ; for, as he told the edi- 
 tor of the Telescope, "I always try to get 
 my stories up in such a way that people 
 won't have to do much thinking. Most of 
 them can't think anyway."
 
 4 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 In the course of time his criminology be- 
 came a passion with him. He ate and slept 
 with his ideas. The walls of his shabby 
 study were covered with X-ray photo- 
 graphs of the hands and finger prints 
 of criminals. On his book-shelves stood 
 a jar containing the brain of a notorious 
 law-breaker, his faithful Martha called it 
 "pickled brains" which he had got pos- 
 session of by great ingenuity and persist- 
 ence. It was the brain of a man who had 
 murdered his grandmother, he always told 
 people, and he considered it a most invalu- 
 able relic "in his line." 
 
 No sooner did Winthrop Clavering hear 
 of a murder than he hastened hot foot to the 
 scene of the crime to go over every detail of 
 the affair, and poke his nose into every cor- 
 ner and crevice like a hound, sniffing about 
 for a fresh scent, his little fox-like eyes 
 snapping like electric sparks, as he found 
 even the minutest thread of a clue. The re- 
 porters and the police came to regard him as 
 firemen do the fanatics and enthusiasts who
 
 A QUEER FISH 5 
 
 run with the engines to the scene of every 
 fire, even while they chaffed and sometimes 
 hurt him by laughing at his comicality. He 
 had the resilience of youth, though he was 
 not young, never tiring, never sleeping, his 
 brain working nervously with the rapidity 
 of a Maxim gun. He considered permission 
 from Police Headquarters to make his in- 
 vestigations unnecessary, he just pushed in. 
 He was looked upon as a joke by some of the 
 blue-coats and by others tolerated as one 
 who always handed them a laugh; but he 
 went on his way unheeding jeers or cheers. 
 When he had satisfied himself as to his ob- 
 servations on a case, he would return to his 
 musty quarters, change his old cape-coat for 
 a shiny velvet jacket, don a black skull-cap, 
 light his pipe, and pace the room for several 
 miles at least before his narrative began to 
 flow. Very carefully he would make his 
 deductions. At first his practice had been 
 to write out all his stories in long hand, but 
 as his manuscripts became more and more 
 illegible he had been compelled to employ a
 
 6 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 stenographer to take his dictation from him. 
 He generally wore each new one out by the 
 end of the first week, what with his long 
 hours of work and his peevishness. "Good 
 Lord," he would say. "Are you posing as 
 the sleeping beauty? A man only requires 
 five hours' sleep and an ordinary woman six. 
 Only an owl needs eight." 
 
 It was through one of his own stories that 
 Clavering became convinced of his especial 
 value to the community in the pursuit and 
 detection of criminals. He had written a 
 story built on the murder of the Catholic 
 priest, Father Dominick, who had been 
 found lying in a pool of blood at the foot of 
 the altar at St. Bridget's Church, in West 
 9 Street, in 1893. All efforts of the po- 
 lice to solve the mystery had proved futile, 
 but Clavering as usual went over all the 
 ground, made his observations quietly and 
 then published a story, founded on this 
 crime, in which he worked out the true solu- 
 tion of the gruesome mystery. It was his 
 happiest achievement so far, and he was al- 

 
 A QUEER FISH 7 
 
 ways proud of it and of its consequences. 
 One day seated in a subway car, he noticed a 
 man in front of him reading in the news- 
 paper the last instalment of this story, the 
 one which described, with much particu- 
 larity, the murder of the poor priest, and as 
 he watched the man reading he noticed a 
 great trembling of his hands and a ghastly 
 pallor on his face, and heard finally the mut- 
 tered exclamation: "My God, how did he 
 know?" When the man hurriedly left the 
 car at Forty-second Street Clavering was 
 close on his heels. It was the work of a few 
 moments to signal an officer and have the 
 man arrested on suspicion. His agitation 
 was so apparent that he was taken at once 
 to headquarters, where he confessed in due 
 form. His admission that the main facts 
 of the crime were almost identical with those 
 described in Clavering's story was a great 
 feather in the novelist's cap. Clavering 
 himself attached great importance to the 
 thing, indeed expected to be officially at- 
 tached to the secret service bureau as one
 
 8 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 result of it then and there ; he saw himself ac- 
 claimed the foremost living authority on 
 crime and no criminal safe within his juris- 
 diction. To his bitter disappointment there 
 was no recognition of his work at all from 
 headquarters; the blue-coats continued to 
 laugh and call him "Little Nemo," as if the 
 detection of Father Dominick's assassin had 
 been the merest accident or coincidence. 
 
 Then again there was the case of that 
 Greek boy, William Saphiro, who was ab- 
 ducted. Clavering with his usual zeal, un- 
 daunted by continued lack of appreciation 
 from those high in authority, formed his own 
 theories on this case, too, and going to Cap- 
 tain Ryan, in whose precinct the abduction 
 had taken place, offered to show him how 
 he could run down the abductor. 
 
 Ryan only laughed and said: "The po- 
 lice department don't need any wise guys 
 like you to teach 'em their trade. Say, get 
 this: You keep your nose out of our busi- 
 ness! Back to the Nick Carter stuff, for 
 yours,"
 
 A QUEER FISH 9 
 
 Clavering, choking with rage and empha- 
 sising each word with a pound of his cane on 
 Ryan's desk retorted: "If you'd put a set 
 of my books in headquarters and make 
 your blue-coats read them, you all might 
 learn something about the detection of 
 
 crime." 
 
 And indeed it was not long before his an- 
 ger turned to gloating, for when the boy 
 Saphiro was found, his abductor, who had 
 escaped to Europe, far beyond the reach of 
 extradition, was none other than Clavering 
 had predicted in his fiction. 
 
 And so in various ways it came about that 
 the story teller, less and less appreciated by 
 the police, turned for recognition to the pub- 
 lic that reads the newspapers. For weeks at 
 a time now Clavering was not seen by the 
 blue-coats. The enormous output, the in- 
 credible productiveness of his brain never- 
 theless was gaining vogue in the Evening 
 Telescope, which had contracted with him 
 generously for three new serials. 
 
 The next thing to attract his intellect was
 
 10 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 the machinations of the Scarlet Band, as the 
 fame and depredations of this, New York's 
 latest vicious organisation, spread abroad. 
 He formed his theory as to a possible cap- 
 ture of the leaders, but to what end, he asked 
 himself. The police would not listen to him ; 
 they would only laugh at him : at him, whom 
 they refused to recognise as the world's fore- 
 most authority on crime. He had half a 
 mind to make one more attempt, one last ef- 
 fort to be heard. He would not go to head- 
 quarters this time, he would reach higher up. 
 An interview with Victor Holt, Assistant 
 District Attorney, the one man in New York 
 who appeared to be taking a live interest in 
 the detection and extermination of the Scar- 
 let Band, might bear fruit. In his shabby 
 cape and slouch hat, with a parting injunc- 
 tion to Martha, not, under penalty of death, 
 to disturb any of his papers, he left the house 
 and bent his steps in the direction of the As- 
 sistant District Attorney's office, mumbling 
 so audibly to himself the while, that passers- 
 by turned to look and smile at the strange
 
 A QUEER FISH 11 
 
 figure, with its squeaky boots and stumping 
 cane. 
 
 Clavering had seen pictures of Victor 
 Holt in the papers and liked his looks. 
 "Fools! I'll show them," he muttered. 
 "I'll show them a thing or two in the way of 
 detecting crime. I'll show them." 
 
 He had mounted the steps of the L road 
 at Clinton Place and settled 'back in his 
 seat, full of the Scarlet Band, when his 
 eyes lighted suddenly on the glaring head- 
 lines of a newspaper held outspread by 
 some one opposite to him. 
 
 "MURDER AT THE HOTEL 
 BEAUMONT! JAMES MORTON, 
 CUTLERY MERCHANT, STABBED 
 IN HIS ROOM!" they shrieked in print. 
 
 The words were like a challenge to Win- 
 throp Clavering, the great amateur in the 
 detection of crime a new scent, involving 
 temporary loss of the old one but none the 
 less challenging to his mettle. He alighted 
 at the next platform and purchased an ex- 
 tra for himself, running rapidly through all
 
 12 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 the particulars, engrossed almost by antici- 
 pation in the murder of this James Morton 
 of whom he had never heard before. He 
 would not go to Victor Holt's that day, he 
 would stop at the old Beaumont and see what 
 he could see. 
 
 And so it happened that although he did 
 not see Victor Holt that day he laid the be- 
 ginning of a new romance that was not with- 
 out interest to Victor Holt or those near to 
 him ; a romance, indeed, considered by many 
 of his appreciative readers to be the most 
 thrilling he had yet penned on paper. But 
 for one thing he must get a new stenogra- 
 pher, he told himself. He would call up 
 Miss Towne at The Refuge in Rivington 
 Street and see what new applicants she 
 might have on her list.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE AFFAIR AT THE ROSSAMANO 
 
 JACK Ho WELL, reporter, of the New York 
 Evening Telescope, better known to his as- 
 sociates as "Nosey Jack," a sobriquet he had 
 won from his abnormal scent for news and 
 scoops, gave a scornful glance at the assign- 
 ment book putting him down for a "Sunday 
 special" on the Settlement Houses of the 
 "East-side." 
 
 "Well, wouldn't that make you send flow- 
 ers to your own grave!" he commented, 
 thumping the head of Andy Rivers, who oc- 
 cupied the desk in front of his, with a gener- 
 ous roll of copy paper. 
 
 "What's the matter, Jack?" inquired the 
 recipient of this special delivery. 
 
 "Oh, stung for another special. Third 
 
 I've had in a month. Last time they handed 
 is
 
 14 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 me out that freak, Winthrop Clavering, to 
 do a write-up on." 
 
 "Say, he's a nut, isn't he?" said Andy. 
 
 "Oh, no! The World's foremost Au- 
 thority on Crime! He and Stealthy Steve. 
 Queer old fish! Nearly threw me out of his 
 house. I thought before I got away he'd 
 have my finger prints taken. He's got some 
 ideas, though, growing on his bean-vine, 
 don't you forget it. And don't overlook the 
 fact either that those spine-vibrating, crime- 
 serials of his, have a lot of readers." 
 
 "Pretty raw, that Scarlet Band story he's 
 writing now," said Andy, shaking his head. 
 "The Blood on the Door Handle! Good 
 Nick Carter stuff." 
 
 "Well, believe me, Andy, that Scarlet 
 Band does exist," said Jack; "and it's a 
 pretty raw bunch, too. I got Clavering to 
 talking about them. He says if he had 
 the blue-coats under his direction he'd have 
 the hobble on those 'Red Banders' in no time 
 at all; and I'm not sure he may not know 
 what he's talking about."
 
 AT THE ROSSAMANO 15 
 
 "They've been trying to throw a scare in 
 to Victor Holt, all right, haven't they?" sug- 
 gested Rivers. 
 
 "Yes," replied Howell. "He got one of 
 their 'pink notes,' telling him he must be- 
 have, or they would 'hand him one.' Billy 
 Flynn, one of the Byrnes men who is work- 
 ing for the Assistant District Attorney, 
 showed me the letter the gang sent to Holt's 
 office. Prety raw, it was." 
 
 "Is Holt scared?" 
 
 "Not he! He's no piker! But Flyn's 
 got a tip that there's a regular conspiracy 
 on foot to put the obnoxious A. D. A. far 
 from the madding crowd. If they do that 
 well, I tell you, Andy, they'll pull down 
 this whole blooming town about their ears. 
 Every right-minded citizen, every stranger 
 within its gates is mad over Holt. The 
 man's so incorruptibly honest, so determined 
 to pursue this gang and smash 'em, that he 
 inspires even the timid, and the Lord knows 
 there are enough of that stripe in this gay 
 metropolis. Well, I can't hang around here
 
 16 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 and gossip with you. I'm off on the Settle- 
 ment Expedition. Wish the old man had 
 put some one else on it. So long! Me for 
 the 'down and out club/ ' 
 
 There was a touch of winter in the air as 
 Howell lit a cigarette, and, with some fur- 
 ther grumblings at his assignment, left the 
 office to begin his search for his material. 
 He figured that the frequenters of the Settle- 
 ments would seek the shelter and warmth of 
 the Settlement Houses sooner than usual 
 after dark, now it was cold, therefore he 
 had time to fortify himself, before beginning 
 his uncongenial task, by dining at the Cafe 
 Rossamano in the Italian quarter, where the 
 spaghetti was excellent and the gorgonzola 
 and Chianti the best New York afforded at 
 the price. 
 
 It is a strange weaver of fates sometimes 
 that makes two human orbits intersect each 
 other and flash their lights across from 
 sphere to sphere ; a weaver of fates as strange 
 as any deus ex machina in a tale by Win- 
 throp Clavering himself. As Jack Howell
 
 AT THE ROSSAMANO 17 
 
 approached the Rossamano from one direc- 
 tion there came from another, at top speed, 
 a taxi bearing a young woman. The car 
 swayed around a corner and stopped be- 
 neath the electric sign, Cafe Rossamano, and 
 Jack could see through the open window, 
 first that the young woman was pretty, 
 second that she was trembling like a leaf. 
 She was out of the cab almost before it 
 stopped, looking through the lighted win- 
 dows of the restaurant, and her eyes caught 
 those evidently of a man putting on his coat. 
 "Thank God he is safe!" she murmured fer- 
 vently, and Jack could hear her. Not dar- 
 ing to enter the place, apparently, she waited 
 in the shadow of the doorway for some one 
 to come out. With her eager gaze fixed on 
 the entrance, she did not see three men who 
 emerged from a third taxi across the street 
 and swiftly and quietly approached the 
 Cafe. 
 
 Presently, the young man, he whom the 
 girl was evidently seeking, though Jack 
 could not descry his face, came through the
 
 18 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 entrance way. She started towards him, 
 impulsively, and called "Victor!" when sud- 
 denly a pair of rough hands seized her from 
 behind and at the same moment the man 
 Victor, so eagerly coming toward her, was 
 grabbed and overpowered by two of the trio 
 of ruffians deposited by the taxi-cab. The 
 whole thing was as swift and instantaneous 
 as a motion picture film, and for one moment 
 Jack Howell felt like a mere spectator in 
 the whole business. The next his sympa- 
 thies surged warmly up and he was an actor 
 in the drama without ado. The girl was 
 pretty and in distress. Jack was young and 
 ruddy-blooded, and in spite of his boyishness 
 and his air of slang and devil-may-care by 
 nature essentially chivalrous. In another 
 instant he was in the midst of the affray. 
 He had been a witness to the assault, had 
 seen the look of appeal in the girl's eyes, and 
 he proposed to answer it to some effect. In 
 a second he dealt a stiff upper-cut on the 
 jaw of the ruffian who held her by the throat. 
 It was a hard blow and well directed, and he
 
 AT THE ROSSAMANO 19 
 
 felt his knuckles crunch most satisfactorily 
 as they went home, felling the thug to the 
 ground. After all, Jack Howell loved a 
 fight. 
 
 The girl, freed from the grasp of her as- 
 sailant, tried to reach the man she had come 
 for, but a violent push from one of the men 
 with whom he was struggling, sent her reel- 
 ing against the building, half stunned. The 
 man himself was dragged across the street 
 and thrust into a cab, the driver of which 
 hastened to help the half unconscious victim 
 of Howell's blow to join his fellows in it. 
 As the cab moved off the girl gave a despair- 
 ing cry and started in pursuit, only to see it 
 speed away and soon disappear. 
 
 Breathless and exhausted, she was on the 
 verge of a collapse ; what should she do oh, 
 what could she do now? . . . The words of 
 despair were written all too plainly on her 
 lovely but now clouded features. 
 
 The cry of a newsboy brought her to her 
 senses with a shock, and made her body grow 
 rigid as his hoarse words reached her ears:
 
 20 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Extry! Extry! All about the murder at 
 the Hotel Beaumont." . . . 
 
 As for Jack Howell, when he regained 
 consciousness enough to open his eyes and 
 look about him, he was lying on the window 
 seat at the Cafe Rossamano, with the pro- 
 prietor bending anxiously over him. There 
 were a few moments of dazed wondering as 
 to how he came to be there; then the mists 
 cleared and a twinge from his badly bruised 
 and swollen hand served as the missing link 
 between the present and his past adventure 
 on the sidewalk in front of the Cafe. 
 
 He roused himself with a start. 
 
 "Who hit me? Jack Johnson?" he mut- 
 tered confusedly; then as his mind steadied 
 again he wondered: "Where's the girl?" 
 Her eyes had seemed to burn into his so re- 
 proachfully. With a mighty effort he got 
 to his feet. "Where is she? I must help 
 her," he cried excitedly. 
 
 Slowly the events that had followed his 
 arrival in front of the Cafe began to fall into
 
 AT THE ROSSAMANO 21 
 
 line. What had he stumbled into, he won- 
 dered. That was more than a mere hold-up 
 that he had taken a hand in. Who was the 
 man Victor? Ouch! Because of that infer- 
 nal thug he had lost the chance of a scoop too 
 for his paper! 
 
 He made inquiries of the proprietor, but 
 the man merely shrugged his shoulders and 
 knew nothing. He had heard a cry, he 
 said, and upon going out had found Signer 
 Howell lying on the side-walk. That was 
 all! 
 
 "Was it all? Not if you're a damned 
 liar!" thought Jack; "but I don't know as 
 it's the time now to tell you what I think of 
 you." 
 
 Well, he had undoubtedly lost a good 
 thing, but he must go on with his regular 
 work just the same. He lingered over a 
 cup of strong coffee after dinner and con- 
 sulted the list of Settlement Houses in his 
 book. "The Refuge!" That sounded the 
 most promising. It suggested atmosphere. 
 He would do "The Refuge" first,
 
 22 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 As he left the Cafe two newspaper cronies 
 hailed him, but he passed them with unseeing 
 eyes. "What in thunder can have hap- 
 pened to old Jack?" one of them exclaimed. 
 "He looked dazed." They turned to look 
 ofter the rapidly disappearing figure. "No, 
 it can't be that," they thought, "he's walk- 
 ing as straight as a parson. He's probably 
 struck a scoop." 
 
 Howell made his way along the brilliantly 
 lighted streets, through the hurrying, jost- 
 ling crowds, his mind reverting always to 
 the pretty and sweet-looking girl whom he 
 had helped. "What wonderful eyes she 
 had!" he thought. "And what a glance of 
 gratitude she threw me." What was she 
 after, he speculated. Who was the Victor 
 she was so eager to get in touch with ? What 
 had upset her so, and made her seem so 
 stricken and afraid ? He would give a good 
 deal to know if he was ever to see that girl 
 again, Jack Howell would. She was . . . 
 
 "Extry! Extry! All about the murder 
 at the Beaumont!"
 
 AT THE ROSSAMANO 23 
 
 The cry brought him back with a shock 
 from his reveries. A paper was thrust in 
 front of him. Mechanically he took it and 
 glanced at the head-lines, then thrust the 
 thing into his pocket in disgust: "And I 
 wasn't at the Beaumont, either," he sighed 
 dolefully. "I bet Jimmy Gallagher got 
 that scoop. Oh pshaw! I'll go down to 
 that Refuge and start a murder special of 
 my own . . ."
 
 AT THE REFUGE 
 " YlP-I-ADDY-I-AY-AY !" 
 
 The sound came forth in a wail from the 
 phonograph provided for the amusement of 
 the guests and waifs at The Refuge in Riv- 
 ington Street. In the consciously quiet 
 room, with its intentionally "refined" sur- 
 roundings, the scratchy, dolorous whine con- 
 trasted quaintly with the exulting lewdness 
 of the selection on the "record." 
 
 Professor Kaufman, sitting at the read- 
 ing table over in the alcove, farthest from 
 the street, raised his head and frowned sav- 
 agely at "the poor man's opera." The pro- 
 fessor was a poor man himself ; he was mak- 
 ing a few quarters by long, hard work over a 
 Spanish translation, and the phonograph an- 
 noyed him. 
 
 Miss Towne, the secretary of The Refuge, 
 
 24
 
 25 
 
 was busy at her card catalogue, and the 
 frown was wasted on her shapely back. Old 
 Sam Shipman, the author of the assault on 
 the professor's peace, was studying a crucial 
 move in a game of checkers with Col. 
 Schultz at a little table in front of the open 
 fire, while the Colonel dozed blissfully, the 
 white bowl of his china pipe resting cosily 
 among the folds of his old blue army shirt, 
 which, though minus a button or two, strove 
 with the spirit of '61 to hem in and confine 
 an ample waist. 
 
 Observing that nothing could be accom- 
 plished by frowning, the Professor rose, vio- 
 lently kicked his chair back and stamped 
 over to the phonograph, which presently sub- 
 sided with a plaintive bleat in the middle of 
 a bar. The Professor stamped back to his 
 chair. Mr. Shipman raised his head from 
 his scrutiny of a strategic pathway into king 
 row, glared at the retiring Professor and 
 switched on the music again. He had 
 hardly settled himself to study his move 
 when the Professor again strangled the con-
 
 26 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 cert and retired. Mr. Shipman, his grey 
 moustache bristling with belligerency, rose 
 to hold up his end of the controversy when 
 Miss Towne's quiet voice pushed him back 
 into his seat. 
 
 "Mr. Shipman, I would not start that 
 again if I were you," she said sweetly. 
 
 "All right if you say so," growled the 
 music lover, with a final glare at the Pro- 
 fessor, meant to convey the information that 
 he bowed only to recognised authority. But 
 the Professor's red nose was down within an 
 inch of his work, and Mr. Shipman found an 
 outlet for his feelings by prodding his oppo- 
 nent in the ribs with an unnecessary vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 "Vot is it?" gasped the German, thus un- 
 ceremoniously yanked out of Dreamland. 
 
 "It's your move," growled Mr. Shipman. 
 
 "Huh?" blinked the Colonel. 
 
 "I say it's your move." 
 
 "Ah!" Colonel Schultz took a long pull 
 at his pipe, surveyed his opponent's latest 
 attack and moved accordingly, humming
 
 AT THE REFUGE 27 
 
 blithely as he saw Mr. Shipman marching 
 open-eyed into a trap. 
 
 The Professor's head jerked back and he 
 frowned at the checker table again. Colonel 
 Schultz hummed on, and, after hissing "Si- 
 lence" without effect, the Professor got an- 
 other ruling on humming from Miss Towne. 
 
 Thereafter there was peace for a brief 
 while and the young lady had leisure to 
 answer the telephone. 
 
 The room was a large one typical of an 
 East Side settlement. At one side there 
 was a large window opening on the street, 
 and at the left of that a door that opened into 
 a hall which in turn led also to the street. 
 ... In the back was an alcove with a win- 
 dow. Pictures of Lincoln, Washington, 
 Mona Lisa and the Roman forum adorned 
 the walls. There were bookcases and tables 
 and altogether an attempt at home, which 
 somehow missed the sure comfort and safety 
 of home and became in aspect as well as 
 name a "refuge" more than a real home. 
 Miss Towne sat good-naturedly through it
 
 28 
 
 all, while the old fellows chaffed and chafed 
 and bickered, or asked questions. 
 
 "Is the Evening Telescope there, Miss 
 Towne?" demanded Col. Shipman. "I 
 want to get to-day's instalment of Win- 
 throp Clavering's last thriller. It's called 
 'The Blood on the Door Handle.' Are you 
 reading it?" 
 
 "I ? Oh dear no !" said Miss Towne, pass- 
 ing him the paper. 
 
 "Well, you ought to. It's the best yet. 
 It's founded on the disappearance of that 
 Reynolds girl about two months ago." 
 
 "Millicent Reynolds?" asked Miss Towne, 
 interested. 
 
 "She has never been heard from, has she?" 
 
 "No!" said Shipman, "but I've an idea if 
 they'd follow up old Clavering's tip here they 
 might find her. He thinks it was the work 
 of the Scarlet Band." 
 
 "The Scarlet Band!" queried Miss Towne. 
 "I thought the Scarlet Band was a gang of 
 forgers !" 
 
 "Oh, every thing's grist to their mill,
 
 AT THE REFUGE 29 
 
 but their chief stunt is this White Slave 
 stuff." 
 
 "Good heavens!" cried Miss Towne. 
 "Are they too mixed up in the White Slave 
 Traffic? I thought . . ." 
 
 "T-r-r-r-r!" went the telephone bell, and 
 Miss Towne patiently took down the re- 
 ceiver. 
 
 "Mr. Winthrop Clavering?" she repeated. 
 And Mr. Shipman turned to listen. 
 
 "He's trying to secure a stenographer 
 through our employment bureau. He'll 
 be here later," volunteered Miss Towne. 
 
 "Coming here!" cried the Colonel. 
 "Well, I'd like to meet him. He's an au- 
 thority on crime. Why, I've heard he's run 
 down more crooks than all the New York 
 police put together." 
 
 "That's not saying much!" put in Kauf- 
 man. 
 
 Shipman disregarded this quip, his head 
 deep in the paper. 
 
 "Ha! Ha! No Scarlet Band, eh? ... 
 Kaufman!" he cried. "Listen to this!"
 
 30 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Triumphantly he began to read aloud: 
 ' 'Conspiracy to kill Victor Holt. Assistant 
 District Attorney receives threatening let- 
 ter from the Scarlet Band. It has just 
 been learned that Victor Holt, the As- 
 sistant District Attorney, who has been the 
 moving spirit in the crusade against the no- 
 torious Scarlet Band, recently received a let- 
 ter from the Society, threatening him with 
 death unless he immediately ceased his 
 operations against the organisation.' Non- 
 sense, is it? Well, all the same I'd rather be 
 right here in our little Refuge, than in Vic- 
 tor Holt's shoes if that bunch are after him." 
 
 But Kaufman scoffed, and the argument 
 between the two, one for, one against the ex- 
 istence of the Scarlet Band, might have 
 waxed even beyond the resourceful control 
 of Miss Towne, had it not been for the 
 abrupt entrance of an unexpected visitor 
 a pretty girl, wearing a blue coat and hav- 
 ing a big red flower in her hat. 
 
 Miss Towne rose patiently to receive her.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BLUE DRESS AND THE RED HAT 
 
 As the great door swung to behind her the 
 girl took one step forward and paused, look- 
 ing about. This was The Refuge ! To such 
 as she the room in which she stood was large 
 and homelike. A Franklin grate shed the 
 glowing light from its bed of red-gold coals 
 upon^a great white cat who lay dozing on 
 the rug in front of it and now blinked its 
 green, wily eyes at the girl in a knowing way. 
 On either side of the long curtained windows 
 in the alcove were shelves of green and flow- 
 ering plants. 
 
 The whole room and its occupants, in a 
 curious way, focussed upon the girl in the 
 blue dress and the red hat standing appeal- 
 ing and irresolute in the door. 
 
 31
 
 32 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 As she moved forward, Miss Towne looked 
 up from her writing, and noted the girl's 
 lagging step and white, strained face. 
 
 "I am the secretary here," she said kindly. 
 "Can I help you?" 
 
 The warmth of the tone made the girl's 
 overtaxed strength seem almost to give way ; 
 walls, tables, chairs, seemed to be joining in 
 a mad whirl about her. She clutched at the 
 desk for support, and said with an attempt 
 at an apologetic smile : "I'm tired. I have 
 been walking a long distance." 
 
 "You're faint! Sit down!" the older 
 woman urged, and added half aloud: 
 "Poor child! Looking for work, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "I understand that you have rooms. 
 Lodgings for women," said the girl faintly. 
 
 "We have. But they are all occupied 
 just now. I'm sorry." 
 
 The girl's lips quivered with disappoint- 
 ment. "Couldn't you find some place for 
 me?" she pleaded. "I am too tired to look 
 further."
 
 BLUE DRESS AND RED HAT 33 
 
 "Have you no relatives or friends in the 
 city?" queried Miss Towne, solicitously. 
 Her clear, questioning eyes were as if sound- 
 ing the very depths of the soul, but the girl 
 answered haltingly and hesitatingly: "No. 
 I have just come from Chicago. I thought 
 that I might be able to get work in New 
 York." 
 
 "You arrived in the city only to-day?" 
 asked Miss Towne. 
 
 "Er Yes." Again the girl stammered. 
 
 Miss Towne looked towards the door 
 through which her visitor had entered. 
 "Haven't you any luggage?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I checked my bag at the station," 
 said the girl. 
 
 "Why did you not go to a hotel?" asked 
 the secretary again. 
 
 "Why? Oh, I've been told that the ho- 
 tels will not take women who are alone, at 
 night." 
 
 "Yes, but you could " 
 
 "Oh, but can't I stay here just for this 
 one night?" The girl tried very hard to
 
 34 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 appeal to the other's sympathy and put 
 an end to questioning. She gave a quiver- 
 ing sigh of relief as she saw Miss Towne 
 take her pen and prepare to write on an in- 
 dex card before her. "Did you have em- 
 ployment in Chicago?" the secretary asked 
 gently. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Of what nature?" 
 
 "I was a stenographer." The answers 
 came more glibly now. 
 
 "Why did you leave Chicago?" pursued 
 Miss Towne. 
 
 "I wanted to come to New York." 
 
 The secretary dipped her pen into the ink 
 again. "What is your name?" 
 
 "My name? My name is Ruth Farley," 
 the girl said and gave a sigh of relief as she 
 saw the two words inscribed on a card and 
 put in place in the index file. 
 
 "Ruth Farley," repeated Miss Towne 
 presently. "And you say that you have 
 been employed as a stenographer?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 BLUE DRESS AND RED HAT 35 
 
 "I may be able to find a position for you," 
 said the secretary encouragingly as she 
 handed the pen. "Sign your name here, 
 please." 
 
 The girl grasped the pen, desperately 
 trying to control the trembling of her fin- 
 gers. She gave a little shaky laugh as she 
 saw the woman watching her. 
 
 "I am so tired that I can hardly make the 
 letters," she apologised. "There," she 
 added, as "Ruth Farley" stared back from 
 the card. "I think that you will be able to 
 read it." Then with pathetic appeal: 
 "Are you sure that you won't be able to give 
 me a room?" 
 
 "I am afraid not. But " 
 
 Again there came an interruption in the 
 ringing of the telephone on her desk. 
 
 "Hello! Yes, this is The Refuge. Who 
 is this? Oh, Police Headquarters. What? 
 Yes, we have an employment bureau. Yes. 
 What is the name? Mary Hadfield?" 
 
 The strange girl's cheeks were white, her 
 eyes aflame, her whole frame tense; she
 
 36 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 started to rise, but as she moved she caught 
 the eyes of the man who had been reading 
 the newspaper fixed upon her. It was only 
 because the words "Police Headquarters" 
 habitually excited his interest, though 
 she did not know that. She sank back 
 again in her chair. 
 
 Miss Towne, who had been looking 
 through her index cards, took up the receiver 
 again. "No," she said. "We've no one on 
 our books by that name. You're welcome. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 She turned back to the new-comer. 
 "How late may I stay here?" the girl in- 
 quired eagerly, as though wondering what 
 she should do or which way she should turn, 
 if she had to move on. 
 
 "Eleven o'clock is our hour for closing," 
 said Miss Towne, touched by the hopeless- 
 ness of the girl's face; and she added: 
 "Don't worry. We'll try to find some place 
 to put you in to-night. Have you had any 
 dinner?" 
 
 "Dinner!" The idea seemed a mockerv.
 
 BLUE DRESS AND RED HAT 37 
 
 What time had she had to think of dinner? 
 "No," she replied weakly. 
 
 "Oh, that's what's the matter then," Miss 
 Towne exclaimed cheerily. "Something to 
 eat and a cup of tea will rest you up. Come 
 with me." Tenderly she placed her arm 
 across the girl's shoulders. 
 
 As they moved towards the door the dis- 
 cordant cry of a newsboy penetrated to the 
 peaceful atmosphere of the room, unintelli- 
 gible at first, but, as the sound came nearer, 
 resolving itself into something like "Beau- 
 mont Hotel!" 
 
 The words attracted Miss Towne's atten- 
 tion as well as the girl's. She went to the 
 window and rapped loudly. "Bring me a 
 paper," she called. "Our house physician, 
 Dr. Jennings, was called to the Beaumont 
 late this afternoon," she explained as she 
 made a hasty search in her purse for pennies. 
 "I wonder if" 
 
 She was interrupted by the noisy entrance 
 of the boy. 
 
 "Here you are. Extra!" he shouted.
 
 38 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Sh!" came from the table. "Be quiet!" 
 
 Miss Towne looked towards the indignant 
 reader. "You must not expect silence al- 
 ways in this room, Professor Kaufman," she 
 smiled. 
 
 The man muttered something in reply but 
 elicited from the newsboy no more satisfac- 
 tory answer than a rough "Aw, chop it! 
 Chop it!" emphasised further by a shrill 
 blast on his fingers as he passed close to the 
 Professor's chair. 
 
 Red head-lines flared on the paper in Miss 
 Towne's hand. "MURDER AT THE 
 HOTEL BEAUMONT," the secretary 
 read aloud. "A woman suspected. James 
 Morton" 
 
 "Excuse me," interposed the girl, tremb- 
 ling. "Did you say that I should find the 
 dining room this way?" 
 
 The words brought Miss Towne back to 
 a realisation of her duties. "I beg your 
 pardon, my dear, I am most thoughtless. 
 I'll go with you at once." 
 
 She laid the paper down and led the way
 
 BLUE DRESS AND RED HAT 39 
 
 to the dining room. Shipman, to whom 
 murder extras were the elixir of life, seized 
 the discarded sheet at once. "Wake up, 
 Schultz!" he commanded. "There's been a 
 murder!" 
 
 "A murder? Eh! Vat? Here?" ques- 
 tioned the Dutchman sleepily. 
 
 "No, no! At the Hotel Beaumont," 
 Shipman explained, pointing to the head- 
 lines. "Listen to this, will you?" In great 
 excitement he adjusted his glasses and read 
 aloud 
 
 MURDER AT THE BEAUMONT HOTEL!! 
 
 James Morton, a cutlery merchant, was killed 
 by a knife thrust at about five-thirty this after- 
 noon, in his rooms at the Hotel Beaumont. 
 Shortly before the murder Morton had a caller, a 
 woman. The elevator boy declares that she was 
 a foreigner, Italian or Spanish. The boy did not 
 see the woman leave. Morton had recently taken 
 into his employ a stenographer named Mary Had- 
 field. Neither of the elevator boys remembers hav- 
 ing taken her up or down to-day, though she may 
 have used the stairs. When the hotel clerk 
 reached Morton's room, he found the door locked
 
 40 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 on the inside. The door was broken down, but 
 no one was found in the room except the dead 
 man. . . . 
 
 "H'm," ejaculated Shipman as he folded 
 the paper and laid it on the table, "I bet 
 Winthrop Clavering will make a great story 
 out of that. Come on, Schultz, let's go 
 round to the lecture and see what's doing. 
 There's a lecture on Roosevelt's African 
 hunt down at the Hall." 
 
 "Roosevelt!" called Schultz; "is he run- 
 ning again?" 
 
 "No, no ; a lecture on Roosevelt's African 
 hunt down at the Hall. Come on!" 
 
 The two men, arm and arm, went out of 
 the room just as Jack Howell entered it. 
 He looked back after he had passed them, 
 quizzically. "Great Scott!" he ejaculated, 
 "What types! And I've missed the chance 
 of getting some 'copy' out of them too. My 
 name seems to be General Misser to-day."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 JACK HOWELL 
 
 THERE could have been no greater contrast 
 than that between the two wrecked, useless 
 lives that had just drifted out of The Refuge 
 and the young reporter who entered it. 
 Jack Howell's cheery, clean, whole-hearted 
 personality made one think of great stretches 
 of breezy country, of pluck and valiant deeds 
 and achievement. Just now it is true the 
 usually clear eyes held a slightly dazed look 
 and pain was drawing tiny, fine lines about 
 the corners of the firm mouth. However, 
 he shook his broad shoulders and by way of 
 announcing himself exclaimed in a tone 
 audible from one side of the room to the 
 other: "Good evening! Everybody!" 
 
 "Sh!" came from the irritable book- worm. 
 
 Jack looked to see whence this curious and 
 hospitable greeting came. 
 
 41
 
 42 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Did that steam escape from you?" he in- 
 quired, locating the Professor as the gener- 
 ator of the hiss. 
 
 "Quiet, I must have quiet," came the acid 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I didn't know that 
 I must soft-pedal." 
 
 Making his voice as "gentle as any suck- 
 ing dove" Jack repeated: "Good evening! 
 Good evening, everybody." He repeated 
 his greeting in a hoarse whisper, as Miss 
 Towne entered and took her seat again at 
 her desk. "Whom do you wish to see?" she 
 asked, addressing Howell. 
 
 "I haven't wished yet," was his rather 
 flippant reply, as he turned to take in his 
 surroundings. "So they call this The 
 Refuge, eh? It looks to me more like the 
 Eden Musee," he commented, as his eyes 
 lighted on the book-worm who sat like an 
 effigy in the alcove. The steadfast and 
 haughty expression on the face of the secre- 
 tary made him realise that what to him 
 seemed comedy to her no doubt meant deadly
 
 JACK HOWELL 43 
 
 earnest. He hastened to repair his error. 
 "I beg your pardon," he said with a very 
 winning smile. "My name is Howell." 
 Producing a card to prove it he laid it on 
 her desk: "Jack Howell of the Evening 
 Telescope., commonly called 'Nosey Jack,' 
 not for any racial reason, however. The old 
 man sent me down here to do a write-up for 
 the Sunday edition. I've had a lot of soft 
 ones lately," he went on confidingly. "Last 
 week I had the Animal Hospital, and spent 
 most of the day nursing sick cats. Week 
 before " 
 
 He was now getting into his best collo- 
 quial stride but judged by the passive face 
 before him he was not making any particular 
 impression on his gallery. Miss Towne, 
 whose bump of humour was a deep cav- 
 ity, acknowledged his effort to be enter- 
 taining by gathering up a handful of pam- 
 phlets from a table and depositing them on 
 the desk before him. "Here is an outline 
 covering our work," she remarked curtly, 
 "if it is information you are seeking."
 
 44 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Oh, I don't want that kind of junk," 
 cried Jack. And a hasty inspection of the 
 material placed at his disposal made him go 
 on: "I want to get a flash at the human side 
 of your outfit here. It's the heart stuff 
 that gets the readers, you know. Funny, 
 isn't it, how people like to read about other 
 peoples' troubles to forget their own?" 
 
 "You'll find plenty of the 'heart-stuff,' as 
 you call it, here," remarked Miss Towne 
 dryly. 
 
 "I'd like to nose round for a while, if you 
 don't mind," said Jack, "and get some of 
 your Refugees to talking; but I don't sup- 
 pose they'll loosen up much if they get me 
 as a reporter. I'll frame it up so they think 
 me down and out too. It will be true 
 enough. I was, an hour ago/' he added, re- 
 minded of his late adventure by the stab- 
 bing pain in his hand. "Isn't it about 
 time for some of your people to be blowing 
 in?" 
 
 The breeziness of the reporter began tc 
 make itself felt. "I'm afraid you have
 
 JACK HOWELL 45 
 
 struck on a bad night," replied Miss Towne, 
 almost apologetically. "Most of our regu- 
 lars have gone to the Travel Talk at The 
 Peoples' Institute." 
 
 "Just my luck!" ejaculated Howell dole- 
 fully. "It's been a rotten day for me any- 
 way. How about that old chap, there?" he 
 asked, lowering his voice. "Do you suppose 
 I could get anything out of him? He looks 
 as if he'd had a past." 
 
 "He has. He used to be a professor in 
 one of the universities, till drink got the best 
 of him." 
 
 "He's a student of Bacchus now, eh?" 
 chaffed Howell. 
 
 "He earns a little money now and then by 
 making translations for writers like Robert 
 Sears and Theodore Calner, or Winthrop 
 Clavering." 
 
 "Oh, does he? For 'Little Nemo'? 
 That's what they all call Clavering up at 
 Police Headquarters, you know," explained 
 Jack. "You know he's always telling the 
 police how to conduct their business. Queer
 
 46 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 old pelican he is ! But he's got the real de- 
 tective stuff in him. I found that out after 
 talking with him five minutes, even if I do 
 make fun of him." 
 
 "Do you know him well?" questioned 
 Miss Towne, referring to a slip of paper on 
 her desk. 
 
 "Oh, I run across him at the office, occa- 
 sionally. You know my paper prints that 
 Tve-got-you-now stuff' of his." 
 
 "Because he has applied to us for a 
 stenographer," explained the secretary, "and 
 I judged from the conversation I had with 
 him over the telephone that he must be a 
 difficult person to suit." 
 
 "Well, I should hate to take that stuff 
 down from dictation myself," said Jack. 
 "Why, before I had worked for him a week 
 I'm sure I should be committing one of those 
 pleasant little murders he writes about. I 
 should probably lose my job by murdering 
 the old fellow himself. However, he is all 
 right on the pay, I guess. But to return to 
 the object of my visit; I suppose that nearly
 
 JACK HOWELL 47 
 
 everybody who blows in here hands you a 
 hard luck story?" 
 
 "Oh, of course, and true ones, no doubt," 
 replied Miss Towne. "You know this is a 
 harbour for disappointed hopes, the last port 
 for the derelict." 
 
 "Good!" ejaculated Howell, feeling in his 
 pocket for his pencil. "I'm going to steal 
 that." 
 
 "I don't understand," said Miss Towne 
 blankly. 
 
 "Why! I'm going to use that thing you 
 just pulled as the leader for my dope. 
 'Cruising Among the Derelicts.' ' 
 
 Enthusiastically he commenced to write, 
 but immediately dropped the pencil from his 
 swollen fingers with a slight groan* 
 
 "H'm ! That's going to be fine," he whis- 
 tled, looking at his hand. "You're not look- 
 ing for a job as amanuensis yourself by any 
 chance," he inquired of the secretary. 
 
 "Oh, what an awful looking hand," cried 
 Miss Towne, with quick sympathy. "How 
 did you do it?"
 
 48 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "That? Oh, just a little rough-house 
 down at the Cafe Rossamano before I came 
 here. The usual dope. Beautiful maiden 
 in distress. Sir Galahad to the rescue, and 
 all that sort of thing. Nice little souvenir, 
 isn't it?" he said, gazing at the injured mem- 
 ber. "But she was worth it," he continued. 
 "The very prettiest thing you ever saw. 
 And eyes! You could look into those big 
 grey eyes and get a moving picture of Para- 
 dise. I don't know who she was, but you 
 can put this in your list of engagement an- 
 nouncements: she can scramble the eggs 
 for my breakfast any morning she cares to, 
 and put Mrs. John Howell on her visiting 
 card to suit her convenience any day." 
 
 His impassioned flow of serio-comic elo- 
 quence was interrupted by an indignant 
 "Sh" from the Professor. 
 
 "Behave," retorted the irrepressible How- 
 ell. 
 
 "You'd better have that hand taken care 
 of," suggested Miss Towne with some con-
 
 JACK HOWELL 49 
 
 cern. "The house physician will be here 
 shortly." 
 
 "Yes, and want to cut it off. No, I'm go- 
 ing to carry that to my grave," he declared. 
 
 The entrance of Dr. Christopher, the Su- 
 perintendent of The Refuge, brought Jack 
 back to earth and work, and he began his 
 notes as best he could with the maimed and 
 aching member. 
 
 "Anything new since I went out?" in- 
 quired Dr. Christopher of his secretary. 
 
 "Yes. A young woman looking for a 
 room. No relatives or friends in the city. 
 The rooms are full, but she seemed so ex- 
 hausted and discouraged that I could not 
 turn her away." 
 
 "Good. I'm glad you did not. We'll 
 find a place for her somewhere." 
 
 He looked at some notes on his desk. 
 
 "Have you been able to find a place for 
 Miss Brown? She's terribly discouraged 
 after her long illness. We ought to be able 
 to do something for her. What does Dr.
 
 50 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Jennings think about her getting back to 
 work?" 
 
 "He considers her quite fit for work now, 
 he says. He saw her this morning," an- 
 swered the careful Miss Towne. "And oh, 
 by the way, Winthrop Clavering, the author, 
 wants a stenographer. I understand his 
 work is very trying." 
 
 As Miss Towne turned to her desk again 
 the stump of a cane and the sharp nasal 
 tones of a man's voice came to her from the 
 hall: "Is this the house of Refuge?" some 
 one was asking. "No, boy, you needn't 
 show me in. I've got a nose and I can fol- 
 low it."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WINTHROP CLAVERING SECURES A STENOGRA- 
 PHER 
 
 BOTH Miss Towne and Dr. Christopher 
 looked up with opening eyes at the curious 
 figure that presented himself to them in the 
 doorway. They were used to strange per- 
 sonalities in that retreat of the unfortunate, 
 but never before had they met the type of 
 human who stood before them now. Old 
 grey trousers that were worn thin and flex- 
 ible like corduroy, a long knitted muffler, big 
 horned spectacles, and long hair just curling 
 at the coat collar it was certainly a great 
 make-up, thought Jack Howell. 
 
 It was Jack who came to the rescue. 
 "Why, see who's here! Talking of the 
 Devil! If it isn't 'Little Nemo,'" he 
 laughed out. 
 
 "Don't call me 'Little Nemo,' " exclaimed
 
 52 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 the novelist, with an annihilating glance. 
 "I tell you I don't like it!" 
 
 "Then send it back and have the cook 
 warm it over," pursued Jack, eager to draw 
 the quick fire of his nimble-minded adver- 
 sary. 
 
 "Oh, I know who you are; you're that 
 fresh reporter that called at my house once 
 to write me up for your Sunday edition," 
 snorted the author of "The Blood on the 
 Door Handle." "And you misrepresented 
 me and my work. I've a good mind to sue 
 you for calling me 'Old Grape Nuts.' ' 
 
 He emphasised the threat by dumping on 
 Miss Towne's desk a huge armful of books 
 that he carried. Then wheeling upon How- 
 ell he continued: "That paper of yours is no 
 good anyway." 
 
 "I know. It prints your stuff," answered 
 Howell meekly. 
 
 "Yes, and it's the only thing that's good 
 in the rotten sheet," was the answering vol- 
 ley. "Some day I hope they'll print your
 
 53 
 
 obituary, and I'll write it, too, for nothing, 
 with pleasure." 
 
 "Those be harsh words, Bertha," mim- 
 icked Jack. 
 
 "Don't call me Bertha!" yelled Clavering. 
 "Don't call me anything! Don't speak to 
 me!" He fairly shrieked the words, pound- 
 ing on the floor with his massive cane. 
 
 Dr. Christopher, who had listened pa- 
 tiently to this duel of words, now interposed. 
 "What can I do for you, Mr. Clavering?" 
 
 "You don't look as if you could do any- 
 thing," said the novelist and from this blunt 
 summing up of human values, turned his 
 search-light gaze again upon Miss Towne. 
 "Are you the young woman who wants to 
 work for me?" he demanded. 
 
 "No, I am not," was the emphatic reply. 
 
 "Glad of it! Glad of it! You wouldn't 
 do at all. No imagination," he retorted. 
 Miss Towne wondered what delicate compli- 
 ment he would pay next. 
 
 "Some one told me over the phone that I
 
 54 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 could get a stenographer here," he went on 
 impatiently. "I've got to get some one to 
 take my stories from dictation. I don't 
 want any of your high-heeled, perfume- 
 reeking ladies, who want to come at ten 
 o'clock in the morning and leave at a quarter 
 to eleven. I want some one who can be on 
 the job all the time. Never can tell when 
 I'm going to feel inspired. Sometimes it 
 comes at three o'clock in the morning and I 
 want to dictate then. The girl must live at 
 my house, and sometimes she won't get out 
 for a week at a time. Can't write 'em my- 
 self. Bad hand. Bad eyes." 
 
 "Bad boy," chuckled Howell, thinking 
 that the author might be too modest to admit 
 it. 
 
 "Huh!" grunted Clavering, for once hav- 
 ing no reply ready. 
 
 "We have a young woman here with 
 whom you may talk," suggested Miss 
 Towne, though without the slightest doubt 
 as to the outcome of the interview. 
 
 "Will she stay with me more than a
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 55 
 
 week?" questioned Clavering irritably. 
 "None of them ever do." 
 
 "How strange!" commented Howell 
 musingly. 
 
 Miss Towne rose. "I'll see if Miss 
 Brown feels strong enough to talk to you," 
 she said. 
 
 "Strong enough!" snapped the author. 
 "Has she been sick? I don't want any ail- 
 ing women. I had one once. Just as I got 
 to an exciting place in my dictation, she'd 
 have to stop and take Peruna." 
 
 "Poor soul! I shouldn't have blamed her 
 if she'd taken poison," chimed in Howell 
 sympathetically. 
 
 Miss Towne was leaving the room and 
 Clavering called after her: "Tell her she'll 
 have no time off and little sleep. I never 
 sleep," he explained, turning to Dr. Christo- 
 pher. "My mother never slept. My father 
 never slept." 
 
 "No? They had you on their minds, per- 
 haps," was the explanation offered by the 
 amused reporter.
 
 56 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 There was no telling what Clavering's 
 scathing rejoinder might have been if just 
 at that moment they had not been inter- 
 rupted by the striking of the clock. Noth- 
 ing could have been more curious than the 
 effect which this simple sound produced 
 upon the noted author. As the last stroke 
 died away into silence he suddenly extended 
 his long arms, up and down, back and forth, 
 round and round, in a fantastic paroxysm, 
 to an accompaniment of gasping grunts. 
 Jack Howell looked on in mute astonish- 
 ment; he had never seen the old fellow like 
 this before. 
 
 "Take them every hour," explained Clav- 
 ering breathlessly. "Keeps the blood in 
 circulation, and nourishes the brain. Six- 
 teen, seventeen, eighteen " 
 
 Howell, getting the stroke now, joined in 
 the physical pyrotechnics. "Every little 
 movement has a meaning all its own," he 
 sang. 
 
 "Don't sing that! Damn it!" grunted 
 the star performer; "I hate Grand Opera.
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 57 
 
 Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. 
 Ah!" he panted as he exhaled at last and al- 
 lowed his waistcoat to resume its normal cir- 
 cumference. 
 
 "The next number on our bill will be The 
 Diving Dill Pickle," announced Howell 
 solemnly, but this time he drew no fire. 
 
 Refreshed by his exercise Clavering 
 turned upon the unoffending Superintend- 
 ent. "So you're trying to make people bet- 
 ter, are you?" he sneered. 
 
 "That is one of our aims," responded Dr. 
 Christopher quietly. 
 
 "Well, you're wasting your time," 
 growled Clavering. 
 
 "I'm sorry you think so, but " 
 
 "But why should you care what I think?" 
 demanded Clavering, eager to start an argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "He doesn't," interposed Howell. 
 "That's politeness." 
 
 "I call it lying," Clavering retorted. 
 
 "But, my dear sir," began the Superin- 
 tendent, beginning to get out of patience
 
 58 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 with Clavering's almost insulting manner 
 and remarks. The latter paid no heed to 
 Dr. Christopher's protest, but resumed his 
 caustic observations in his same spirit and 
 without delay. 
 
 "I've never had any use for churches or 
 missions except for local colour in stories," 
 he asserted. "A church makes a fine setting 
 for a mystery story. Wrote one once called 
 'The Cathedral Mystery.' I had the mur- 
 dered man discovered lying on the altar, 
 with the green light from a stained glass 
 window falling on his face." 
 
 Dr. Christopher made a grimace of dis- 
 taste, while Jack Howell exclaimed: 
 "Wouldn't that put your hair in pompa- 
 dour?" 
 
 "The story was founded on the murder of 
 that Catholic priest five years ago," Claver- 
 ing went on. "And don't forget," here he 
 brought his cane down on the Superintend- 
 ent's desk unsparingly, by way of emphasis, 
 "that it was / who caught that murderer 
 after the police had given up the case." He
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 59 
 
 paused a moment for effect, his little eyes 
 sparkling with enthusiasm, then suddenly 
 drew the reins over his pet hobby. "Mar- 
 vellously interesting thing, the pursuit of 
 criminals, full of poetry and romance. 
 Don't you think so?" 
 
 "No, I don't," flatly rejoined the Super- 
 intendent. 
 
 "Then you're a fool," snapped the crim- 
 inologist, "and you'd better go to an oculist 
 and get your point of view readjusted." 
 
 This was a little more than even the mild 
 Dr. Christopher could stand, and he would 
 have liked to make a point of showing Clav- 
 ering the door, had not Howell, bubbling 
 over with enjoyment of the situation, re- 
 marked: "As an authority on crime I sup- 
 pose that you have already cleared up this 
 mystery at the Beaumont?" and started 
 everything up again. 
 
 "Huh! No mystery in that," Clavering 
 retorted, "there may be to you, and a lot of 
 pin-headed detectives. I can see that. 
 They'll go using up money and shoe-leather,
 
 60 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 trying to find the woman who called on Mor- 
 ton shortly before the murder. The one 
 they'd better find is that stenographer. 
 Mary Had Had " 
 
 "Mary had a little lamb," prompted 
 Jack. 
 
 "You keep still," yelled the author. 
 "Mary Had. . . . Well, whatever the name 
 is, it wasn't her real name. I can tell you 
 that." 
 
 "Oh, you have looked into that affair al- 
 ready, have you?" inquired the Superintend- 
 ent. He could not conceal his interest in 
 this latest tragedy. "Our house physician 
 was called to the murdered man's room not 
 long after he had received the fatal blow." 
 
 "I went there too," chuckled Clavering. 
 "The police put me out, but not until I had 
 made a few observations that will entirely 
 escape them, with their blundering methods. 
 Idiots!" 
 
 "You think, then, that it was the stenog- 
 rapher who killed Morton?" 
 
 "I know it was."
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 61 
 
 "What do you think was the motive?" 
 asked the Doctor. 
 
 "Ah," ejaculated Clavering, warming up 
 to this question. "The motive? That's 
 where they all fall down. All except me. 
 That's the first thing I get hold of. She 
 was there to spy on him, I believe ; to get in- 
 formation." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" put in 
 Jack. 
 
 The question brought a withering look 
 from Clavering: "Because I've got a little 
 common sense, that's why. Some one had 
 tried to pry open the man's desk, and all the 
 papers in the drawers had been disturbed, 
 but apparently nothing valuable had been 
 taken. That's why." 
 
 "Couldn't the woman who called upon 
 him shortly before his death have been the 
 one that went through his papers?" 
 
 "She could have been, but she wasn't. I 
 happen to know that Morton escorted her to 
 the elevator. The police didn't find that 
 out, but I did." He chuckled over his
 
 62 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 sagacity. "No, sir," he continued. "That 
 woman was his friend, an Italian or a Span- 
 iard. No one at the hotel knew what the 
 man was. 'A Mr. Morton in the cutlery 
 business,' they said. Shucks! Morton is an 
 English or an American name," he eluci- 
 dated contemptuously. "Did you ever hear 
 of an American or an Englishman wearing 
 earrings?" 
 
 "Earrings?" exclaimed Dr. Christopher 
 and Jack together, puzzled at the ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Yes, earrings! I examined the lobes of 
 the dead man's ears, and there, so faint that 
 you could hardly see them, were the marks 
 of old earring holes. Mr. Morton noth- 
 ing!" And Clavering went on with a dis- 
 dainful shrug of his shoulders : "He was an 
 Italian or Spanish member of some cunning 
 gang. The Scarlet Band perhaps; I don't 
 know yet, but I shall find out; you'll see!" 
 
 "The Scarlet Band!" exclaimed Howell. 
 
 "Yes, the Scarlet Band," retorted the 
 novelist, advancing excitedly upon him. "I
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 63 
 
 suppose you are one of those smart Alecks 
 who think the Scarlet Band is a myth." 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't," expostulated Jack. 
 He had dropped his bantering tone now and 
 spoke earnestly. A sneaking respect for 
 Clavering's prowess was coming out in 
 him. 
 
 "Well, it's not a myth, I can tell you 
 that," came the reassertion, with reiterating 
 raps on the cane. "I've written four stories 
 about the Scarlet Band, all of them founded 
 on facts. Facts!" 
 
 He paused to look over the pages of The 
 Evening Telescope, lying on the table at 
 Howell's elbow. 
 
 "H'm!" he exclaimed. "Do you see 
 that?" pointing with his cane to the headlines. 
 " 'Conspiracy to Kill Victor Holt. Assist- 
 ant District Attorney Receives Threatening 
 Letter from the Scarlet Band.' Huh! 
 What do you make of that now?" he 
 growled, as he poked the paper aside with 
 his active stick. Up and down the room he 
 strode, growling like a dog with a bone.
 
 64 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Ha! ha!" he croaked, "If those fellows got 
 him" 
 
 "And this murder at the Beaumont then," 
 reminded Dr. Christopher, to whom the 
 criminologist's views on the murder were 
 more interesting than his insinuations as to 
 the District Attorney's office. "Why did 
 the stenographer have to kill the man? 
 Wasn't that taking pretty big chances just 
 to get a bit of information?" 
 
 This question Clavering apparently 
 weighed a moment in his mind before he an- 
 swered. "I don't think she intended to kill 
 him," he said. "She stabbed him with one 
 of his own sample knives. That shows that 
 she didn't go there ready armed." 
 
 "That's interesting," responded Jack. 
 
 "Then, too, my examination of the tele- 
 phone in his room bears me out in this the- 
 ory." 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "The desk telephone, which I discovered 
 was a private wire, was lying on the floor by 
 the dead man. What does that show? It
 
 65 
 
 shows that he had been using it; and I 
 learned from Central, who was trying to get 
 it rung off, that a little before five o'clock 
 that afternoon Morton called up the Cafe 
 Rossamano on his private wire in great 
 haste. Something happened, so Central 
 said, and the receiver fell." 
 
 "Cafe Rossamano!" put in Jack Howell. 
 "Why! I" 
 
 "Why! What?" demanded Clavering, 
 scenting some criticism in the interruption. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, nothing," replied Jack, try- 
 ing to look as if the words Cafe Rossamano 
 conveyed no meaning to him after all. 
 
 "Well," retorted the author testily, "the 
 man who interrupts with 'nothing' is a hell 
 of an addition to an argument." 
 
 Dr. Christopher, fearing renewed hostili- 
 ties and fascinated by the novelist's line of 
 deduction, broke in again and urged: "Go 
 on! Goon!" 
 
 "And another thing I know," said the au- 
 thor, easily encouraged, "is that he was try- 
 ing to "
 
 66 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 But at this critical moment in the argu- 
 ment Miss Towne re-entered the room with 
 her message. 
 
 "Miss Brown will see you in the ladies' 
 reception room, Mr. Clavering," she said 
 formally. The author sheered off at 
 once. 
 
 "Oh! She's a lady, is she?" he sneered. 
 "I don't want a lady, I want a stenogra- 
 pher." 
 
 "But, Mr. Clavering!" 
 
 "Now don't give me any arguments," he 
 blustered. "I want a stenographer." He 
 started to follow her, but reaching the al- 
 cove where the Professor sat, he paused be- 
 side his chair: "Hello, Kaufman! Got 
 that translation ready for me yet?" he de- 
 manded in passing. 
 
 "Not quite, Mr. Clavering. I'm working 
 on it now." 
 
 "Good Lord! While you are digging out 
 a paragraph, I could write a cyclopedia!" 
 
 "But, Mr. Clavering, it takes time, it 
 takes time!"
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 67 
 
 "Yes, and by the looks of your nose it 
 takes rum, I should say." 
 
 With this graceful and tactful sally, veer- 
 ing from one grievance to another, the novel- 
 ist quitted the room, and Dr. Christopher 
 was left with Jack to finish the speculations 
 on the murder. 
 
 "What a strange character!" observed Dr. 
 Christopher. 
 
 As for Jack Howell, he was deep in his 
 own reflections. The Cafe Rossamano! 
 Clavering said that the murdered man had 
 called up the Cafe Rossamano. Could the 
 tragedy at the Beaumont be linked in any 
 way with his own strange encounter in front 
 of the Rossamano? It must have been just 
 shortly after the murder that he had gone to 
 the girl's assistance there. Had he all un- 
 consciously been sucked into the whirlpool 
 of some conspiracy? What could he do? 
 
 "You'd better come in to my office and let 
 me try to make that hand of yours more 
 comfortable," said Dr. Christopher pres- 
 ently. "You will have trouble with it if you
 
 68 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 don't. Come this way," he added, and 
 opened the door of a room at the right. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Jack appreci- 
 atively. "I shouldn't mind having it eased 
 up a bit, I must confess." ) 
 
 He started in the direction of the doctor's 
 office, but was waylaid by Professor Kauf- 
 man with "Excuse me, sir. Could you let 
 me have a little money? I am obliged to 
 get some more copy-paper before I can fin- 
 ish Mr. Clavering's work, and he won't give 
 me any until it's done." 
 
 "Well, there you are," said Jack. "That's 
 for copy-paper, mind you now; don't come 
 back with a package." 
 
 "Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir," mum- 
 bled Kaufman, taking his hat and shuffling 
 toward the door. 
 
 Howell looked after him a moment. 
 "Poor devil," he exclaimed, then followed 
 the superintendent into his office and closed 
 the door. 
 
 It was certainly a relief to have some one
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 69 
 
 patch up his poor hand and tend it a bit. 
 The iodine stung awfully at first, but pres- 
 ently the fever in his fingers began to cool a 
 little and he sensed the comforting and com- 
 fortable sensation with true gratitude. 
 "Thank you, Doctor," he announced cheer- 
 ily; "don't you forget to put in your little 
 bill rendered for this veterinary service now. 
 Jack Howell, Telescope Office Oh, yes 
 you must now." 
 
 The doctor's ministrations over he re- 
 turned to the living room again and 
 paused a moment on the threshold. The 
 room was empty and deserted, a barren 
 field, he thought, for any more writing up of 
 Sunday specials. He didn't seem to be 
 making very good connections, he must say, 
 to-day. No one was there. No sound 
 broke the stillness anywhere, save the tick- 
 ing of the big-faced clock on the wall, and 
 yes hullo! There was somebody after all, 
 seated at the telephone. "By Jove!" ex- 
 claimed Jack quite sotto voce, "the girl from
 
 70 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 the Rossamano! The girl with the eyes! 
 What the deuce is she doing here, and in such 
 a state of excitement too?" 
 
 Half instinctively, more in the spirit of 
 not wishing to interrupt than of eaves- 
 dropping, he drew back and waited, listen- 
 ing. The girl held her face very close to 
 the receiver and spoke in a low, hurried tone. 
 
 "Give me six-eight-seven Chelsea. 
 Hurry, please!" -she breathed tensely to the 
 unseen Central. All the time she kept 
 glancing toward the doors, in most palpable 
 suspense. At last the answer. 
 
 "Is that you, Uncle Mark? Quick, 
 listen! This is Margaret. Has Victor 
 come home yet? Oh, no word from him?" 
 
 Jack could hear her almost sobbing. 
 
 Her ear was so close to the transmitter 
 that she could not hear the slight squeak of a 
 board beneath his foot and still Jack listened. 
 His impulse was to advance with assurance 
 and claim acquaintance with her, but at her 
 next words, uttered in an agonised tone, he 
 paused again.
 
 THE STENOGRAPHER 71 
 
 "There is? Forme? With the red band? 
 My God! How did it come? By messen- 
 ger? Bring it to me at once. The Refuge, 
 16 Irvington Street. Come yourself and be 
 careful ! Have you seen the Evening Tele- 
 scope? Yes. It's true. I can't explain. 
 I" 
 
 Then at last she seemed to sense a pres- 
 ence in the room and stopped abruptly, 
 hanging up the transmitter with a trembling 
 hand, not daring to look around. 
 
 Howell saw a tell-tale crimson flame over 
 the pallid face, heard her tense breathing as 
 she hastily seized a pencil and made a pre- 
 tence at writing. He even thought he 
 caught the quivering of her eyelids. Poor 
 thing ! 
 
 Who was she? What was the trouble? 
 
 A suspicion that had been forming in his 
 brain while she was at the telephone, flared 
 now to conviction. Was she Mary Had- 
 field, the girl wanted for the murder of Mor- 
 ton? Could it be possible, this slip of a 
 girl? Then the instincts of the reporter
 
 72 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 who scents a scoop seized him for a mo- 
 ment, despite his sympathy. What a 
 chance! If she were the murderess and he 
 should be the first to detect her What a 
 scoop ! 
 
 He advanced a step or two toward her 
 "Well?" he said, looking fixedly at her, 
 
 The girl raised her head and gave him 
 back the look bravely. No sound came from 
 her dry lips. Her face was as white as the 
 paper on the desk before her, but no fear 
 showed in her eyes, and there was no tremor 
 or trembling in any feature. 
 
 "Well?" said Jack again nonchalantly. 
 "What can I do for you?"
 
 "'WELL?' HE SAID, LOOKING FIXEDLY AT HER.'
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 
 
 "WHO are you?" asked the girl presently, 
 in a tone of such composure that it brought 
 a smile to the reporter's lips in spite of him- 
 self. 
 
 "She's a cool one anyway," Jack thought. 
 Advancing a step nearer to her he answered : 
 "I don't know yet. But I think I think 
 I'm your friend. I'm not sure though." 
 
 "What do you mean?" she demanded. 
 
 Howell paused a moment, then said 
 significantly: "You'd better tell me all 
 about it, don't you think, if I'm to be your 
 friend?" 
 
 With an almost imperceptible start the 
 girl turned to the papers on the desk again, 
 as if to sort them out and turn the subject. 
 "I really don't know what you are talking 
 
 about," she said. There was even a tinge of 
 
 73
 
 74 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 amused tolerance in the tone that she 
 achieved. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do," went on the relentless 
 Jack. His pride was pricked by that last 
 cool parry ; he would break down her guard. 
 Lowering his voice he took a sudden resolu- 
 tion, and lunged the accusation: "You 
 killed that man at the Hotel Beaumont, 
 didn't you?" He watched the effect of his 
 thrust narrowly. The uncontrollable look 
 of terror that for an instant made ghastly 
 the already pale face, made him wince de- 
 spite himself. 
 
 "It's not true," came the hoarse denial. 
 "I have just come here from Chicago." 
 
 "Oh, no, you haven't !" began Jack. 
 
 "I tell you I have," countered the girl, 
 struggling vainly to give conviction to her 
 words. 
 
 Howell took a copy of the Evening Tele- 
 scope from his pocket and rattled it osten- 
 tatiously. "What was it that you told your 
 Uncle was true in the Telescope?" he de- 
 manded.
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 75 
 
 She shrank back at that, then made a des- 
 perate effort for control. "I was talking 
 about something quite personal," she pro- 
 tested weakly. 
 
 "Oh, no, you weren't. You were talking 
 about this." He thrust the paper with its 
 accusing murder head-lines before her 
 startled eyes and watched her. 
 
 "I'll not endure your insults any longer!" 
 the girl retorted, regaining her poise with an 
 incredible effort, in spite of her terror and 
 anguish of spirit. She rose with imperious 
 dignity and made as if to leave the room. 
 
 "Wait!" called Jack. His tone was 
 softened now. What a valiant soul she was, 
 he thought, after all. Why should she be 
 in peril from him? Was it his business to 
 hunt her down, to pursue a defenceless girl 
 because she was at his mercy before he really 
 knew her story? She was no ordinary 
 criminal, he could see. Why had she com- 
 mitted murder, if she had committed it? It 
 was his business to find out that before he 
 sentenced her.
 
 76 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 He changed his tactics, and said gently: 
 "See here. I've got a hunch that you're in 
 wrong. Of course you may question my 
 right to talk to you as I do, but you know I'm 
 not quite a stranger, am I? We've met be- 
 fore, I think. Don't you remember?" 
 
 She did remember, he could see, but would 
 not say so; perhaps this friendliness on his 
 part was but another attempt to trap her 
 into a confession, she might think. She 
 must be careful. 
 
 "No," she replied, again looking directly 
 into his eyes; "I have never seen you be- 
 fore." 
 
 "No?" smiled Jack. "Well, perhaps my 
 face isn't one to get matineed on ; but as for 
 me I've got a memorandum of our meeting 
 in this nice little bunch of forget-me-nots 
 here." He drew his bruised and swollen 
 hand from his pocket and held it out for in- 
 spection. 
 
 "Oh !" She gave a little crooning cry, 
 but again she checked herself. 
 
 At that "Oh," all tenderness, solicitude
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 77 
 
 and remorse blended, a sound that could 
 only be the utterance of a gentle heart, a 
 great wave of emotion flooded Jack's frame 
 and brain. It was impossible that a girl 
 who looked with such compassion upon an 
 injured hand could kill a man in cold blood! 
 No, no, his brain protested; she must have 
 been justified in some way! There must 
 have been some awful provocation! His 
 man's heart took up arms in her defence 
 outright. How could he help her? But 
 first he must gain her confidence. 
 
 "Come on," he said, with kindly insist- 
 ence. "Tell me everything." 
 
 She turned to him, her grey eyes question- 
 ing his as though to read his very soul, and 
 her lips parted. But before she could utter 
 a word the bang of the outer door sounded 
 interruption. Instantly the hunted look 
 was on her face again. In an instant too 
 she and Jack were allies together against a 
 common danger. 
 
 "Get busy!" commanded Howell in an 
 undertone.
 
 78 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 - 
 
 The note of warning in his voice made her 
 return to the chair at the desk, blindly obey- 
 ing him, she knew not why. The outer door 
 of the room opened, but she dared not look 
 to see who entered. 
 
 Howell, meanwhile, seated at the opposite 
 side of the room, saw reflected in the mirror 
 before him the burly form of a police offi- 
 cer framed in the doorway. He caught his 
 breath. So soon! What was the man's er- 
 rand! Had he come already to arrest this 
 poor girl? Well, if he had, he shouldn't 
 get her. She was his! His prize! Fate 
 hadn't sent him first to the Cafe Rossamano, 
 then here, for nothing. She was his. His 
 mind was clear as to the issue. He had 
 been sent to stand between this girl and 
 ruin. "And by Heaven I'll do it!" he swore 
 passionately. 
 
 With these thoughts surging through his 
 mind, he greeted the officer. "Hello, Cap- 
 tain Ryan," he called in a loud, affable tone, 
 emphasising the new-comer's rank to pre-
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 79 
 
 pare his companion for what might be com- 
 ing next. 
 
 "Hello, Howell!" gruffly responded the 
 officer, in whose precinct this latest murder 
 had been committed ; and who did not like it. 
 "What are you doing here?" 
 
 "Oh, getting some dope for a Sunday 
 special, and missing all the good things," 
 answered Howell disgustedly. By giving 
 special emphasis to "missing all the good 
 things," he was hoping to get some inkling 
 of Ryan's errand, and start communica- 
 tions. 
 
 "Well, you missed a good thing this after- 
 noon, all right," said the wearer of the blue 
 coat, taking the bait in a tone of satisfaction. 
 He didn't always like reporters; they were 
 always butting in, he said; but he tolerated 
 this one because, as he told Howell, "he 
 liked his comedy." 
 
 "Got any new dope yet on that Beaumont 
 murder, Captain?" inquired Jack in a casual 
 tone.
 
 80 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "No. But I'll have some soon. Who's 
 in charge here?" 
 
 As he asked this question the white cat, 
 which had been roaming about the room in a 
 disturbed, restless fashion, approached Mar- 
 garet, and rubbing against her skirt, gave a 
 spring and landed on the desk in front of 
 her, settling on its haunches and gazing with 
 its emerald and sphinx-like eyes upon the 
 officer of the law. With a sudden fright- 
 ened longing for warmth and comfort, the 
 girl put her hand softly on the animal's 
 back and stroked it. A prodigious yawn 
 was the only recognition the cat made of her 
 touch ; then it settled back again to its steady 
 gaze at Ryan. 
 
 "Who's in charge here?" he repeated, and 
 nodded his head in the direction of the girl 
 at the desk. "That young lady the bureau 
 of information?" 
 
 Surprised at this sudden turn of affairs, 
 Margaret was nevertheless quick to see the 
 solution it might hold for her. She glanced
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 81 
 
 toward Howell, who, standing behind the 
 officer, gave her an encouraging nod. 
 
 "Yes," she replied sweetly. "What can 
 I do for you?" 
 
 "How long have you been on duty?" de- 
 manded Ryan sharply. 
 
 "She was here when I came in at about 
 four-thirty," put in Howell quickly. 
 
 "Four-thirty?" repeated the officer. 
 
 Margaret had taken her cue. 
 
 "Yes," she answered promptly, "I think 
 it was just about four-thirty." 
 
 "Was it you who answered the phone 
 when they called up from Headquarters a 
 while ago?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Howell watched the girl breathlessly, 
 ready with a signal if she needed it. With 
 
 ti 
 
 a wisdom born of fear she avoided answer- 
 ing him with her eyes. 
 
 "Any one entering from the street would 
 be seen by you?" 
 
 "Yes, Captain." She answered now 
 without hesitation.
 
 82 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Howell's clenched hands relaxed. "Great 
 Scott! But she's a corker!" he thought fer- 
 vently. 
 
 "You told Headquarters over the phone 
 that you had never placed from your em- 
 ployment bureau a stenographer by the 
 name of Mary Hadfield?" 
 
 "No, we have no such name on our list." 
 
 "Sure?" demanded Ryan in his most in- 
 quisitorial tone. 
 
 "I am positive," was the decided answer. 
 
 "Well, if a woman who looks at all sus- 
 picious should come in here to-night, detain 
 her and notify me at once. I can't give you 
 a description of her, because she'd only been 
 in Morton's employ a few days, and those 
 boneheads at the Beaumont don't seem to 
 know what the skirt looked like. But we 
 want her, and we'll get her if I myself have 
 to investigate every employment bureau in 
 New York City. So long, Howell." 
 
 He turned away and Margaret gave a 
 sigh of relief at being freed if only for a 
 moment from the relentless look he had fixed
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 83 
 
 on her during his colloquy. Then she grew 
 rigid again as she heard the young man ask- 
 ing Captain Ryan: "Oh, it's the stenogra- 
 pher you're looking for, is it? Do you think 
 she's the one who killed Morton?" 
 
 "Naw," replied the Captain, disgusted 
 with the supposition. "The woman who 
 killed Morton is the Spanish dame that 
 called on him about four o'clock." 
 
 "Oh, that's the idea, is it?" exclaimed 
 Howell, as if tremendously impressed. 
 
 "Why, sure," continued Ryan patronis- 
 ingly. "It's the old jealousy stuff. But 
 if the stenographer was there when she 
 called, she can give us a description of the 
 foreigner, can't she?" 
 
 "Oh, I see. Of course you're anxious to 
 find her, yes. Well, I hope you get her," 
 said Howell heartily. 
 
 "Oh, we'll get her all right," retorted the 
 Captain, adding with a half sneer of vindi- 
 cation, "The Police Department ain't as rot- 
 ten as you newspaper guys try to make it 
 out."
 
 84 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Oh, I say!" expostulated Howell, as a 
 loyal member of the maligned press. 
 
 "You say! do you?" sneered Ryan. 
 "Every newspaper in town is panning us," 
 he added with a snarl. "That nut, Victor 
 Holt, started it. Everything was all right 
 till he butted in. To hear Holt talk you'd 
 think there wasn't an honest policeman in 
 New York." 
 
 "Well," said Howell, who was in sympa- 
 thy with the Assistant District Attorney, "is 
 there?" 
 
 "There you go!" angrily retorted Ryan, 
 and then went on in a querulous tone. 
 "Now what chance have we got, with every 
 one against us? We didn't do nothing to 
 Holt. He got sore because every man in 
 the department wouldn't give up all his 
 time to chasing those White Slave fellers. 
 We've got a few other things to attend to 
 besides that." 
 
 "Of course you have," agreed Jack. "So 
 that's why Holt turned you down and took 
 on the Byrnes men, eh?" he questioned.
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 85 
 
 Howell, while seeking information, was not 
 innocent of the intention of getting back at 
 the Department for its malice and disloyalty 
 to Holt, whom he admired. 
 
 "Yes, he took on the Byrnes men," as- 
 sented Ryan, then added with a chuckle of 
 contempt, "and a hell of a lot of good they'll 
 do him. Did you see in the paper where 
 Holt got a letter from that Scarlet Band 
 bunch?" 
 
 "Yes, I saw that." 
 
 "Well, I hope they get him. Serve him 
 right!" muttered the officer vindictively, as 
 he started to leave the room. 
 
 A determination to keep in touch with any 
 information the Captain might acquire con- 
 cerning the Beaumont affair, prompted Jack 
 to speak again. 
 
 "Oh, by the way, Captain," he suggested, 
 "you know, as I was down here refuging, I 
 wasn't in on this murder story. If you get 
 any good stuff slip it on me, will you?" 
 
 He rather ostentatiously drew a bill from 
 his pocket as he spoke,
 
 86 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Ryan saw the bill, but drew up his six feet 
 with dignity and glared at the insult to his 
 uniform. "What do you take me for?" he 
 demanded, mortally offended. "We cut all 
 that out long ago, you know that. Nothing 
 doing!" 
 
 "Oh, no offence," said Howell apologetic- 
 ally, and rather deliberately dropped the bill 
 on the carpet. 
 
 Ryan turned to Margaret with a parting 
 injunction. "Don't forget what I told you, 
 Miss, if anything new turns up let me 
 know. Good-night!" 
 
 On his way to the door his eye fell upon 
 the money. "Hello!" he called, as he 
 stooped and picked up the seductive yellow- 
 back. "Some one's dropped a bill here. Is 
 it yours?" he asked, turning to Margaret. 
 The girl shook her head. "Yours?" he 
 asked, giving the reporter a quizzical stare. 
 
 "Oh, no, no," the latter answered with a 
 look at the officer which suggested the doc- 
 trine of losers seekers, finders keepers. 
 Ryan was not slow to catch its import.
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 87 
 
 "Why, I must have dropped it myself when 
 I came in," he said and slipped the bill into 
 his pocket. 
 
 "Good-night!" 
 
 From the window Howell watched the 
 Captain's figure out of sight. Then he 
 turned to Margaret again. She had risen, 
 and seemed wholly unconscious of her com- 
 panion's scrutiny, as if rapidly reviewing the 
 events of the last few minutes. 
 
 "Well," she said at last bitterly, "if you 
 learn' that stenographer's story, you will 
 have your scoop, won't you?" 
 
 In reply Jack only fixed his eyes upon her 
 with an approving smile. "Well, you got 
 away with it! It was immense. You 
 never turned a hair," he said exultingly. 
 
 "I wish you would go away and let me go 
 on by myself," replied Margaret anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, that isn't the next thing," said Jack 
 emphatically. "You know you are waiting 
 here for something that your Uncle is to 
 bring you. Yes, I heard all you said over 
 the phone. Come on, now," he pleaded.
 
 88 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Tell me what happened at the Beau- 
 mont." 
 
 "I have never been at the Beaumont. 
 What right have you to question me?" she 
 cried, with flashing eyes. 
 
 "What right have you to sit there as Miss 
 Towne and answer that copper's questions?" 
 he retorted. He had dropped his coaxing 
 tone now; he realised that she must be 
 driven to the wall if he hoped to get the truth 
 from her. 
 
 "You you frightened me. I didn't 
 know " Her lips quivered and for the 
 first time the tears welled up in her eyes. 
 
 He understood, and again he changed his 
 tone. "Come, come now, little girl. Listen. 
 I know you did it." 
 
 "No, no, I tell you, I did not!" she pro- 
 tested vainly in a low, strangled tone. She 
 glanced fearfully about at the doors, to see 
 if any chance of rescue were at hand from 
 this inquisition. 
 
 "But I know you did." He paused a mo- 
 ment. "And I've got a feeling that in some
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 89 
 
 way or other you were justified. Now if 
 you're really on the level, you'll tell me all 
 about it and I swear I'll help you. Now, 
 now, come " 
 
 "There is nothing to tell," she persisted 
 desperately. 
 
 "If that copper gets hold of you they'll 
 give you the third degree, you know," hinted 
 Jack. He spoke meaningly. "They'll 
 never let up on you. You know that, don't 
 you? Now what are you going to do?" 
 
 In answer she moved towards the door. 
 "I'm going to leave this place at once," she 
 sobbed in dismay. 
 
 Howell barred her exit. "Oh, no, you're 
 not," he said. 
 
 She recoiled from him trembling. He 
 realised the crisis his next words must pre- 
 cipitate, but he did not flinch. 
 
 "Well?" There was no kindness in his 
 voice now, nothing but an unalterable de- 
 mand for her confession. He saw her 
 clenched hands, sensed her dogged determi- 
 nation not to surrender. Then like the
 
 90 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 hunter who sees a wounded animal at bay 
 and fires the fatal shot to end its struggles, 
 he launched his final words. 
 
 "Do you want me to phone the police and 
 tell them where they can find that stenogra- 
 pher?" he suggested. He watched her nar- 
 rowly, and caught the shiver that ran 
 through her slight body. "Do you?" he de- 
 manded again, as she made no sign. "Very 
 well!" 
 
 He reached for the telephone. The click 
 of the receiver broke her rigid calm. With 
 a cry she turned to him, shaken at last. 
 "Don't give me up! For God's sake, don't 
 give me up!" she sobbed. 
 
 Howell placed his hand over the trans- 
 mitter to shut out her voice. "Well?" 
 
 "I'll tell you everything," she said brok- 
 enly. 
 
 "Never mind, central," called Howell to 
 the waiting operator. "A mistake; I'm 
 sorry." 
 
 He hung up the receiver again and turned 
 to Margaret.
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 91 
 
 "I didn't mean to kill him," she moaned. 
 "I swear I didn't mean to kill him." She 
 sank into a chair and buried her face in 
 her hands. Her body was shaken by con- 
 vulsive sobs. She looked so fair and ten- 
 der and defenceless that Jack could have 
 gathered her up into his arms and petted 
 her into quietude like a wayward child. 
 He put his hand reassuringly on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Don't lose your nerve now. Don't, 
 you'll need it," he said. Cautiously glanc- 
 ing first in the direction of the doors, he drew 
 a chair to her side. He hated himself for 
 having brought this added anguish and tor- 
 ture upon her head, but there had been no 
 other way. 
 
 He waited a moment for the sobs to 
 cease, then said again: "Now tell me 
 quickly. Take a chance with me," he 
 urged. "It's the only one you have." 
 
 She hesitated. "If I thought I could 
 make you understand ..." 
 
 "Try. Tell me. Who was the man who
 
 92 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 grabbed you, down there this afternoon at 
 the Rossamano!" 
 
 "One of the gang." 
 
 "What gang?" 
 
 "The Scarlet Band." 
 
 "The Scarlet Band?" he gasped. "Good 
 God! What have you to do with such vil- 
 lains?" 
 
 She clenched her white hands. "What 
 have I to do? I've been fighting them for 
 more than four years." 
 
 "You? Fighting them? Why, you are 
 only a child," expostulated Jack. Was she 
 trying to lead him into a new false scent? 
 
 "A child!" she looked a little bitter smile 
 at him, then continued: "My brother and I 
 together have been fighting them with every 
 ounce of our strength." 
 
 Now, in every word, in every syllable she 
 uttered, Howell caught the spirit of in- 
 domitable courage and fortitude. She was 
 magnificent. He believed she was true. 
 
 "Your brother? Who is your brother?" 
 he queried.
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 93 
 
 "Victor Holt." 
 
 "Victor Holt?" he repeated in amaze- 
 ment. "What Victor Holt?" 
 
 "The Assistant District Attorney." 
 
 "The Assistant District Attorney? 
 Your brother?" 
 
 Jack Howell could not have been more 
 surprised had she told him her brother was 
 President of the United States. "But your 
 name is Mary Hadfield." 
 
 "My real name is Margaret Holt," she 
 said quietly. 
 
 "Well, for Heaven's sake!" he gasped. 
 "Here. Let me get this. This thing at 
 the Beaumont had some connection with 
 the work you and your brother were do- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, look here!" he said eagerly. "If 
 you're his sister you can't be very wrong. 
 I'm for Holt and the work he has been do- 
 ing. I'm for him strong, and he'll win out 
 in spite of these coppers. You're telling me 
 the truth now, sure?"
 
 94 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "The truth," said Margaret Holt, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 He was silent a moment before he said, 
 looking at her with grave eyes: "Well, if 
 you have the Police and the Scarlet Band 
 both against you, you'll need the help of God 
 and the angels." He took her two slender 
 hands in his as though she were the lady of 
 his colors, to whom he was swearing fealty. 
 "I'm going to help you. Come, tell me the 
 whole story now of this four years' fight you 
 have been making. How did it begin?" 
 
 And Margaret Holt, turning her lovely 
 head from Howell until he could see only the 
 coiled mass of her hair and the bit of white 
 neck between it and her gown, began her 
 story. With fingers clasping and unclasp- 
 ing she told it all, not sparing it, told it with 
 hesitations and interruptions, falteringly, 
 but quite truly, as she felt his sympathy and 
 wish to help. It was not a pretty story, and 
 it was not told with art or gloss, but the cruel 
 circumstances of it wrought for sympathy. 
 Fashioned of the raw facts of life it made
 
 A NEW CONSPIRATOR 95 
 
 even Jack Howell wince, hardened as he was 
 to the crimes and passions of mankind ; made 
 him wince even while he loved, and could al- 
 most have wept with the keenness of his com- 
 passion for, the teller of it.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 
 
 MARGARET'S story began in quiet country 
 ways and pastoral moods to end in city 
 filth like many another poor girl's tale be- 
 fore it. It began on a lovely day in June, 
 when a brother and sister stood in the rail- 
 way platform in the little town of Chester, 
 up in Maine. 
 
 Victor Holt was a sturdy, wholesome fel- 
 low of five and twenty. Margaret, who 
 stood beside him, with tears in her wonder- 
 ful grey eyes, was a slight girl of seventeen, 
 to whose cheeks the Maine breezes had given 
 the bloom of roses. The parting for these 
 two was very hard, especially for Margaret, 
 who was to be left behind. New York 
 sounded very distant and remote to her that 
 day, and Victor had been a devoted brother 
 that she would sadly miss. Their parents 
 
 96
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 97 
 
 had died when they were still little things, 
 and even as a boy he had assumed the re- 
 sponsibilities of a man over her life and 
 keeping, and she could hardly bear to have 
 him go. Uncle Mark, too, who had lived in 
 New York for many years, had tried to dis- 
 suade him from entering a field where influ- 
 ence and money and new conditions counted 
 so much towards success; but Victor had 
 answered, "I know that I have neither money 
 nor pull, but I feel that I shall win out, and 
 anyhow I can take a good licking." 
 
 As the distant whistle sounded through 
 the hills, Margaret's hand gripped her 
 brother's more closely. "It's hard to have 
 you go, Victor," she said, with difficulty 
 steadying her voice, "but I know that it is 
 for the best and that you will succeed. I 
 just know that you will. You can't help 
 it." 
 
 "Succeed! Of course I shall, honey, and 
 it won't be long before I send for you to 
 come to New York to keep house for me," 
 Victor replied proudly. And Margaret's
 
 98 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 face had brightened wonderfully at the pros- 
 pect. 
 
 With a heavy heart Margaret during 
 those first days returned to old Judge Haw- 
 ley's office, where she made herself useful as 
 his stenographer. Her brother had read 
 law there, and the kindly old man, who had 
 been a dear friend of their father, had made 
 them realise the interest and love and care 
 that he should always feel for -these children 
 of his old associate. As Margaret came into 
 the office to resume her work, the Judge, no- 
 ticing the expression of loneliness in her 
 eyes, gave her a friendly little tap on the 
 shoulder and exclaimed: "Now don't you 
 worry about Victor! He's bound to win 
 out. He's a clean boy and that means a 
 healthy mind; he'll succeed, he'll succeed. 
 Lord! but you'd know that to look at his 
 face." And as the old man thought of the 
 inflexible decision of the boy's mouth, he 
 chuckled to himself again. "He'll succeed 
 all right." 
 
 And then before long there was Victor's
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 99 
 
 first letter. He had taken an office down 
 town and had hung out his shingle. "VIC- 
 TOR HOLT, ATTORNEY AT LAW." 
 "It looks great," he wrote, "but Uncle Mark 
 can't see it with a telescope. And now grasp 
 your chair and be prepared for a shock. I 
 have a client ! A regular client ! My .cli- 
 ent's name is John McKimmell, and Uncle 
 Mark tells me that he is a well-known man 
 here!" He closed his letter with : "If only 
 I had you here with me, Sis. Well, if good 
 fortune continues, it won't be long before we 
 are together again. Shouldn't I like to 
 see you togged out in some of the fine 
 feathers I've seen in the Fifth Avenue shop 
 windows! Why! I've spent my first one 
 hundred four times on you already." 
 
 Again and again the girl read the precious 
 letter: she laughed at what he wrote about 
 the Fifth Avenue fashions. It was just like 
 Vic to think of her. She knew that he would 
 like to spend his last penny on her ; and that 
 night with the letter tucked under her pillow 
 she prayed for his success and for the day
 
 100 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 that should end their separation. She 
 drifted off into the land of dreams at last 
 where a venerable old gentleman, dressed in 
 the most fluffy and diaphanous of Parisian 
 gowns, chased her brother, who shed guns at 
 every leap, into a house which flaunted in 
 every window, the legend For Sale. 
 
 The winter wore on, each week bringing a 
 newsy letter from New York. Victor was 
 getting on. Mr. McKimmell, his client, was 
 pleased with his work and had given him 
 more. His association with a man of such 
 influence brought him in touch with other in- 
 terests and led to more work, work for which 
 he had a special aptitude. What little 
 money he was making over expenses he was 
 saving, he wrote, towards furnishing an 
 apartment for himself and Margaret to 
 share. 
 
 There were many things to look back 
 on in those days, as for instance when the 
 expressman brought to that little Maine 
 town a wonderful box for Margaret, con- 
 taining her first evening gown and a note
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 101 
 
 from Victor. He had seen it in a shop win- 
 dow, he said, and it looked like her, so that he 
 couldn't resist the temptation to buy it for 
 her ; she was to have her photograph taken in 
 it and send him the picture at once. 
 
 Summer came and in its train a disap- 
 pointment for Margaret, for Victor wrote 
 that he should be unable to spend his vacation 
 with her as he had planned ; that things were 
 coming his way and he must stay "right on 
 the job." There was just a flash of sun- 
 light in the closing lines: "If all goes well 
 I shall soon be able to take that little apart- 
 ment and have you come to me." The hope 
 that these words inspired lingered with her 
 all the long Summer days. 
 
 It was October when at last the summons 
 came from Victor to join him in New York. 
 "Dear Sis," he wrote, "pack up your duds 
 and come on. I've taken an apartment up 
 on One hundred and fourteenth Street; 
 three rooms and a kitchenette." 
 
 Uncle Mark was going to live with them 
 and stand half the rent. The place was
 
 102 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 small and the three of them would look like 
 a crowd in it. She was to take the Bar Har- 
 bor express from Ellsworth, and Victor was 
 to meet her on the arrival of the train at the 
 Grand Central Station in New York. She 
 was to come as soon as the Judge could find 
 some one to replace her in the office. 
 
 A few days later she watched Judge 
 Hawley from the city-bound train until he 
 became a mere speck in the distance. The 
 receding vision of her native hills brought a 
 mist to her eyes. She was going forth with 
 such confidence, such glowing faith in life 
 and human nature. Alas, how soon were 
 the realities of life, the latent, lurking evil 
 things of life in a great city, to dim her 
 youthful trustfulness ! 
 
 The journey was one long series of new 
 adventures for the little county girl. First 
 there had been the parting with her old 
 friend, Judge Hawley, though the sadness 
 of that had been relieved a little by the won- 
 derful watch that he had placed in her hand 
 when he said good-bye to her. He had at
 
 the same time given a greenback to the Pull- 
 man porter and charged him to look after 
 her comfort. 
 
 The hours did not seem long, everything 
 was so new to her in this first experience of 
 all night travelling. She enjoyed her break- 
 fast in the dining car, with its corps of wait- 
 ers in spotless white coats and aprons, who 
 managed their loaded trays so dexterously in 
 the swaying of the train. She enjoyed the 
 ever-changing landscape, and when darkness 
 came, pictured to herself her brother's im- 
 patience for her arrival. She wondered 
 what she should do if he were not there to 
 meet her ; but of course he would be. 
 
 When the baggage transfer agent came 
 through the car, following her brother's in- 
 structions, she gave him her check, taking the 
 address from her purse to be sure that she 
 made no mistake. The lights along the track 
 were becoming more numerous all the time. 
 "Yes, they would soon be there," the porter 
 told her, as he carefully brushed the dust 
 from her coat over the bald head of the
 
 104 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 gentleman in the next seat to her. Slowly 
 the train pulled into the great dreary sta- 
 tion, and the tired passengers crowded into 
 the aisles in their eagerness to leave. 
 
 Margaret, clutching her little satchel in 
 her hand, stepped from the car to the plat- 
 form. Everywhere the porters with red caps 
 were rushing about in search of patrons. 
 The girl had expected that her brother would 
 be on the very steps of the car to meet her, 
 but the train porter laconically told her no 
 one was allowed to come beyond the roped 
 enclosure. She walked on a little bewil- 
 dered, towards the expectant group of 
 people waiting outside the train gates, and 
 looked for Victor among the crowd, which, 
 as it absorbed the incoming travellers, gradu- 
 ally melted away but did not resolve itself 
 into her brother. He was not there! A 
 great wave of loneliness swept over her, and 
 the tears gushed to her eyes. Where was 
 Victor? The station seemed so immense 
 and she such an atom in the rush of people 
 hurrying by her. What should she do?
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 105 
 
 Choking back her tears, she inquired of 
 a white-capped official if there was any other 
 place in the station where people awaited the 
 arrival of passengers, and was directed to the 
 waiting room above. Taking fresh courage 
 she finally reached the place designated, los- 
 ing her way once or twice in the perfect maze 
 of passageways the re-construction of the 
 station made necessary. 
 
 In the waiting room she looked anxiously 
 all about, but Victor was not there either. 
 Now thoroughly frightened she decided to 
 take a cab and seek the address her brother 
 had given her. She opened her satchel to 
 look for it, but alas, the purse containing her 
 money and address was gone ; she must have 
 dropped it when she arranged for her bag- 
 gage transfer. It was all too tragic. She 
 tried to recall the street and number. Was 
 it One hundred and seventieth West, or One 
 hundred and fortieth West, or One hundred 
 and forty West One hundred and seventieth 
 Street? The combinations were inexhausti- 
 ble. The more she thought, the more
 
 106 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 jumbled they became. She thought of tele- 
 phoning to Victor's office, but it was now 
 after seven. He would not be there, and 
 anyway she had no money. The moments 
 passed and still her brother did not come. 
 She was almost panic-stricken with fear. 
 She hurried back to the train levels to find the 
 porter of her car; he might have picked up 
 her purse. But she reached the gate where 
 her train had arrived, only to learn that the 
 cars of her train had been backed out and 
 that the porter was off duty. She was told 
 that if any one of the train crew had picked 
 up her purse it would be at Room 528. She 
 hunted for Room 528, but found the halls 
 dark at that hour, and closed. 
 
 Again she sought the waiting room. The 
 place was no longer crowded, but still there 
 was no sign of Victor. Once she thought 
 she saw him, and moved impulsively for- 
 ward, only to discover that it was a stranger, 
 who smiled at her and called her "Sweet- 
 heart." Frightened and angry she turned 
 away, seeking the ladies' waiting room,
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 107 
 
 where she thought at least she might be free 
 from annoyance. 
 
 She was just deciding that the only thing 
 to do was to stay where she was until morn- 
 ing and she could telephone to her brother's 
 office, when she was approached by a middle- 
 aged woman, modestly dressed and of a most 
 respectable appearance, who apparently was 
 willing to be of some assistance to her. 
 Margaret had seen her in the main waiting 
 room and had noticed that she looked at 
 her rather curiously. The woman seemed 
 now to hesitate before speaking to the 
 girl, and then said, gazing at Margaret's 
 flushed and anxious face with a benev- 
 olent smile, "Are you looking for any 
 one?" 
 
 "Yes," the girl replied. "My brother. 
 He was to be here to meet me." 
 
 "Who is your brother?" 
 
 "Victor Holt. He is a lawyer here in 
 New York," said Margaret. 
 
 The woman gave a little exclamation of 
 satisfaction.
 
 108 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Well," she exclaimed, "I thought you 
 must be his sister, but I wasn't sure. I 
 might have known, though, you look so much 
 like him." 
 
 "You know my brother?" Margaret asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, we are great friends. He sent 
 me to meet you. I've been looking for you 
 ever since your train came in," explained the 
 elder woman. 
 
 "Oh, did Victor send you to meet me?" 
 cried Margaret, in great relief. 
 
 "Yes; he was detained himself on impor- 
 tant business," the woman said. 
 
 Margaret was so relieved that no suspicion 
 ever entered her head. "Oh I've been so 
 worried," she confided. "It's the first time 
 I have ever been in New York, and I seemed 
 such a mite in the crowd. I think I lost my 
 head. I could have gone directly to the 
 apartment, but my purse, containing my 
 brother's address, has disappeared. They 
 had taken a new flat, Victor and Uncle 
 Mark, and I have been awfully stupid about
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 109 
 
 remembering the number. I think these 
 numbered streets are so confusing to a 
 stranger, don't you ? Poor old Judge ! I'm 
 afraid he sent his telegram too late." 
 
 "You poor child! I don't wonder that 
 you were anxious," said the woman. "But 
 you are all right now, aren't you?" She 
 spoke with such kindly interest that Mar- 
 garet felt a growing sense of relief in being 
 with her. 
 
 "What did you do with your luggage?" 
 she asked presently. 
 
 "I gave my trunk check to the baggage 
 agent on the train. Wasn't that right?" 
 asked Margaret. 
 
 "Oh, yes; come on! We'll take a taxi and 
 go right up to the house. It's getting late, 
 and your brother will be anxious." 
 
 The woman led the way out of the station 
 and past the cab-stand. "We won't take 
 one of these," she explained; "they are a lot 
 of robbers. We can get one on Forty- 
 second Street for half the money." 
 
 As they walked along she talked pleas-
 
 110 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 antly with Margaret, and in such an ingra- 
 tiating way that the girl placed her arm in 
 that of her protector and chatted excitedly 
 about her journey to the city without any 
 further thought. She did not see the woman 
 exchange glances with a sinister-looking man 
 standing at the entrance to the station, nor 
 did she see the man hurry away to where 
 a limousine waited across the street and 
 hold a hurried conversation with the chauf- 
 feur. . ' 
 
 "Oh, there's a cab over there," said the 
 woman as she piloted Margaret across. 
 "Get in, my dear, I'll tell the chauffeur 
 where to go." 
 
 Blindly following directions, Margaret got 
 into the car and gave a sigh of relief as she 
 sank back into a corner of the comfortable 
 seat. She was tired out after the long j our- 
 ney and the excitement of her arrival. For 
 a moment she closed her eyes from sheer ex- 
 haustion. There was such a noise and 
 rumble of traffic that she could not hear what 
 the woman was saying to the chauffeur,
 
 though she was dimly conscious of something 
 strange in it. 
 
 The woman got in herself presently, and 
 the chauffeur, slamming the door after her, 
 put his car in motion. 
 
 "Is it very far from here?" questioned 
 Margaret weakly. 
 
 "Oh, no, dear, we'll be there before you 
 know it." 
 
 The swinging car turned out of Forty- 
 second Street and into Broadway, and Mar- 
 garet had her first glimpse of The Great 
 White Way. 
 
 They sped on at a rapid pace, so rapid 
 that once even the woman from New York 
 knocked on the window to the chauffeur to 
 be more careful. He continued recklessly 
 notwithstanding. Margaret asked her com- 
 panion if it were not dangerous, but Mrs. 
 Watson, as the woman had by this time 
 named and introduced herself, took little 
 pains to reassure her, only muttered some- 
 thing about "that fool of a chauffeur." 
 Finally they stopped with a jerk before a
 
 112 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 high stone house, and "the fool of a chauf- 
 feur" alighted and opened the door of the 
 limousine for them. 
 
 "Here we are," said Margaret's com- 
 panion. 
 
 As they were climbing the high flight of 
 steps, the chauffeur stopped the woman with 
 a rough demand for his "rake-off," and she 
 handed him a bill, whereat the fellow only 
 grinned, saying: "Come on, now, dearie. 
 Come across with another five. I'm not 
 taking chances at this game for nothing, 
 you " An additional bill slipped into his 
 hand shut off any further remarks. 
 
 Margaret, in her eagerness to see her 
 brother, was already half way up the steps 
 and paid little heed to the wrangle between 
 her companion and the driver. She had 
 heard of grasping cabbies, before. The 
 woman followed her, and opening the door 
 explained to her that her brother's apart- 
 ment was on the fourth floor. It had just oc- 
 curred to Margaret that in her "greenness" 
 and excitement she had entirely omitted to
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 113 
 
 thank her companion and protector, Victor's 
 friend. She turned to express her thanks 
 and make polite inquiries. They had 
 reached their landing, where the woman 
 opened a door, and before Margaret had time 
 to realise her intentions pushed her violently 
 into the room and turned the grating key in 
 the lock. 
 
 It had all happened so suddenly that even 
 up to that moment Margaret had suspected 
 nothing. She did not grasp the situation all 
 at once. Then came a flash of understand- 
 ing. This was not her brother's apartment. 
 She had been trapped. In her terror she 
 cried out "Victor! Victor!" But there was 
 no answer anywhere. 
 
 She tried to find the door, but whichever 
 way she turned, the dense mystery of dark- 
 ness baffled her. She groped about until 
 finally her fingers touched the cool metal 
 of a door-knob. She tried to make the 
 door yield to her struggles. She threw her- 
 self against it, a furious sense of frustration 
 maddening her. She beat at the panels till
 
 114 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 her hands were bruised and bleeding, but to 
 no avail. She never knew how long she 
 fought for freedom, but gradually her 
 strength gave way and she sank to the floor 
 of her prison sobbing in a paroxysm of ter- 
 ror.- Who was this woman who had brought 
 her to this house? What place was it? 
 What was the meaning of it all? 
 
 Listening intently, she caught the sound of 
 voices in the hall coarse voices and words 
 followed by shrieks of laughter. Gathering 
 up what little remaining strength she had, 
 she made another frenzied assault upon the 
 door, but the only result was a horrible, 
 ominous silence that seemed to settle like a 
 pall over the house. 
 
 Then slowly, slowly into her mind crept 
 the meaning of it all. Her very heart stood 
 still in fear and horror. She remembered 
 now having read of the fate of girls who had 
 been lured to wicked houses and been com- 
 pelled to live lives of shame and degradation 
 in them. It could not be that she she,
 
 MARGARET'S STORY 115 
 
 Margaret Holt, was to know that horror. 
 She must be dreaming! 
 
 Then the wicked, cunning, busy little 
 sprite of imagination sprang to life and 
 painted in lurid, screaming colours, the re- 
 volting possibilities of her fate. Shudder 
 after shudder shook the slender body until 
 the sleep of youth, whom neither bolts nor 
 bars can lock out, dropped over her beaten 
 spirit the merciful cloak of unconsciousness.
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 
 
 THREE weeks dragged by, during which 
 Margaret was compelled to submit to 
 such a bondage, to treatment so atrocious 
 and inhuman, that those who become its vic- 
 tims must be either dragged down hardened 
 into the pit by it, or choose drink or drugs or 
 death as an escape from infamy and torture. 
 
 At first the belief that her brother must 
 come to her rescue kept the spark of hope 
 alive, but as the interminable days wore on 
 without any word or relief from him, even 
 that feeble light died out and left her grop- 
 ing in the darkness of despair. The thought 
 of escape obsessed her, but at every attempt 
 she made, at every struggle, the guards of 
 her prison closed in more securely on her. 
 
 She was never permitted to leave the 
 house. An enclosure on the roof, like a 
 
 116
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 117 
 
 prison yard, was her only means of taking the 
 air. A total stranger to the city, she could 
 get no idea of location. She could see the 
 street below her, with its long line of shut- 
 tered dwelling houses, but where the street 
 led to or what it was she had no idea. Many 
 times she was tempted to throw herself from 
 the roof upon the pavement below, but each 
 time some indefinable power had kept her 
 from taking the fatal step. 
 
 One day a policeman called at the house 
 and Margaret happened to be in the hall. 
 At the sight of the bluecoat her heart beat 
 high with hope. At last! The law would 
 protect her and punish those who had held 
 her to this iniquitous servitude. But her 
 agonised appeal for protection brought only 
 fresh despair and disappointment. The po- 
 liceman only laughed at her and turned her 
 off. 
 
 "What have you to kick about?" he 
 smirked. "Haven't you a swell home here? 
 Cut out your baby prattle and forget it!" 
 
 Escape came near her in another quarter,
 
 118 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 too, but passed her by came in the shape of 
 a pistol that she found by chance, and put 
 away in her room. She would put an end to 
 her horrible existence. She could endure no 
 more. God would understand. With a 
 fervent prayer for strength and courage, she 
 brought from its hiding place the little, shiny 
 revolver that a man had dropped in the hall 
 the night before. She gazed at the thing 
 with fascinated eyes ; it was the only key that 
 would open the gates to freedom and im- 
 penetrable eternity. For one moment the 
 pendulum of indecision swayed between life 
 and death. 
 
 Then, as with steady hand Margaret raised 
 the pistol to her temple, the door burst open, 
 admitting a youth of not more than twenty, 
 whose flushed countenance and staggering 
 steps told the tale of some protracted de- 
 bauch. Margaret whirled about, hiding the 
 revolver behind her, while the youth stared 
 at her with a silly leer about the corners of 
 his sensuous mouth. The girl stood like a 
 tigress watching him, flaming with rebellion.
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 119 
 
 To her surprise he only reeled back against 
 the wall and whimpered in a maudlin tone: 
 "Don't be cross with me, dearie! You hurt 
 my feelings, that's what you do. I don't 
 want anything of you. I only want to go to 
 sleep, d'y hear? Go to sleep! Beautiful 
 sleep! And don't wake me up for a year!" 
 
 As he spoke he removed his soiled and 
 rumpled garments, scattering them about the 
 room in every direction, until, losing his bal- 
 ance, he fell headlong upon the bed, and 
 sank quickly into a drunken stupor. 
 
 Margaret gave a long, quivering sigh of 
 relief, as she realised that for the present she 
 was safe once more. Stealthily she returned 
 the revolver to its hiding place, then me- 
 chanically began to gather up the garments 
 that the sleeping man had scattered on the 
 floor. As she did so, a sudden thought 
 vitalised her benumbed brain. At last she 
 had her opportunity for escape! She bal- 
 anced the chances of success or failure. It 
 took her but an instant to decide. God 
 was good ! It must be success.
 
 120 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Stealing to the bedside she bent over its 
 prostrate occupant and listened to his heavy 
 breathing. She shook him to make sure that 
 he was more than dozing. Good! She 
 could not rouse him. 
 
 He was of her complexion, with black hair, 
 and of about her height, she noticed. It was 
 all providential. 
 
 Hastily slipping out of her gown, she put 
 on the youth's clothes and his long overcoat, 
 over them, then the tall silk hat. Her reflec- 
 tion in the mirror satisfied her that she might 
 elude detection, but she must hide her hair 
 beneath the tile. There was such a mass of 
 it that try as she would, she could not conceal 
 it at first beneath the hat, and only by close 
 braiding got it all hidden at last. 
 
 Passing out of the room into the hall, she 
 listened breathlessly. The house was still. 
 Summoning all her courage, she descended 
 the stairs, lurching as she proceeded, in 
 feigned intoxication in case any one should 
 hear or see. She was half way down the 
 last flight, when the opening 1 of the door of
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 121 
 
 Mrs. Dumont's parlour almost stopped the 
 beating of her heart for good and all. 
 
 But Mrs. Dumont, thrusting her frowsled 
 head into the hall, only gave an exclamation 
 of rage. That kid had been deposited in her 
 hallway only a short time before by a grin- 
 ning chauffeur and she ordered him thrown 
 out ; why was he here still? Who had dared 
 to disobey her orders? As she beheld the 
 reeling figure in the dimly lighted hall she 
 broke into a storm of oaths and abuse, and 
 seizing the youth by the shoulder and fling- 
 ing open the door pushed him out vigor- 
 ously herself, exclaiming: "You get out of 
 here now! Go home, and don't you come 
 here drunk again! Do you hear?" 
 
 In another moment Margaret found her- 
 self sprawling on the side-walk and heard 
 the front door close with a slam behind 
 her. 
 
 Bruised and hurt by her fall, she rose to 
 her feet and ran as fast as her legs would 
 carry her; in what direction she knew not, 
 she had but one idea to put as great a space
 
 122 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 as possible between her and that awful 
 house. 
 
 She had covered a distance of some two 
 blocks when the burly form of a policeman 
 loomed in the distance. Once she would 
 have turned confidently to the blue-coat for 
 protection, but her experiences had taught 
 their lesson. Darting into a doorway, she 
 crouched in its shadow in breathless suspense 
 till the man had passed, then seeing him at a 
 safe distance from her she started again on 
 her mad flight. 
 
 Turning a street corner, she came next 
 into sudden collision with a portly priest, and 
 before the benign and astonished Father 
 could regain his breath had thrown herself 
 into his arms with a despairing cry for pro- 
 tection. 
 
 "Save me!" she gasped between spent 
 breaths. "Save me, for God's sake, save 
 me!" 
 
 "What is it?" cried the priest as he looked 
 into the face upturned to his in piteous ap-
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 123 
 
 peal. "Save you from what? What's hap- 
 pened to you, my boy?" 
 
 "I'm not a boy," faltered Margaret; "I'm 
 a girl!" 
 
 "A girl!" exclaimed the astounded priest. 
 "A girl, are you? And a slip of a one at 
 that. What are you doing, running about 
 the streets in togs like this?" he added 
 sternly. 
 
 Margaret, believing that his cloth meant 
 protection, told her story without reserve or 
 hesitation. As she finished her tale the 
 priest in him became submerged in the man. 
 "The fiends! The devils," he exclaimed. 
 "I'd like to take off my coat and go there this 
 very minute and clean out the dirty sink- 
 hole." 
 
 "You won't let them take me back? Oh, 
 you won't, will you, Father?" pleaded Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "My child, I'd protect you from the devil 
 himself," said Father Connelly. 
 
 "Then please, please, take me to my
 
 124 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 brother. He can't know what has become 
 of me or he would have found me by now." 
 
 "I'd take you to him this minute if we 
 could find him. But we'll have to wait till I 
 can get him at his office in the morning. 
 You have nothing to fear now, my child, you 
 are safe. Come with me. Only a few steps 
 away you will find love and tender care 
 awaiting you." 
 
 With comforting assurance he half sup- 
 ported, half carried Margaret to the iron 
 gates of the Home of The Sacred Child in 
 Forty Street. 
 
 "Here we are," he said cheerily. He had 
 no sooner spoken than he felt the arm of the 
 girl relax its hold upon his own, and her un- 
 conscious body slipped down upon the pave- 
 ment before him in a faint. 
 
 Tenderly lifting her in his arms, he carried 
 her into the Convent and laid her upon a 
 couch, hastily summoning a Sister to his aid. 
 
 Slowly, fearfully, Margaret regained con- 
 sciousness. It was as though she drifted 
 through a sea of clouds, in which flashed sud-
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 125 
 
 den, lurid fragments of dreadful things. 
 In the distance she heard a clock strike the 
 hour, and then the clamouring echo of the 
 chimes. 
 
 She roused herself with a start. "Where 
 am I?" she moaned. 
 
 "Hush, child," answered a sweet voice. 
 "Rest, dear, you are safe among friends." 
 
 She stroked the girl's burning forehead, 
 hoping to calm her into sleep, and Marga- 
 ret's troubled eyes fell upon the gold cross 
 that hung from the slender chain about the 
 Sister's neck. She reached forward and 
 clasped the little thing in her hand. With 
 its touch her eyes closed. A feeling of peace 
 settled on her. She was back again in the 
 little church at Chester. The thick, white 
 clouds were closing in upon her again fast, 
 and through the mist came the voice of the 
 dear old clergyman who had christened her, 
 reading his favourite psalm. The voice died 
 away, and she drifted with the clouds back 
 into unconsciousness, and then on to dreams. 
 
 She sat on the bank beside the old river.
 
 126 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 The sun was flooding it with evening colours, 
 tipping the church steeple with glowing car- 
 mine. To Margaret's cheeks it lent its 
 colourful brush as well, but its glow could 
 not reach her heart or warm it. She thought 
 of the past months; of the terrible illness 
 which had brought her to the very gates of 
 death. Why, why had the Sisters brought 
 her back to life, she wondered dully. Here 
 in Chester with the dear old Judge she was 
 safe; he only knew her story. But what 
 could life hold for her now? It was Spring. 
 The world of nature had awakened, and was 
 full of hope and expectation. For what had 
 she the right to hope ? She, like other girls, 
 had had her happy dreams but no! She 
 must not think, she would not! She had 
 promised Victor. The ripple of the flowing 
 water caught her ear. There was the river; 
 there was the solution of her problem. 
 What was there to prevent her from slipping 
 silently out to sea by way of the river? 
 
 She sat absorbed in her rebellious 
 thoughts, until gradually the beauty of the
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 127 
 
 scene about her sank into her consciousness. 
 The river sparkled and rippled on its way, 
 happily and cheerily fulfilling its mission; 
 near at hand the cattle in the meadow peace- 
 fully nibbled their evening meal, and high 
 in air a night hawk gave its queer shrill 
 call. 
 
 Her spirit roused from its brooding and 
 stretched its wings once more towards the 
 light. How marvellous was the world, how 
 splendid its achievements ! The sense of her 
 degradation dropped from her like a cloak. 
 A growing knowledge of power and good 
 lifted her face to the hills. 
 
 Christ had suffered and toiled that others 
 might be saved, she told herself. Why 
 should she not go back to the world, and 
 struggle shoulder to shoulder with the 
 brother she adored, to work with him to save 
 from misfortune girls like herself? 
 
 Glowing with the fervour of self -consecra- 
 tion, she sprang to her feet. A shower of 
 petals, loosened from the tree above her by 
 the caress of the soft wind, drifted down
 
 128 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 upon her shoulders. She must hasten, the 
 Spring was growing older fast. 
 
 Four years had passed since the day Mar- 
 garet had appeared at her brother's office be- 
 seeching him to let her have a part in the war 
 he had begun against the iniquitous traffic 
 that had blighted his sister's life. At first 
 he had protested in horror, but the girl had 
 met and demolished every argument he ad- 
 vanced, and finally won his consent to her 
 participation in his work. 
 
 Together they had worked, together they 
 struggled against obstacles that would have 
 disheartened the most valiant. The first dis- 
 couraging failure had been the attempt to 
 arrest Mrs. Dumont. The police could not 
 or would not locate the woman. They 
 moved so slowly always that she had plenty 
 of time to run to cover. From the precinct 
 Lieutenant, Holt turned to the precinct 
 Boss, but they were all alike. 
 
 He turned to his first client and benefac-
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 129 
 
 tor for advice. McKimmell listened to Vic- 
 tor's story with grave attention. "My boy," 
 he said, with a sad smile, "y u are making 
 a vain struggle against a mighty force 
 graft. I happen to know something of the 
 precinct you are trying to work against. 
 Why, even if you secured the arrest of this 
 fiend in woman's garb, I doubt if you would 
 be able to get her convicted. I have spent a 
 vast amount of time and money helping re- 
 forms of every nature and description, and I 
 know whereof I speak." 
 
 "But what can I do? Surely I am not to 
 let that woman and her kind go unpunished," 
 urged Victor. 
 
 "Work independently of the police." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 "Hire the best detectives in New York 
 City." 
 
 "But I haven't the money!" 
 
 "I will take care of that. I want to see 
 you win out. Start a crusade against this 
 White Slave traffic. I have the money.
 
 130 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 You have the youth and determination. I 
 believe you to be the man for the cause, the 
 man to win out." 
 
 With the philanthropist's aid, Victor Holt 
 commenced the fight. Step by step, day by 
 day, year by year he and Margaret worked 
 together. Rescuing here, preventing there, 
 occasionally securing a conviction and an ar- 
 rest, unswervingly, persistently they pushed 
 on the work. Though Margaret shunned all 
 publicity and no one in her brother's office 
 knew her face, her co-operation was more 
 than efficient, nevertheless. 
 
 Meanwhile a new man had been appointed 
 District Attorney, Horton by name. His 
 office would be no sinecure, for all the 
 strength of his department was needed now 
 to cope with the wave of crime that was 
 sweeping over the city, flouting morality, 
 outraging decency. The Scarlet Band, the 
 most notorious gang of criminals that had 
 ever sported in the underworld, was rapidly 
 coming to be a terror and menace to society. 
 Abduction, burglary, murder, all were grist
 
 A WHITE SLAVE 131 
 
 to its mill. So well organised was it that the 
 police were completely baffled at every at- 
 tempt to round it up. There could be no 
 mistaking any one of their enterprises ; their 
 trade-mark was always left behind ; a mock- 
 ing letter to the blue-coats, in an envelope 
 encircled by a scarlet band. 
 
 The District Attorney, who had recog- 
 nised Holt's fighting qualities as the kind of 
 metal now needed in his office, made Victor 
 his assistant, inciting him to wage war 
 against this band of criminals with all his 
 strength and all the facilities his office af- 
 forded. Realising what this recognition of 
 his work by the authorities meant to him, 
 Holt took fresh courage and pushed relent- 
 lessly on. The first intimation that he had 
 touched the gang in any vital place came 
 when he had received a message scrawled on 
 a piece of paper, encircled by a scarlet band, 
 which read: "Victor Holt: You fool with 
 us, we make you a dead man. We mean 
 what we say and do it. Beware !" 
 
 With an exultant laugh, Victor showed the
 
 132 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 note to the District Attorney. "See that!" 
 he exclaimed. "We've hit them! We've 
 hit them! We'll get them now !" 
 
 It was in the struggle to "get them," work- 
 ing side by side with her brother, that Mar- 
 garet had come again into deep waters had 
 dealt too keenly with the Scarlet Banders 
 and in the end was hanging on the precipice 
 of real imprisonment.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MURDER OF JAMES MORTON 
 
 BRAVELY and fully Margaret told her story, 
 told it all. At times she must pause and 
 could hardly go on. When she uttered the 
 words: "One day a great brute of a 
 man >" with a strangled cry of agony she 
 buried her face upon her arms outstretched 
 upon the table. 
 
 The reporter was staring down at her with 
 eyes of unutterable sympathy and horror. 
 "God!" he groaned between stiff lips. And 
 at that moment the boy in Howell's nature 
 slipped away forever, leaving in its place a 
 man ripe with power to contend and to pre- 
 vail. "Oh," he thought, "if I could only 
 take her away from all this, shield her, make 
 her forget!" Then a fresh realisation of the 
 peril she was in at that moment swept over 
 him: "Go on!" he urged hoarsely. 
 
 133
 
 134 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Rallying her strength Margaret told of 
 the events that led up to the moment when 
 she reached the Rossamano. 
 
 Closer and closer the net was drawn in 
 about the Scarlet Band. Victor and his in- 
 defatigable workers were full of hope that 
 the end was in sight. 
 
 It was in November, when the suspicions 
 of Holt's right-hand man and ablest detect- 
 ive, Bill Flynn, were aroused by the actions 
 of James Morton, a man residing at the Ho- 
 tel Beaumont, where he occupied a suite of 
 apartments and ostensibly carried on a cut- 
 lery agency for the St. Louis firm of Hills- 
 dorf & Co. 
 
 It was not so much Morton himself, who 
 made Flynn suspicious, as the strange cus- 
 tomers, mostly Italian or Spanish, who 
 called upon him. In the person of one of 
 these the detective had recognised a man, a 
 foreigner, who had been arrested some time 
 before for being implicated in the White 
 Slave traffic, but had escaped conviction be- 
 cause of some flaw in the evidence against
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 135 
 
 him. Furthermore Holt had sent a letter to 
 Hillsdorf & Co. asking for the name of their 
 New York agent, and the letter had been re- 
 turned, bearing information from the post- 
 master that there was no firm of that name 
 in St. Louis. 
 
 Again Flynn had seen several "want" ad- 
 vertisements cut from the papers which read 
 suspiciously, and referred the applicant, al- 
 ways a woman, to "Suite 5, Hotel Beau- 
 mont." 
 
 "Suite 5 is occupied by our friend Mor- 
 ton," said Flynn. "We ought to send some 
 one down to land that job of stenographer." 
 
 "You're right, Flynn," agreed Victor. 
 "But whom could we send? We've no one 
 on our staff who knows enough about sten- 
 ography to make good even in that position. 
 I wouldn't trust an outsider. Who the 
 Dickens can we send?" 
 
 "Send me," suggested Margaret, who had 
 been a silent but attentive listener. 
 
 "You!" ejaculated her brother. "Non- 
 sense, not for a moment."
 
 136 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "But I know stenography," persisted 
 Margaret ; and she added quietly but firmly, 
 "I shall try for that position." 
 
 So that was how one day Margaret Holt 
 called at the Hotel Beaumont and was 
 shown to Mr. Morton's apartments on the 
 third floor. 
 
 As she waited for the cutlery merchant to 
 interview the one other applicant present she 
 had an opportunity to observe the man, and 
 did so carefully. 
 
 He was of middle height, with heavily built 
 shoulders. His face, which had the swarthy 
 complexion of the Latin, was hard and cruel, 
 and from a sinister expression about the 
 mouth derived an evil look which the cold, 
 piercing eyes, glowering under bristling eye- 
 brows, curiously accentuated. He was im- 
 maculately dressed, and had almost the lan- 
 guage and the manners of a gentleman. 
 
 Evidently the applicant to whom he was 
 talking was too experienced or was not 
 pretty enough. "No," he concluded curtly. 
 "You won't do. The work does not call for
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 137 
 
 one of your experience, or the pay which you 
 should command. You know too much. 
 Thank you for calling," he added courte- 
 ously as he opened the door. "Good day!" 
 
 Margaret inferred that Mr. Morton was 
 not looking for brains, and decided that it 
 was her cue to appear rather dense. She 
 answered the questions he put her with as 
 much obtuseness as she could feign. 
 
 "H'm," mused Morton, after a moment's 
 deliberate study of Margaret's face. 
 "You'll do. Oh," he added as though 
 weighing her usefulness, "do you understand 
 Spanish or Italian?" 
 
 Margaret's heart sank. After all was he 
 going to say that she wouldn't suit. "No," 
 she faltered, "but I can learn." 
 
 "It doesn't matter," he said quickly. 
 "We can manage all right. It's only that 
 many of my customers come from the Italian 
 quarter, and you might have to wait on 
 them." 
 
 Crossing the room he opened the door on 
 the right. "The typewriter is in there,
 
 138 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 where you will do your work. This is my 
 sample room," he explained as he pointed to 
 a long table upon which were displayed 
 samples of cutlery of divers sorts. "When 
 can you begin work?" 
 
 " Now," replied Margaret in feigned 
 eagerness. 
 
 "Good-a!" For the first time Margaret 
 caught a slight accent. He gave her some 
 papers, instructing her to make several 
 copies of them, as they were his new price 
 list. "By the way," he said, as he called 
 back, "I forgot to ask your name." 
 
 "Mary Hadfield," answered Margaret 
 promptly and started again for her work- 
 room. She had almost reached the door 
 when three sharp rings from the telephone 
 on Morton's desk arrested her. She turned 
 to answer the call but Mr. Morton hastily 
 took off the receiver before her. "Savelli!" 
 the word passed from his lips with a sharp- 
 ness quite in contrast to the languid tones in 
 which he had addressed the girl. Before he
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 139 
 
 spoke again he placed his hand over the 
 transmitter, as though to muffle the reso- 
 nant voice of the person with whom he was 
 in communication, and turning towards 
 Margaret said sharply, "What are you wait- 
 ing for?" 
 
 "I thought you spoke to me, sir," she 
 said stupidly. 
 
 "I did not. Close your door and begin 
 your work," was his snarling command. 
 
 Margaret obeyed. Evidently Mr. Mor- 
 ton had business of an extremely private na- 
 ture. With her ear to the key-hole, she lis- 
 tened carefully, while Morton in rapid and 
 excited tones continued his conversation at 
 the telephone. He was speaking in Italian, 
 but once Margaret caught the word "Holt." 
 Presently he stopped speaking and she heard 
 the click of the instrument as he hung up the 
 receiver. Instantly she sprang to the type- 
 writer and began a hurried manipulation of 
 the keys, blundering hopelessly as she tried 
 to imagine what significance the name Holt
 
 140 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 might have in that conversation. Her con- 
 jectures were interrupted by the opening of 
 her door. 
 
 "I'm going out," said her employer 
 briefly. "You may go when your work is 
 finished. Do not come till ten in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "Very well, sir," she replied, and began 
 to work on her typewriter laboriously. 
 
 The outer door closed after Mr. Morton 
 and she gave a sigh of relief. For a few 
 moments she sat motionless, thinking of the 
 queer work she had elected to do. She was 
 there to spy on this man, to get all the infor- 
 mation she could about him. She hated the 
 part of a spy ; but she had volunteered to do 
 it and do it she would, to the best of her 
 ability. 
 
 Hoping to get some clue of value she first 
 tried the desk. It was locked. The waste- 
 paper basket yielded no secrets either. A 
 door on the left, partly concealed by a por- 
 tiere, stood ajar; quickly she opened it, and 
 perceived that the room beyond was a bed-
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 141 
 
 room, probably Morton's. She entered and 
 made careful but fruitless search of the 
 drawers of the dresser; examined the ample 
 supply of clothing that hung in the closet 
 and was rewarded by finding two letters ad- 
 dressed to Pedro Alvarez, General Deliv- 
 ery, New York City. They were written 
 in Italian and signed "Savelli." Her heart 
 gave a bound as she remembered that Savelli 
 was the name she had heard Morton repeat 
 at the telephone. She had three names now. 
 What was the bond of interest between 
 James Morton, Pedro Alvarez and Savelli, 
 then? 
 
 Her conjectures were suddenly termi- 
 nated by an imperative knock on the door. 
 Waiting only to conceal the letters in her 
 blouse she answered it and two men con- 
 fronted her as she opened the door. One 
 was a tall, wiry Italian, with a scar across his 
 cheek which gave to his face a horribly ma- 
 levolent expression; the other a Jew, small 
 and meagre, whose shifty eyes and nervous 
 snapping of the fingers gave the impression
 
 142 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 of a man in constant apprehension of dan- 
 ger. 
 
 The tall man scrutinised Margaret coldly 
 and then pushed by her into the room, leav- 
 ing the Jew to take his stand at the win- 
 dow, from which he nervously watched the 
 street below. 
 
 "Mr. Morton, is he not here?" questioned 
 the Italian. 
 
 "No," answered Margaret. "He left an 
 hour ago." 
 
 At her reply the Jew snapped his fingers 
 impatiently and his companion smothered 
 an oath between his teeth. "When will he 
 come back?" demanded the latter roughly. 
 
 "He did not say," answered the girl, be- 
 ginning to be seriously alarmed in the pres- 
 ence of this evil-looking pair. 
 
 Again the tall man gave her a piercing 
 look as he asked, "You his new sten-og- 
 rapher?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Margaret. 
 
 The two men began an examination of the 
 cutlery displayed on the table, talking ear-
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 143 
 
 nestly in undertones as they did so. Mar- 
 garet strained her ears to hear something of 
 the conversation, but whether it referred to 
 business or personal matters, she could not 
 determine. 
 
 At last the Jew left the table and went to 
 the window again, and after making another 
 careful survey of the street, telegraphed the 
 result of his scrutiny to the other by a nod 
 of the head. Apparently this was a signal 
 that the coast was clear in the street below, 
 for the two men at once made their way to 
 the door. 
 
 "Will you leave your names?" Margaret 
 inquired in a business-like tone. 
 
 "Say Mr. Savelli and Mr. Weinberg," 
 replied the tall man; "I will call Mr. Mor- 
 ton later on the telephone." 
 
 The following morning Margaret was at 
 her post a little before ten o'clock. Morton, 
 taking his Continental breakfast of rolls and 
 coffee, paid little heed to her as she entered, 
 merely telling her to make more copies of 
 the price list. There were no customers at
 
 144 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 all during the day, and as her employer 
 did not leave the apartment she found 
 no opportunity to continue her investiga- 
 tions. 
 
 At about four o'clock, however, Morton 
 received a woman caller, for whom he him- 
 self opened the outer door of the apartment. 
 Margaret saw the woman as she entered and 
 threw back her heavy veil before Morton 
 came and quickly closed the door of her 
 room. Through the partly opened transom 
 above came the sound of their voices, the 
 woman's having decidedly the accent of 
 Southern Spain. From the glimpse she 
 had had of the beautiful, sensual, highly- 
 coloured face and from her salutation "Mia 
 Pedro" Margaret knew this foreigner to be 
 a member of the band. 
 
 "Why did you come here, Juanita?" de- 
 manded Morton savagely. "Haven't I told 
 you that it was dangerous?" 
 
 She began a reply in Spanish, but the 
 man interrupted her with a curse. "Speak 
 English. I cannot follow that Castilian
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 145 
 
 dialect of yours. Why did you make such 
 a bungle of that last affair, when you had 
 the girl almost in your hands?" 
 
 "I could do nothing," the woman 
 answered meekly; "there is now always some 
 of Mr. Holt's men to watch." 
 
 "Holt! Pah! He thinks our warning to 
 keep his hands off .our affairs is a joke. He 
 has strengthened*^ the conspiracy by not be- 
 lieving it. I have it all arranged for him 
 soon. The fool!" Margaret could hear the 
 rapid pacing of his steps. "The fool!" he 
 went on. "Either there will come an end to 
 our business or to him. How does he know 
 our plans? Who is the traitor?" 
 
 "We had better leave New York, Pedro, 
 before it is too late," urged the woman 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Run away! Confess myself beaten by 
 that fool Holt? For two years we have 
 made monkeys of the police, why not of 
 him?" he demanded scornfully. Then after 
 a moment: "What brought you here to- 
 day? What do you want?"
 
 146 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "The list of the members of the Society," 
 she answered in a trembling voice. 
 
 "Ah, the list! Yes!" He hesitated a 
 moment. "Yes, you must have it to notify 
 the members of the meeting at Guiseppe 
 Pelatro's on Saturday." 
 
 "It is no longer safe to meet at Guisep- 
 pe's." 
 
 "Not safe! Why?" 
 
 "It is watched." 
 
 At this information Morton grew almost 
 purple with passion. "Some more of that 
 damned Holt's work I suppose. Tell Sa- 
 velli to come on Thursday at five o'clock for 
 the list. If I am not here he will find it" 
 he crossed the room till he came near the 
 door of his bed-room, then bending, pulled 
 up a corner of the carpet "there. Do you 
 understand, Juanita? There." 
 
 "Yes, yes," assented the woman. "On 
 Thursday he is to come at five o'clock for it 
 and if you are not here he will find it there." 
 
 "Good," he ejaculated. "Tell him not to 
 worry. Tell him," raising his voice a little
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 147 
 
 in vicious exultation, "that we'll have noth- 
 ing to fear from Holt after Thursday." 
 
 "What are you going to do? Oh, Pedro, 
 do leave New York." 
 
 "Leave? I?" he cried scornfully. "Not 
 I. I'm safe, I tell you, safe." 
 
 "Safe, Pedro! I tell you that man Holt 
 is watching us, marking us down, checking 
 us for prison, every one of us!" Her voice 
 rose almost to an hysterical scream on the 
 last word. 
 
 "Hush, you fool," cautioned Morton. 
 Then he added soothingly: "You stay and 
 have dinner with me, Juanita. Go in there 
 until I call you." He pushed her into the 
 bedroom and closed the door, and after wait- 
 ing a moment opened the door of Mar- 
 garet's room, saying as he did so: "You 
 may go now, Miss Hadfield, and you need 
 not come again until Friday, business is so 
 very slack." 
 
 But with the morning came the convic- 
 tion that she must go to the Beaumont that 
 day at all costs. She must get that list be-
 
 148 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 fore Savelli came. How could she get into 
 the apartment, she wondered. Morton had 
 told her not to come back; doubtless he had 
 given instructions to the hotel people not 
 to admit his stenographer if she came there. 
 
 With her mind alert to every chance of 
 success or failure, her heart beating hard and 
 fast, Margaret made her way to the Beau- 
 mont. Entering, she avoided the elevator 
 and climbed the stairs gradually to the third 
 floor. There she peered down the hall and 
 to her surprise saw that Morton's door was 
 open. She crept to a dark hall-way almost 
 opposite and could hear him giving direc- 
 tions to a porter to take his luggage down 
 and order a taxi for him. 
 
 What could be the meaning of this ? Was 
 he preparing for flight? Was he taking the 
 list with him? No, Savelli was to come for 
 it at five o'clock, and it was now only half- 
 past four. There was still the chance that 
 the paper lay safe in its hiding place. 
 
 On tip-toe she approached the"half-open 
 door. She heard Morton moving about in
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 149 
 
 his bedroom. Quietly she stole into the 
 sample room, then into the room where she 
 had worked. Here she crouched in the 
 darkness by the window, reasoning that if 
 she heard him coming she could creep out on 
 to the fire-escape w r hich she knew was there. 
 Her heart was beating so hard it seemed to 
 her that Morton must hear it. Her body 
 grew cold with fear as she realised her situ- 
 ation. 
 
 In a few minutes, it seemed hours to the 
 girl waiting in agonised suspense, she heard 
 the man come out of his room, close his desk 
 with a bang and switch off the lights. Then 
 the hall door slammed and she knew that she 
 was alone. 
 
 Waiting until after she heard the elevator 
 descend, she groped for the light button and 
 pressed it. Where to look for the list she 
 did not know, but crossing to go to the bed- 
 room her foot, as luck had it, struck a ridge 
 in the carpet. Down on her knees she went, 
 and pulling up the corner of the carpet she 
 found a long sealed envelope beneath it.
 
 150 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 At last she had found it! Slipping the 
 precious thing into her blouse, she was just 
 rising to her feet when she heard the sound 
 of a key in the lock. This time her very 
 heart stood still. She was trapped like a 
 rat in a cage. 
 
 She had no time to hide. As Morton en- 
 tered the room, she stood with her back 
 against the wall, her two burning, glowing 
 eyes, the only spots of colour in her white 
 face. 
 
 Morton stepped quietly into the room, 
 closing the door behind him and slipping the 
 bolt into place, glaring at the girl. Then 
 his eyes travelled from her to the desk with 
 its opened drawers, to the knife lying on the 
 floor beside it. There was a cruel smile on 
 his lips and his eyes glistened. 
 
 "So my little stenographer spy, eh! 
 Well, I have my spies, too. That's how I 
 know who you are! You devil!" he almost 
 hissed the words. "You should have been 
 more careful, my dear. You should have re- 
 turned those two letters !"
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 151 
 
 Margaret's stiff lips refused to open, her 
 brain was suggesting and rejecting plans 
 with the rapidity of lightning ; her eyes were 
 fixed on Morton in a fascinated stare. 
 
 "Your brother," he continued slowly, as 
 though he meant every torturing word to 
 sink deep into the girl's mind, "is now at the 
 Cafe Rossamano, dining with a friend. 
 Three of my friends are waiting for a word 
 from me to put an end to him, do you under- 
 stand? To put an end to him." He moved 
 as he spoke, to the desk, and grasped the 
 telephone. "I am going to give that word 
 now." 
 
 Margaret sprang towards him. "No, for 
 God's sake, no ! Take your vengeance upon 
 me if you will, not upon him. Not upon 
 him!" 
 
 "Ill take my vengeance on you all right, 
 too, after I've settled him," he sneered. 
 Then, "Give me 983 Spring," he cried. 
 
 "No! You shall not give that word," 
 Margaret called hoarsely, as she sprang upon 
 him, trying to take the ear piece from him.
 
 152 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 With his free hand he caught the girl by 
 the throat and held her down against the 
 desk, while he called, "Is that you, Savelli? 
 Holt" Margaret's left hand came loose 
 with desperate force, covering his mouth. 
 With an oath he caught it and thrust it 
 away. As he bent her backwards, her right 
 hand came in contact with the knife lying on 
 the floor. A wild impulse to save her 
 brother came to her with the touch of the 
 cold steel. She seized the knife and before 
 Morton could move, with all her magnificent 
 young strength, had struck it into him above 
 the heart. 
 
 With a groan, the wretched man dropped 
 the instrument he was holding, and stag- 
 gered back against the wall. Then, snatch- 
 ing at the house telephone as he swayed, he 
 muttered into it thickly: "Quick! I have 
 been stabbed by a woman. She " and 
 then he fell. 
 
 Margaret gazed at his lifeless form in 
 horror. Had she, Margaret Holt, done this 
 thing? The dripping knife still in her
 
 MURDER OF MORTON 153 
 
 hand answered her. She grew faint and 
 sick and would have fallen, had not the 
 sound of voices and hurrying feet warned 
 her to keep her senses. She must escape, 
 she must get the papers to her brother. She 
 could not get out by the door, she would meet 
 the alarmed household. She steadied her 
 frenzied mind. She must think! Quickly 
 she turned to the room in which she had 
 worked, gently opened the window and 
 climbed out on to the fire escape, made her 
 way down swiftly and dropped to the 
 ground. Across the street was a cab. 
 Jumping in, she said to the driver: "Quick! 
 To the Cafe Rossamano."
 
 CHAPTER XJ 
 
 CLAVEBING'S NEW NOVEL 
 
 "AND that's where I came in," repeated Jack 
 Howell. "But what became of your 
 brother there? Have you no idea?" 
 
 "Two men dragged him across the street 
 to a taxi," said Margaret. "They had not 
 received the word from Morton to put him 
 out of the way, so I think they took the 
 chance to kidnap him." 
 
 "And this in New York City, in the 
 Twentieth Century," ejaculated Jack. 
 "And you to think that a little girl like 
 you should pit yourself against these de- 
 mons! How could they let you do it?" 
 
 "You won't give me up?" she cried again. 
 
 "Give you up?" He caught her hands in 
 his and drew her towards him. "Never, 
 never as long as I have strength to hold you ! 
 I " Her soul seemed to be looking at him 
 
 154
 
 "AND YOU TO THINK THAT A LITTLE GIRL LIKE YOU SHOULD PIT 
 YOURSELF AGAINST THESE DEMONS !"
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 155 
 
 through her eyes. "You mustn't look at me 
 with those eyes," he said with an attempt at 
 his old cheery manner. "It gets my mind 
 off my work, and," growing serious again, 
 "there's a big work to be done, and from this 
 moment Jack Howell is on the job." 
 
 Bang went the street door again. Mar- 
 garet slipped hurriedly behind the desk and 
 Howell took up his station where he could 
 watch the revealing mirror from behind a 
 newspaper. 
 
 A grey-haired man entered quietly, as he 
 did so casting a cautious, stealthy glance, 
 first at the girl, then at the reporter. The 
 latter became uneasy. Was this a plain- 
 clothes man who had tracked the girl here? 
 Watching from behind his paper, he saw the 
 new-comer go to the reading table, and re- 
 move his hat, always with his eyes on Mar- 
 garet. Next he saw him push a book from 
 the table to the floor, purposely. 
 
 At the sound, Howell saw Margaret start 
 and look towards the man, heard her give a 
 little cry and turning quickly saw the
 
 156 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 stranger give a warning look in his direc- 
 tion. 
 
 "It is all right, Uncle," she whispered. 
 
 "Uncle!" The reporter understood and 
 turned to meet the stern eyes that scrutinised 
 him so keenly. 
 
 "Are you her friend?" demanded the old 
 man. 
 
 "That's your best little bet!" said How- 
 ell, as he looked towards the girl to confirm 
 his eager assertion. 
 
 "It's all right, Uncle, he is our friend. 
 You may speak before him. Did you bring 
 it?" she asked breathlessly. 
 
 "Yes." He drew from his pocket a 
 scroll of paper around which Howell saw a 
 scarlet band. With trembling fingers the 
 girl took the mysterious missive to the light 
 on the desk. 
 
 "What is it?" questioned Howell eagerly. 
 
 "It's a letter from them. From the Scar- 
 let Band." For a moment the dread of 
 what it might contain made her pause, then 
 with a nervous effort, she tore off its flam-
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 157 
 
 ing insignia and opened it. The message 
 ran: 
 
 TO MISS MARGARET HOLT: WE KNOW 
 YOU NOW AND WHY YOU KILLED JAMES 
 MORTON. YOUR BROTHER WE HAVE. 
 THE PAPER LEFT IN MORTON'S ROOM IS 
 GONE. PLACE THAT PAPER EXACTLY 
 LIKE YOU FOUND IT UNOPENED, IN A 
 BOOK ON LAST SEAT, RIGHT SIDE, ST. 
 ANNE'S CHURCH BEFORE TEN TO- 
 NIGHT. IF THIS YOU DO NOT DO YOUR 
 BROTHER IS DEAD. 
 
 Margaret drew a long quivering breath as 
 she finished. Howell clenched his fists. 
 "They wouldn't dare," he muttered. "Is 
 there anything more?" 
 
 With an effort she cleared the mist from 
 her eyes and read on, 
 
 HE IS SAFE AS LONG AS NOTHING IS 
 KNOWN, BUT IF YOU GO TO THE POLICE, 
 BEWARE ! 
 
 The letter dropped from the girl's hand. 
 "Oh, Victor, Victor ! What shall I do ?" she 
 moaned.
 
 158 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Howell, stunned and stupefied, could 
 make no answer to her pitiful appeal ; it was 
 Mark Wilson's hoarse, strained voice that 
 brought him to his senses. 
 
 "They've got him. That's sure. And 
 they won't stop at anything, you know that. 
 You do what they say, get that list back to 
 them and get it back quick ! Oh, if you and 
 Victor had only listened to me !" 
 
 "It is the one thing to do," agreed How- 
 ell. 
 
 "Yes, my uncle is right. We must get 
 the list back to them at once." Margaret 
 spoke calmly and deliberately now. 
 
 "Where is it?" demanded the reporter. 
 
 Thrusting her hand into her blouse she 
 drew forth the envelope and gave it to 
 him. 
 
 He looked at it closely, "Why, it is 
 sealed!" 
 
 "Thank God that it is," the girl replied 
 fervently. "They demand that it be re- 
 turned unopened."
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 159 
 
 As Howell felt of the envelope his hands 
 twitched with excitement. "But are you 
 sure that this is the list they want?" 
 
 "Yes. Why else should they be so eager 
 to get it back?" 
 
 "That's right. But if you send them this 
 without first learning its contents, all your 
 work, and all you have suffered, is gone for 
 nothing." 
 
 "Oh, what does it matter, if only I get 
 Victor back. I can do nothing alone. To- 
 gether, he and I can begin all over again," 
 she said wearily. 
 
 "But if you send this," urged Howell, 
 "they've got what they want, and then what 
 is to prevent their killing your brother sure 
 enough?" 
 
 "They won't do that," interposed Mark 
 Wilson, "as long as she is alive." 
 
 "No, my uncle is right. I know too 
 much. See," she pointed to the letter: 
 
 'Your brother is safe so long as nothing 
 is known.' "
 
 160 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "But is he?" persisted the skeptical How- 
 ell, who doubted if the Devil himself would 
 be safe with that gang. 
 
 "Won't they hold him to keep her quiet?" 
 suggested Uncle Mark. 
 
 "Yes: you are right. That is just what 
 they will do. I guess there is nothing for 
 us but to come across with the goods." He 
 looked at the sealed envelope. "I wonder if 
 I could pry it open?" 
 
 "No, no! Don't try!" begged Margaret. 
 "Remember it must be returned as I found 
 it." 
 
 "All right! I won't," Jack reluctantly 
 assented. "But it seems a shame to give 
 that up. They would have to come and 
 take it from my dead body if I had my way." 
 Again his twitching fingers felt of the en- 
 velope as if by some mysterious power of 
 touch he might read its contents. "It's 
 written on a piece of card-board," he ex- 
 claimed. Then with uncontrollable curiosity 
 he held it up before one of the wall electric 
 lights: but to no avail. It remained im-
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 161 
 
 penetrable. "I can't see a thing," he cried 
 impatiently. He hated to acknowledge 
 himself beaten in his first encounter with the 
 Scarlet Band. But so far he was forced 
 to admit defeat. 
 
 What should his next step be? "I have 
 it!" he called. Then as his idea crystallised 
 he exclaimed, "I've got it!" 
 
 "What is it?" asked Margaret eagerly. 
 
 "Trust your Uncle Dudley! Will you 
 trust me?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Never mind. You leave it to me." 
 Jerking his watch from his pocket; "How 
 much time have I? I can make it," he cal- 
 culated. "Good!" Then he unfolded his 
 plan. "I will take this thing to the church 
 myself." 
 
 "No, no," protested the girl; "it would be 
 risking your life. One of the gang who was 
 at the Rossamano might come for it and 
 recognise you." 
 
 "I'd like nothing better than to meet any 
 one of those pirates again."
 
 162 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "No, no, you don't know them as we do!" 
 
 "I would not chance it," advised cautious 
 Mark Wilson. 
 
 Howell reflected for a moment. It was 
 taking a chance, he knew. If he were to 
 play any part in this desperate game he 
 must not be known to any member of the 
 gang. "Perhaps you are right," he agreed 
 finally. Then he caught at another idea. 
 "Wait a minute ! I know a man, Andy Riv- 
 ers; he's a down and out reporter hanging 
 round our office. He'll do anything for two 
 dollars." 
 
 "But he might ask questions," cautioned 
 Margaret. 
 
 "All he will ask is, do I get the two?" de- 
 clared Howell. "I'll get Rivers to take the 
 package to the church while I hang round 
 somewhere and see who comes to get it. 
 Then I'll trail the gink and perhaps get a 
 line on where those gangsters have your 
 brother." 
 
 "Find Victor?" 
 
 "Why not? It's a long chance, but let's
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 163 
 
 try it! We won't call ourselves licked 
 yet! Now if any more of those pink notes 
 come from the crime set, just get them to me 
 at the Telescope office," instructed Howell, 
 handing the elder man one of his cards. 
 "And mind!" he added emphatically. "Not 
 a word to the police; you understand that!" 
 
 "Yes, absolutely," Wilson replied. "I 
 know the danger there." 
 
 So Jack took up his hat to depart on his 
 pilgrimage to St. Anne's. Then he stopped 
 and looked gravely at the girl. "But what 
 about you?" he asked. "You can't stay 
 here." 
 
 "Yes, I can. Miss Towne said she would 
 find some place for me." 
 
 "But it wouldn't be safe. You have got 
 to live in a vault till we get this thing over." 
 
 "He is right," agreed her uncle. "They 
 would kill you and Victor both. You know 
 they would!" 
 
 "But where can I go?" 
 
 "I could take you to my mother," sug- 
 gested Howell. "But if those ginks should
 
 164 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 spot me they might find you, too. You 
 have got to disappear, that's all!" he said 
 vehemently. "But where, where?" Walk- 
 ing up and down he tried desperately to 
 think of some solution to his problem. 
 
 "I don't want any of them. They 
 won't do at all!" Clavering's petulant voice 
 sounded from the hall. He continued to pay 
 his respects to an employment bureau where 
 he had had to search hours, hours, unsuccess- 
 fully for a stenographer, respects that were 
 copious and valuable. 
 
 Miss Towne, looking flushed and angry, 
 followed him into the room and came directly 
 to Margaret. "My dear," she said in an un- 
 dertone, "I heard Dr. Christopher go out, 
 and I knew that you were all alone here, but 
 I just didn't dare leave that ugly man to 
 talk to those girls alone. I knew that he 
 would frighten them to death. Of course 
 they won't work for him, the brute 1" 
 
 Clavering continued his complaints. 
 "Tried to hand me a nice lemon with that 
 last one! She started in by kicking at the
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 165 
 
 hours! Must have my sleep," he mocked. 
 "Only fools need a lot of sleep!" He began 
 to gather up his books. 
 
 Howell looked at him. Was this a dis- 
 pensation of Providence? "You want a 
 stenographer?" he inquired of Clavering. 
 
 "Yes," he snapped, "but I guess I'll have 
 to have one made to order." 
 
 "Why don't you try this young lady?" 
 asked Jack, indicating Margaret. 
 
 Clavering shot an inquiring glance at the 
 surprised girl. 
 
 "Are you a stenographer?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, sir," Margaret replied at once. 
 
 "Don't sir me, or I'll have to Miss you, 
 and I won't stand that," Clavering growled. 
 
 "She has done very good work for me," 
 Howell interposed. "She's all right." 
 
 "How much sleep do you require?" the 
 novelist demanded. 
 
 "I can do with very little," smiled Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "Well, that is all you are likely to get. 
 You look more intelligent than most of those
 
 166 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 dolled-up ladies. Do you want the job?" 
 
 Margaret looked at Howell. "I should 
 like to try it," she replied. 
 
 "Come along then, I'll make the salary 
 all right." 
 
 Without further parley, he turned to 
 gather up his books again; then suddenly 
 stopped to ask her an important question. 
 "Do you know anything about crime?" 
 
 Margaret and Howell started at this un- 
 expected bomb. 
 
 "Crime? What do you mean?" the girl 
 faltered, shrinking before his piercing gaze. 
 
 "H'm," he chuckled. "You will before 
 you have worked long for me. I eat with 
 it. I sleep with it." He began wrapping 
 his crane-like neck in the folds of a worsted 
 muffler, preparatory to departing. 
 
 "It's just the thing," Howell explained 
 in an undertone to the bewildered girl. 
 "He lives like a hermit. You can disappear 
 in his house. I will keep in touch with 
 
 you." 
 
 This conversation, carried on in an under-
 
 I 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 167 
 
 tone, did not escape the eagle eye of the nov- 
 elist. "Oh," he said, coming to Margaret. 
 "There's another thing I forgot to ask you." 
 He gave a questioning look towards Howell. 
 "Have you got a feller?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know what you mean," re- 
 plied the puzzled girl. 
 
 "A feller, a sweetheart who will come call- 
 ing on you and interrupt my work." 
 
 "No, I have no sweetheart." 
 
 "Good! Don't ever have one. The last 
 stenographer I had left to be married. 
 Married! Rot! No woman is interesting 
 after you have lived with her a week! No 
 man is interesting after you have talked with 
 him an hour." 
 
 Further comments were cut short by Miss 
 Towne. She did not feel that she ought to 
 let Margaret take this position ; yet she had 
 no good reason to offer in objection. She 
 approached Clavering. "I am sorry that 
 you thought that Miss Brown would not 
 do," she began graciously. 
 
 The novelist snapped her up. "I don't
 
 168 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 think. I know. Besides, I have engaged 
 this young woman." 
 
 At this moment Howell received a shock. 
 He saw Captain Ryan passing the window. 
 He must not come in and discover, through 
 Miss Towne, that Margaret was not the Sec- 
 retary. "Excuse me, Miss Towne," he said 
 quickly, "if you will ask Miss Brown to wait 
 a moment perhaps I can put her onto a posi- 
 tion." 
 
 "Certainly. I will go at once," the secre- 
 tary answered, and left the room. Her exit 
 was timely, for the officer was just entering. 
 
 "I want to use this telephone," he said, 
 stepping to the desk. 
 
 "Go as far as you like, Captain," replied 
 the anxious reporter. "It isn't mine." 
 
 "Spring" 
 
 Howell drew a long breath and Margaret 
 shivered. Ryan was calling headquarters. 
 
 "This is Ryan! Anything new? Fine"! 
 I thought so !" With a grin of satisfaction 
 he hung up the receiver and turned to How- 
 ell, who tried to return his gaze with one of
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 169 
 
 unconcern. "Well, I got the right dope on 
 that case. We've got the woman who killed 
 Morton!" 
 
 With difficulty the reporter answered, 
 "That so? Who was it?" 
 
 "Why, I told you! The Spanish woman 
 who called on him this afternoon. Just 
 pinched her. Oh, we're a lot of muts, are 
 we?" 
 
 "Yes, you are!" almost screamed Claver- 
 ing. "Spanish woman! Bosh! I tell you 
 it was the stenographer." 
 
 Ryan threw back his head with a hoarse 
 guffaw of laughter. "Little Nemo! The 
 boy sleuth. Always hands me a laugh." 
 
 "Yes, and I'll hand you something else," 
 retorted Clavering, "if I catch the real mur- 
 derer and walk into Headquarters with her." 
 
 "Oh mercy, listen to him! You couldn't 
 catch your own feet." 
 
 "I couldn't, eh!" screamed the irate au- 
 thor, shaking his cane. "You wait till I 
 show you and your graft-fed blue-coats up 
 for a"
 
 170 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Aw!" retorted the maligned officer with 
 a contemptuous jeer, "Get out and pump! 
 You've got a flat tire !" and stalked out leav- 
 ing Clavering white and choking with rage. 
 
 "Did you hear what he called me?" he 
 sputtered, appealing to Howell. "Did you 
 hear? He called me a flat tire. I'll show 
 these blue-coated pills up for a lot of blatant 
 jackasses. I'll write a story about this mur- 
 der that will show exactly how it was done. 
 Come on !" he commanded Margaret. "We 
 must get right at it to-night." 
 
 With this declaration he again gathered 
 up the books he had let drop during his alter- 
 cation with Captain Ryan. 
 
 "What shall I do?" whispered Margaret 
 to Howell. "Suppose he finds me out? 
 He will give me up to the police ! Then Sa- 
 velli and his men will know!" 
 
 "It's too late now to turn back!" urged 
 Jack. "You are not safe here a minute 
 longer. It's the only way. We've got to 
 chance it!" 
 
 "Come on!" broke in the criminologist.
 
 CLAVERING'S NEW NOVEL 171 
 
 "I've got the first chapter in my head al- 
 ready. We'll write it to-night and I can 
 get it published by next week, and before I 
 get through I'll have Morton's murderer in 
 the Tombs ! Come on now !" 
 
 Howell stood rigidly watching the girl as 
 Clavering led her out. At the door she 
 turned, and he caught a glimpse of terror- 
 haunted eyes and a white face under the red 
 hat. Then she was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 JACK HOWELL DOES THINGS 
 
 EVEN before Margaret Holt had left The 
 Refuge with the eccentric author Jack How- 
 ell began to realise the gravity of this new 
 danger there might be for his protegee in the 
 close association with a man of such crime- 
 detecting propensities as Clavering. The 
 slightest betrayal of her secret would not be 
 lost on that fathoming, ferreting brain. The 
 hunted girl plainly feared the position into 
 which his own hasty judgment had thrust 
 her, and the ordeal would be all the more 
 trying on that account. 
 
 "I was a fool!" he exclaimed to Mark 
 Wilson. "I believe this head piece of mine 
 is turning into solid ebony. I'm going to 
 bring her back," he added and started im- 
 pulsively towards the door. 
 
 172
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 173 
 
 The old man caught him by the arm: "I 
 wouldn't do that; it will only lead to ex- 
 planations that might arouse Clavering's 
 suspicions," he counselled. 
 
 Howell thought a moment. "Right you 
 are," he agreed. "We've got to chance it 
 now; but somehow I wish I hadn't let her 
 go! Well!" he said later, looking at his 
 watch as he moved towards the door, "I'm 
 going after that chap Rivers I told you 
 about. I must get him to the church with 
 the list those Scarlet Banders have their 
 pipes laid out for. Come to my office in the 
 morning and I'll let you know if I've got a 
 line on anything. We've just got to put 
 this thing over ourselves. The 'band' will 
 watch the police like cats." 
 
 Together they left The Refuge, parting 
 at the subway entrance, Mark Wilson to re- 
 turn to his home and the reporter to begin 
 his search for the agent to whom he planned 
 to entrust the delivery of the sealed package 
 at St. Anne's Church. As he hurried 
 along, he had time thoughtfully to review the
 
 174 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 exciting incidents of the last two hours. He 
 quite realised that in aiding this girl he was 
 assisting a fugitive from justice, but he had 
 taken up her cause and he meant to see it to 
 the finish, even if it landed him in jail. 
 From now on her battle was his; she had 
 trusted him and he would make good for her, 
 no matter at what cost to himself. He had 
 been looking for some excitement. "Well, 
 I've got it good and plenty now and with a 
 little extra thrown in," he thought with a 
 wry smile. 
 
 Margaret's strained, impassioned face 
 haunted him all the way. As he went over 
 again in his mind her story that she had so 
 falteringly told him, compassionate tears 
 came to his eyes, and the longing was strong 
 to take her in his arms and defend her 
 against all the world if need be. Then he 
 shook himself. "Great Scott!" he thought. 
 "Am I getting sentimental? Wake up, old 
 man! Wake up!" 
 
 He began his search for Andy Rivers. 
 
 In the midst of it an idea flashed upon
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 175 
 
 him as with a blinding light. He stood 
 still where he was, clutching at the precious 
 package in his breast pocket. 
 
 "Why didn't I think of that before?" he 
 muttered. 
 
 "Dixon! He's the man for us in this 
 crisis. Well, of course!" 
 
 Accordingly one Kenelm C. Dixon, 
 M.D., specialist in radiography, received 
 an impetuous call from one Jack Howell 
 before the half of a good hour had passed 
 away that same day. He knew Jack and 
 chaffed him now over his very visible ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he inquired. 
 "Want an X-ray of your wish-bone?" 
 
 "Cut out the comedy," retorted Jack, 
 pulling the mysterious sealed package from 
 his pocket. "This is too serious. Here's 
 the idea. For certain reasons, which shall be 
 nameless, this seal cannot be broken. Now 
 what I want to know is, is it possible to 
 take an X-ray of what is written on this 
 card inside? Do you get me?"
 
 176 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Dixon took the envelope from Jack's 
 hand and examined it closely. 
 
 "Yes," he answered carefully, "it might 
 be done if it is written in lead pencil or if 
 there is any mineral matter in the ink 
 fluid." 
 
 "Then go to it!" commanded Howell, 
 helping himself to one of Dixon's cigars and 
 beginning to puff nervously at it as he 
 eagerly watched the specialist arrange 
 the apparatus for the experiment that 
 meant so much to him. "Better take four 
 or five negatives to make sure," he suggest- 
 ed: "I don't want to take a chance at a 
 fizzle." 
 
 Dixon made four exposures of the pack- 
 age, while the reporter watched his every 
 movement with intense absorption. "When 
 can I have the prints?" asked Jack. 
 
 "Some time to-morrow," replied Dixon. 
 "Where shall I send them!" 
 
 "Don't send them anywhere. I'll call 
 for them myself; and don't show them to a 
 living soul," cautioned Howell.
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 177 
 
 He had but little time now before ten 
 o'clock, when the important missive must be 
 placed in the pew in St. Anne's Church. 
 He rushed off again in search of Andy Riv- 
 ers, found him in a saloon, dragged him out, 
 deposited him in a taxi, and proceeded in the 
 seclusion of the closed cab to unfold his 
 project to the bibulous ex-reporter in less 
 time than it takes to say so. 
 
 "Do you want to make five dollars?" de- 
 manded Jack. "Real money?" 
 
 "Sure I do!" answered the other. 
 
 "Then listen," Howell went on. "Do you 
 know where St. Anne's church is?" 
 
 "Down town in the Italian Quarter. I 
 know it." 
 
 "Good," ejaculated Howell. "Then you 
 won't waste any time finding it." He took 
 the package from his pocket as he continued. 
 "Now get this ! This cab is to take us down 
 somewhere in the vicinity of the church. 
 You are to enter the church, go to the last 
 pew on the right hand side, and place this 
 package in the book that you will find there.
 
 178 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Do you understand? In the last pew on 
 the right-hand side." 
 
 "Say, what is it? Dynamite?" queried 
 Rivers, eyeing the mysterious package with 
 a slight show of nervousness. 
 
 "Nix! Nothing like it. All you have to 
 do is to place it in that book, then walk out 
 of the church and make a get-a-way as 
 though you were scared to death." 
 
 "Well, if that package contains nitro- 
 glycerine you bet I can look the scare all 
 right. When do I get the five?" 
 
 "As soon as we reach the church." 
 
 "You're on," chuckled Rivers. He 
 thrust out his hand for the package quite 
 keenly. 
 
 "Fine," ejaculated Jack as he handed it 
 to him. "Now tell the driver how to get to 
 that church. Tell him to get a hustle on. 
 We've no time to lose if we're going to put 
 this over right. See?" 
 
 Rivers did as Jack directed, and the cab 
 moved off in the direction of St. Anne's. 
 Neither man spoke again, Howell absorbed
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 179 
 
 in formulating his plans for future action, 
 the other anticipating the night he would 
 put in with the promised five. Jack heard 
 a neighboring clock tower strike nine. 
 There was still an hour before the time set. 
 
 A block away from the church they left 
 the cab, and Jack, instructing his companion 
 to wait ten minutes before entering, left him 
 and made his own way to the chapel door 
 and knocked for admittance on it. 
 
 The door was opened by a verger who 
 scrutinised the reporter carefully. Jack ex- 
 plained that he had been sent by the electric 
 light company to make an estimate for in- 
 stalling power in the organ loft, at the same 
 time presenting the card of an agent of the 
 company who had wanted to wire his 
 mother's house in Jersey. Satisfied with 
 his credentials, the verger admitted him and 
 piloted him to the loft, where he left him 
 with pad and pencil in his hand ostensibly 
 busy with measures and figures. 
 
 Left alone, the reporter glanced down 
 into the dimly lighted church. The pews
 
 180 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 were vacant, save one on the left side, near 
 the door, in which he could discern the bent 
 form of a veiled woman deeply engaged in 
 her devotions. Moving back into a shadow 
 he had a position from which he could com- 
 mand a view of the church completely, re- 
 maining himself unseen. He glanced nerv- 
 ously at his watch: the time was nearly up. 
 He began to get uneasy; he wished he had 
 not given Rivers the money so soon: the 
 temptation of a drink at a near-by saloon 
 might be too strong for him the whole proj- 
 ect might miscarry. But his anxiety was 
 relieved in a moment, when he saw Rivers 
 enter the church as they had duly arranged, 
 and make his way to the last seat on the 
 right-hand side. At the same time Jack 
 saw the woman on the opposite side slowly 
 turn her head in the new-comer's direction. 
 "H'm," he muttered. "That's it, eh?" 
 Rivers lost no time in the execution of his 
 mission, and in another moment hurriedly 
 left the church. Eagerly Howell watched 
 the woman to see what move she would now
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 181 
 
 make. For some minutes her head re- 
 mained bowed. Then rising, she glanced 
 cautiously all about the edifice, and walked 
 slowly over to the seat in which Rivers had 
 been seated and knelt again there devoutly. 
 
 The reporter felt his heart beating like a 
 trip-hammer. What should he do? To 
 descend out of the loft now might arouse 
 suspicion; he might be detained by the ver- 
 ger's questions. He decided to take the 
 chance, the woman's movements were so de- 
 liberate that she probably would not leave 
 in a hurry. He reached the front of the 
 church without being waylaid at all and lost 
 himself in the shadow of a doorway by the 
 holy water font. He had not long to wait 
 before the veiled woman appeared and 
 passed through the vestibule. 
 
 He followed her at a safe distance until 
 she reached a house on Fourth Street, which 
 after a hasty look up and down the street, 
 she entered hurriedly. Jack stopped only 
 long enough to make sure of the number, 
 that he might easily find it again, then re-
 
 182 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 ' ' i 
 traced his steps to the church and made a 
 
 careful examination of the prayer book in 
 the last pew on the right-hand side. The 
 package was gone! His heart beat wild 
 with hope, for he knew that he had touched 
 a living clue. 
 
 The next morning after his eventful pil- 
 grimage to St. Anne's, Howell was touring 
 up and down Fourth Street in a curtained 
 taxi, and looked long at the house into which 
 the devout, veiled woman had disappeared 
 the night before. It was like all the others 
 in the block except for its closed shutters. 
 There were bars at the attic windows, but 
 so were there old-fashioned bars at many 
 other windows in the street. "They must 
 use the top floors in this neighbourhood for 
 babies and lunatics," thought Jack. 
 
 Just across the street, directly opposite 
 the house of mystery, a sign "Rooms to 
 Rent" in a second story window attracted 
 his attention. "That's the gag!" he said to 
 himself excitedly; "I couldn't beat that if I 
 cheated! Driver, back to Broadway!"
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 183 
 
 That night Mark Wilson called at the 
 house that had the room for rent ; explained 
 to the slatternly woman who came to the door 
 that he was looking for a room for a friend 
 and himself; that the friend worked nights 
 and would occupy the room during the day. 
 A month's rent in advance satisfied the not 
 hypercritical landlady, and the next morn- 
 ing Andy Rivers, whom the nimble-minded 
 Howell had attached to his hastily mustered 
 secret-service bureau by means of the prom- 
 ise of a fat weekly stipend, took possession 
 of it. From that time on Mark Wilson by 
 night and Rivers by day kept watch of the 
 house on Fourth Street, each man reporting 
 duly to Howell when he went off duty. 
 
 Meanwhile the self-appointed sleuth was 
 cautiously and vigilantly watching develop- 
 ments and keeping his own counsel. Clav- 
 ering's prediction as to the absurdity of 
 thinking the Spanish woman the slayer of 
 Morton was fulfilled, for after a short de- 
 tention she was released, having established 
 an incontestable alibi. "Didn't I tell you
 
 184 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 so?" the author chuckled gloatingly to How- 
 ell, when he met him on the street. "The 
 police! Huh, I'll show 'em yet." 
 
 In the meanwhile the excitement in the city 
 over the sudden and mysterious disappear- 
 ance of the Assistant District Attorney was 
 of course intense. John McKimmell was ill 
 from grief and anxiety. The papers were 
 full of wild conjectures. One report had it 
 that Holt had been murdered; another that 
 he had been abducted; but upon one point 
 they all agreed. The press from one end of 
 the country to the other burst forth in caustic 
 editorials condemning the laxity that made 
 such an outrage possible. The thinking 
 public was horrified at the probable fate that 
 had overtaken its idolised official, and though 
 the police were in earnest co-operation with 
 the District Attorney, day after day passed 
 by and no trace of the missing man could be 
 found. 
 
 Jack Howell kept silent and waited. 
 He was not actuated now by any selfish de- 
 sire to land a scoop and make his lasting rep-
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 185 
 
 utation. His heart and mind were set upon 
 rescuing Holt from the clutches of the gang 
 that held him prisoner ; the game was deeper 
 than he had thought, but he had taken a hand 
 in it and would keep on now without any 
 thought of danger or reward. He must 
 work alone. The slightest suspicion abroad 
 of what he knew meant everything inimical 
 to his plans. The Scarlet Band was watch- 
 ing, spying, waiting, with a knife at its cap- 
 tive's heart, ready at a word to close his lips 
 forever. The sentence in the letter: 
 "Your brother is safe as long as nothing is 
 known," Howell felt, justified his caution. 
 
 Three days passed after his meeting with 
 Margaret at The Refuge, before he made an 
 attempt to see her again. He feared the 
 wily old Clavering more than any one else, 
 however, and he must see if everything was 
 all right in that quarter. Late one after- 
 noon a leisurely stroll in the vicinity of the 
 novelist's house was rewarded by the sight 
 of the owner of it just starting out on his 
 evening walk. The reporter waited until
 
 186 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Clavering had shambled off round the cor- 
 ner, then he boldly approached the house and 
 rang the bell. The coloured housekeeper 
 at first stoutly refused to admit him, but 
 when, with an ingratiating smile, he pressed 
 a bill into her smoky palm, she grew more 
 tractable. 
 
 "I got 'splicit instructions," she informed 
 him grandiloquently, "not to 'low anybody 
 in hyere. But I reckon if you'se come to 
 see dat new type-writer I can just keep 
 m'self in ignorance of it. Yars, Sir!" 
 
 After this he had made several calls on 
 Margaret, but they were brief, as there was 
 always the fear of Clavering's return from 
 his ten minutes' exercise. The girl was very 
 brave ; Howell knew that the look of fear in 
 her eyes came from worrying about her 
 brother as much as for herself. When he 
 expressed anxiety lest the strain should be 
 too much for her, she comforted him with 
 the assurance that he could not have found 
 a better place for her. No one ever came 
 to the house. No one was ever allowed to
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 187 
 
 enter the study but the faithful Martha. 
 She, Margaret, might be living in a distant 
 planet, so secluded was she from the world 
 of men and events. She acknowledged 
 that the work was hard and the hours long: 
 sometimes Clavering would rouse her from 
 sleep even in the middle of the night to take 
 his dictation if the inspiration seized him; 
 but he was not unkind, he seemed to like her 
 work, and even praised her for her speed and 
 accuracy. 
 
 She listened with breathless interest to 
 every word Jack had to tell her of the prog- 
 ress of his search for Victor. She tried to 
 find words in which to thank him, but her 
 gratitude was inexpressible: the thing was 
 beyond words now for both of them. 
 
 Jack wanted no thanks from her. It 
 seemed to him only right and natural that he 
 should protect and shield her. He had made 
 no women friends since he had come to New 
 York. He met a few merry, attractive girls, 
 now and then, and felt the impulse to be 
 friendly with them, but his work had en-
 
 188 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 grossed him more than women. Because of 
 it, his way had led more in the misery and pit- 
 falls of certain phases of city life and at too 
 close range to be attracted by mere froth and 
 glitter. And yet he had never felt the neces- 
 sity of rolling in the gutter to make sure 
 there was one, though it was an idea that had 
 obsessed a-plenty of his colleagues. As man 
 and boy he had lived cleanly, enthusiastically, 
 with high courage for himself and always a 
 helping hand for others. 
 
 But now this interest in Margaret Holt 
 had won complete possession of him. Was 
 it just sympathy that made this tugging at 
 his heartstrings? Or he laughed as he 
 asked himself the question had he fallen in 
 love with the girl? "Great Scott ! I believe 
 I am really getting dippy!" he told himself. 
 "Go easy, Jack!" 
 
 A week passed and still the faithful hench- 
 men of Fourth Street could report nothing. 
 Impatient to do something, to make some 
 move, Jack tried to justify himself, mean-
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 189 
 
 while, for his enforced inaction. "Why 
 worry?" he kept asking himself. "No one 
 knows where she is. Why worry?" 
 
 But only the next day something hap- 
 pened that made the little devils of fear and. 
 apprehension descend upon him again with a 
 rush. He was reading the Evening Tele- 
 scope, and was startled to see already the 
 first instalment of Clavering's new serial 
 entitled "The Morton Mystery." 
 
 Jack's heart hammered in his throat. 
 "Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "He's at it al- 
 ready." Eagerly he skimmed the sensa- 
 tional paragraphs of this hectic brain. Yes, 
 here was Clavering's familiar method the 
 circumstances, even the proper names trans- 
 ferred from the news columns into the chap- 
 ters of his perfervid fiction. The heroine of 
 the story was a young girl named Mary 
 Hadfield, who had sought and found em- 
 ployment with a glass merchant named Mor- 
 ton. The concluding words of the chapter 
 made Howell turn white about the lips.
 
 190 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 When her employer had left the room, with the 
 crouching, stealthy step of a panther this beau- 
 tiful young girl went to his desk where she made 
 a hasty search through his papers. But alas ! 
 Her search was fruitless. She reeled from the 
 shock of disappointment. She clutched at the 
 collar of her dress. "I must find it! I must!" 
 she gasped. Then in the hall she heard the sound 
 of his returning footsteps. With the quickness of 
 a cat she resumed her work at the type-writer, and 
 greeted her employer upon his entrance with a 
 lovely smile, little dreaming that behind the glit- 
 ter of those hard, cold eyes the serpent of suspi- 
 cion was beginning to uncoil and raise its hissing 
 head. 
 
 Howell sat spell-bound. What mysteri- 
 ous power directed the novelist's brain? 
 How much nearer to the truth would it lead 
 him now? He thought of poor Margaret 
 taking this story down from Clavering's dic- 
 tation, and had fear for her. Would she 
 betray herself? She had been in perilous 
 places before and had emerged triumphant, 
 but would she endure this last ordeal? 
 
 Another week went by and Howell now
 
 HOWELL DOES THINGS 191 
 
 raged furiously with impatience. "Have 
 you nothing at all to tell me yet, Andy?" he 
 demanded, when Rivers came to make his 
 usual report. 
 
 The ex-reporter gave a discouraged shake 
 of his head. 
 
 "Nothing doing!" he said gruffly. "I 
 wouldn't stay in that blasted hole another 
 minute if it wasn't for the pigeons." 
 
 "Pigeons?" demanded Jack. "What 
 pigeons?" 
 
 "Well, you see it's just this way," said 
 Andy. "I've watched that house now for 
 nearly two weeks, till my nerves are so 
 shaky that I want to yell if any one looks up 
 at my window, and not a living soul have I 
 seen, man, woman or child, stir in or out of 
 that house yet." 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes, but what about the 
 pigeons?" 
 
 "Well, I've noticed that for the last three 
 days now a flock of pigeons have lighted on 
 the ledge in front of that barred attic win- 
 dow and have been picking up things as
 
 192 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 though they were eating. That may be a 
 tip for us!" 
 
 "I don't quite get you," said Jack. 
 
 "Some one is feeding those birds there or 
 they wouldn't come so regularly. From 
 where I am I can't get the right angle on 
 that window to see really just what is hap- 
 pening." 
 
 Howell gave a whoop of joy and seized 
 Andy by the shoulders. "Have you tried 
 the roof?" 
 
 "Not yet. You see I didn't get wise to 
 the pigeon gag until to-day." 
 
 Howell was fairly shaking with excite- 
 ment. "Look here, Andy, you shift with 
 Mr. Wilson to-morrow; let him take your 
 place." 
 
 "All right!" agreed Rivers cheerfully, 
 who felt like welcoming any change in the 
 monotony of his employment. "But get 
 this," he added. "No more Stealthy Steve 
 in mine after this job. See? Good night!"
 
 THE OTHER STORY 
 
 THE queer old clock on Winthrop Claver- 
 ing's mantel struck the half hour. 
 
 "Half-past four," growled the novelist, 
 "and I've been at it since five this morning; 
 and this chapter is not finished yet. I tell 
 you it must be done to-night. What's the 
 last I gave you?" 
 
 He looked impatiently at Margaret Holt, 
 who for the twelve hours had been recording 
 a narrative so like her own experiences that 
 it seemed to her the curious old man there 
 must actually have some occult power of 
 divination; she felt as if he were plucking 
 threads from her inmost mind out of which 
 to weave his terrible story. But she 
 whipped her tired brain to obedience again. 
 
 "Read it! Can't you? Read it!" went 
 on Clavering querulously. 
 
 193
 
 194 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 She hesitated a moment over her short- 
 hand notes, and then read: 
 
 "The time had come to fulfil her desper- 
 ate mission. It was now or never !" 
 
 "No, no! that won't do! Cross it out! 
 What's the matter with my brain this after- 
 noon?" The author actually whined as he 
 paced the floor, trying by physical exertion 
 to stir the sluggard imp of his inspira- 
 tion. 
 
 "You have been working a long time," 
 suggested Margaret, inwardly praying for 
 some cessation of her nerve-racking work. 
 
 "Only twelve hours. My God! Have I 
 the brain of a jelly fish?" 
 
 Back and forth, back and forth he raged, 
 but still the thoughts refused to flow. 
 "H'm," he growled, "I'll go take my walk 
 now instead of later." 
 
 He doffed his black skull cap, changed his 
 shiny, dressing jacket for a shinier coat, 
 struggled into his cape-coat, and jamming 
 the big felt hat down over his eyes stamped 
 out of the room and down the stairs. The
 
 THE OTHER STORY 195 
 
 exhausted amanuensis gave a great sigh of 
 relief as she heard the peg, peg of his stout 
 walking stick die away. Now at least she 
 could have a little air and rest. 
 
 She turned out the light, then went to the 
 windows and threw them open wide, leaning 
 against the casement and looking out upon 
 the lighted street. Mentally and physic- 
 ally weary, too weary even to fear, she told 
 herself, for ten days she had endured an 
 agony of mind that was beginning now to 
 produce a sense of numbness in her brain. 
 It was her story that Clavering was writing 
 hers. The incidents he used were never 
 identically like the facts, yet they came so 
 near the truth that sometimes it took all her 
 power to crush back the sob of terror that 
 forced itself to her lips. 
 
 How much longer could she hold out, she 
 wondered dully. Not only the mental strain 
 was telling on her, but the confinement, too, 
 the long hours of work in the smoke-fogged 
 room, were sapping her vitality. 
 
 From sheer weakness she slipped down
 
 196 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 on the floor, and rested there by the window, 
 leaning her head against its sill. The night 
 air blowing in cooled her feverish eyes and 
 head. She never dared approach the win- 
 dow in the day time lest some one in the 
 street might see and recognise her. When 
 old Martha, the housekeeper, entered the 
 room a few minutes later she found her 
 there still asleep. 
 
 "Po' chile!" she muttered. "Fas' asleep. 
 Dat ole debble gwine to kill her wif work." 
 Martha liked the new stenographer better 
 than any of the others that had so far had 
 the ill fortune to work for Clavering. 
 "You's de bes' of de ladies dat has had dis 
 job yet," she continued, looking at the 
 sleeping girl. "Yo' ain't got none ob dose 
 high heel notions like dem." 
 
 Placing a tray of food upon the table, she 
 went and closed the windows, for the air had 
 grown chill. The sound roused Margaret 
 with a start; the room was so dark she 
 thought she must have slept far into the 
 night. Then she saw the kind face of the
 
 THE OTHER STORY 197 
 
 coloured woman bending over her, and knew 
 again where she was. 
 
 "What time is it, Martha? It's you, is 
 it?" she sighed. 
 
 "Going on to five o'clock in de ebening, 
 Missy." 
 
 "I must have fallen asleep," said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "And a blessed good thing, too," replied 
 Martha sympathetically. "You don't get 
 enuff sleep, Honey." 
 
 "No, I don't sleep very much; that's 
 true. Has Mr. Clavering returned yet?" 
 
 "No," said Martha. "Not yet. I heered 
 de door close after dat old crime-eater, 'bout 
 twenty minutes ago, an' I just slipped up 
 hyer wid someting t' eat f o' yo' ! Yo' wasn't 
 down to lunch to-day." Martha volubly 
 disapproved if there were any irregularities 
 at meal-time. 
 
 Margaret shook her head. "We've been 
 at it all day," she said. 
 
 "It's a crime!" expostulated the old 
 housekeeper. "A sin! Start work _ 'fore
 
 198 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 sun up an' keep a diggin' till five o'clock in 
 de ebening. Yo' ought t' jine de union an' 
 stick fo' eight hours." 
 
 "Mr. Clavering has to write when the 
 spirit moves him, you know," said Margaret. 
 
 "Huh," grunted the disgusted Martha. 
 "De spirit ought t' mobe him a long way 
 off, I say." 
 
 She placed a chair before the tray. 
 
 "Come now, Honey, jes' yo' take a bite," 
 she urged. "There ain't nuthin' passed yo' 
 lips since seven o'clock dis mawnin'. I 
 know dat." 
 
 Margaret seated herself and made an at- 
 tempt at eating. 
 
 There was but a dim light in the room and 
 the hands in the prints that lined the walls 
 seemed weirdly stretching out their fingers 
 to grasp hers. The girl shuddered. "Turn 
 on all the lights, please, Martha, and draw 
 the shades," she cried. 
 
 "I s'pose he's workin' on dat new story 
 dat's runnin' in de Ebenin* Telescope" in- 
 quired Martha as she obeyed.
 
 THE OTHER STORY 199 
 
 "Yes, yes, it is the new story," assented 
 Margaret with a nervous shudder. 
 
 " 'Bout dat Morton murder, ain't it?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe he is founding it on the 
 Morton murder," said Margaret, tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 "Massa Claverin' kin certainly write 
 about murders," commented Martha. "He 
 used to make me listen t' his stories till I got 
 so doff goned nervous dat I use t' jump at 
 de sound ob my own breath." The old darky 
 shuddered elaborately as she bent to pick up 
 some of the many papers scattered about 
 her master's desk. 
 
 Margaret had been trying to eat her toast 
 in vain. "Martha, please take the tray 
 away. I can't eat," she said pleadingly. 
 
 The coloured woman looked at her pale 
 face anxiously. "Why don't yo' run out an' 
 take a little walk, Honey? Yo' ain't been 
 outside this house since yo' come hyer, more'n 
 two weeks ago," she said kindly. 
 
 "No, no, I can't go out. They might " 
 Margaret stopped quickly, then added:
 
 200 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "I must be here, ready to take Mr. Claver- 
 ing's dictation when the mood takes him, you 
 know." 
 
 "De roses is fading in yo' cheeks, Honey," 
 warned Martha. "An' de fus' ting you 
 know yo'll get a sickness. I don't wonder 
 yo' ain't got no affection fo' food wid dat 
 ole smoke stack a-puffin' all day long." She 
 picked up Clavering's blackened pipe from 
 the floor and with a wry face deposited it on 
 the mantel. "De smell ob dat old pipe 
 would put shame in a skunk. He ain't got 
 no cause to be so untidy, if he is a story- 
 writer. Ashes all over everything. I do 
 nothin' but sweep up pipe ashes all day long. 
 Huh! I jes' wish dey was dat ole debble's 
 ashes! Any idea how dat story's comin' 
 out? S'pose he knows himself?" she 
 branched off. 
 
 "Sometimes I think he does," said Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 "My gran' chile's been readin' de chap- 
 ters t' me as dey come out in de Telescope" 
 began Martha again; "powerful bright chile
 
 THE OTHER STORY 201 
 
 dat Mose. Las' time de young beautiful 
 lady was workin fo' de villun, an' he'd begun 
 t' s'picion her." Her eyes grew white as 
 she proceeded. "Den de villun, he laid a 
 trap to cotch her, an' den, jes as we got all 
 fussed up fer someting t' happen, Massa 
 Claverin' he say 'T' be continued in our 
 nex'!' Jes' as I got my breath already fer 
 a big gulp " 
 
 "Yes, yes," interrupted Margaret. "It 
 is very exciting, isn't it? But don't let me 
 keep you from your work." 
 
 "Oh, I ain't so crazy 'bout work dat I 
 can't hab a few lingerin' moments' talk. I 
 s'pose dere's a murder in de nex' chapter?" 
 she persisted. 
 
 "I don't know," Margaret answered 
 shortly. 
 
 "Well, some one's got t' get killed in de 
 nex' chapter, or dere'll be a heap ob disap- 
 pointin'," complained this unwilling though 
 garrulous consumer of the Clavering classics. 
 
 Her eyes lighted on the tray, still full of 
 food. "Why, chile, yo' ain't tasted a thing.
 
 202 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Fust yo' know yo' stummick will jes' go 
 ker-flummick. Why don't yo' get dat 
 young man who's buzzin' roun' tryin' to 
 bust in hyere t' take yo' fo' a ride in one ob 
 dem chukerty cabs, h'm?" 
 
 An imperative ring at the bell interrupted 
 the flow of words. "Now who can dat be?" 
 speculated Martha. 
 
 The sound and the old negress's last words 
 had sent a touch of colour to Margaret's 
 pale face. Perhaps it was Howell again 
 with some news of Victor. Howell had 
 been the only person to ring that bell since 
 she had come to this queer house. Again 
 came a peel that echoed through the hall. 
 
 "Hurry!" she called to Martha. 
 
 The negress gathered up the tray. "If 
 it's dat young man ob yours I certainly am 
 goin' t' 'fuse t' mission him. If dat ole 
 debble eber finds out I let him in before 
 dere'll be anudder murder to write a story 
 about, an' dis chile'll be de mangled corpse." 
 
 She went out, and Margaret listened and 
 heard her open the front door. Howell's
 
 THE OTHER STORY 203 
 
 eager voice rose to her as he parleyed with 
 the obdurate housekeeper. "No, yo' can't 
 come in hyer agin," Martha was protesting. 
 "Massa Clavering done tole ma neber to let 
 no one in while he's inspiring." 
 
 "Is that so, Sappho? Well, take this and 
 buy yourself a limousine." 
 
 Next moment Martha's voice rose again 
 in a pretended grumble. 
 
 "Well, you come in, but," she added with 
 a chuckle, "remember you bust right in 
 ober my dead body." 
 
 And indeed Howell was up the stairs in 
 a bound and grasped Margaret's out- 
 stretched hands in the study while the old 
 mammy was still expostulating. 
 
 As the door closed behind them, Jack 
 could see that the poor girl was shivering so 
 that she could hardly stand. "My dear 
 child," he sai danxiously, "what is it?" and 
 put his arms about her. 
 
 She felt his tender, protecting touch and 
 an overwhelming flood of feeling swept over 
 her. Her breath came hurriedly, and with
 
 204 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 a little sobbing cry she leaned her head 
 against his shoulder, her body shaken by a 
 perfect paroxysm of sobs. At first Jack 
 made no effort to quiet her, thinking that the 
 storm of emotion at last would ease the 
 strain; just once he bent and touched her 
 hair with his lips very tenderly. 
 
 When her sobs grew fainter he began to 
 talk to her. He was very gentle, but she 
 felt his strength lifting her with every 
 cheery word. "Come now, Margaret," he 
 said. "Steady, now. You're not going to 
 give out now, you know." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Howell," she pleaded, "I can't 
 go on. I can't go on." 
 
 Howell turned to her quickly, "Can't go 
 on?" he asked. "Why? What has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "Oh, everything! That awful old man! 
 He's so dreadful!" 
 
 "Clavering!" he cried, his hands clenched. 
 "Has he insulted you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no; not that. It's this story that 
 he is writing. My own story. He is un-
 
 THE OTHER STORY 205 
 
 canny, terrifying. He has brought it up 
 now to the very day of the murder, and 
 nearly everything that he says is true. I 
 don't know how he knows! To-night he 
 will begin the chapter of the murder. How 
 can I sit there calmly and take down his 
 dictation? I shall betray myself! I tell 
 you it is driving me mad!" A terrified ex- 
 citement lighted her strained face and her 
 great eyes burned feverishly. 
 
 Howell took her two hands in his and 
 spoke again, almost sternly. "Steady now, 
 Margaret! It may not last much longer. 
 I have some news for you." 
 
 His voice and the import of his words 
 quieted her at once. "Some word from 
 Victor?" she questioned tremulously. 
 
 "Not that! But I think that I may have 
 soon," he said. Then in hurried words he 
 told her of his discovery of the house and the 
 pigeons. She listened breathlessly, cling- 
 ing to his hand unheedingly. "Your Uncle 
 swears that he saw your brother at the win- 
 dow there in Fourth Street. He believes
 
 206 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 your brother understands from Wilson's 
 signal that he is to get a message to us 
 somehow." 
 
 The girl's face became transfigured with 
 the light of this new hope. "Victor! Then 
 he is alive ! Thank God ! Oh, thank God 1" 
 she cried. 
 
 "And is Uncle Mark watching the house 
 now?" she questioned eagerly. 
 
 "You bet he is," said Jack. "He is a 
 game old boy, Nunky. He'll spot any mes- 
 sage that comes through, I tell you. We 
 must not make a move until we get that mes- 
 sage. Now, don't you worry!" he added, 
 the tenderness creeping into his voice 
 again. 
 
 "But meanwhile they may kill him," ex- 
 claimed Margaret. 
 
 "No, 'Your brother is safe as long as noth- 
 ing is known.' That's what they wrote, you 
 know. They have kept their word so far. 
 But we can't take this risk with old Claver- 
 ing any longer. He's the only one we have 
 to fear now. He has boasted he'd walk into
 
 THE OTHER STORY 207 
 
 Headquarters with 'that stenographer' yet, 
 you know, from the beginning." 
 
 "I know! I knowl He would have no 
 mercy," Margaret cried. "None!" 
 
 "Well," said Jack, "that's hard to say 
 about the old curmudgeon. He may have 
 some bowels of compassion. On the other 
 hand you may be quite right. He might 
 take you to Headquarters with a brass band 
 heading the procession. He might give up 
 his own mother to satisfy his vanity. The 
 old devil!" 
 
 "What can we do?" pleaded Margaret. 
 
 "Get you out of here," he answered 
 promptly. "That's one thing we must do." 
 
 "Oh, thank God you think so!" cried poor 
 Margaret. 
 
 "I have been thinking so ever since I read 
 the first instalment of his story," went on 
 Jack, "and now I've made up my mind defi- 
 nitely. We'll smuggle you off to my moth- 
 er's in New Jersey. Yesterday I told her 
 the whole story." 
 
 "You told her everything?" cried Mar-
 
 208 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 garet. Her face, which had been pale, 
 flooded rosy with colour. "Oh, you should 
 not have done that. It was not safe." 
 
 "Now listen to me, Margaret," Jack said 
 quietly. "Your story is as safe with my 
 mother as with the sphinx. She's the best 
 little mother in the world, too." His voice 
 broke for a moment as he went on: "Her 
 arms are waiting to take you in just as if 
 you were her own little girl." He saw the 
 tumult of emotion his words had caused and 
 hurried on: "Mother has a little house 
 down in Jersey which she is going to open," 
 he explained. "She will take you there and 
 keep you till we have your brother safe and 
 sound in New York." He added, in a de- 
 termined tone that was in itself an augury of 
 success; "And we'll do it now, too, don't 
 you fear." 
 
 "And then and then " faltered Mar- 
 garet, "I suppose I shall have to stand trial 
 for murder." She covered her face with 
 her hands and shuddered at the thought.
 
 THE OTHER STORY 209 
 
 Jack gave an answering exclamation of hor- 
 ror. "My dear child," he cried, "have you 
 had that on your mind with all the rest? 
 Why, don't you know you have but to tell 
 your story to the District Attorney and 
 you'll be hailed as the liberator of your city? 
 Oh, my dear, you do believe me, don't you? 
 Promise me you will not let yourself think of 
 that again!" 
 
 "I promise," she said, smiling wanly. 
 She held out both hands to him. "Why are 
 you so good to me?" she asked. 
 
 "Margaret, don't you know? Can't you 
 see?" pleaded Jack. 
 
 "See?" she echoed brokenly. 
 
 "Margaret!" He seized her by the shoul- 
 ders, with a grip that hurt her. "Put that 
 look out of your eyes," he commanded. 
 "Do you think I'm a scoundrel? I want 
 you for my wife, to care for you, to love 
 and protect you as I never believed I could 
 want anybody in this world. Margaret, 
 don't you see?"
 
 210 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 She looked up into his face with eyes of 
 wondering misery. "Have you forgotten?" 
 she whispered to him. 
 
 "Forgotten!" he repeated. His lips 
 twisted into a strange smile. "My God! 
 Can I ever forget? There are moments 
 when, if I could dig my fingers into the 
 throat of any cur that so much as laid a fin- 
 ger on you there is no awful, bloody, man- 
 gling thing I would not do to him." 
 
 His face was ghastly under its tan, his 
 eyes aflame. A little cry came from Mar- 
 garet's lips, and he turned away quickly, 
 saying with a rough laugh: "Oh, I guess 
 I'm the original cave-man all right, when it 
 comes to avenging the woman I love." 
 
 The girl, with a pitiful attempt at light- 
 ness in her voice laid her hand on his shoul- 
 der, mimicking: "Steady, Jack! Steady 
 now." 
 
 For reply he drew her tender fluttering 
 hand down and held it firm in his. "Mar- 
 garet, do you love me?" he demanded. 
 
 "No, Jack, no I can't I must-"
 
 THE OTHER STORY 211 
 
 "Is there any one else?" he interrupted 
 fiercely. 
 
 "No, no, no!" she denied, in a very pas- 
 sion of expostulation. 
 
 "Then why?" demanded Jack again. "Is 
 it that you can't care for me, you think?" 
 
 "I must not care for you; you must not 
 ask me," said Margaret. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Jack, you know why," she went on 
 bravely. "I put all thought of love and 
 marriage out of my life forever four years 
 ago." 
 
 "Margaret!" cried Jack. "Do you 
 think ? Margaret, my poor little girl. 
 Why your heart is as pure " He opened 
 his arms again, to fold her to his heart and 
 seal the sentence. 
 
 "Oh, please, please!" she cried. "Don't! 
 I must not let you Besides, it is not that 
 alone- I must go on in this work I've taken 
 up. Other girls must be saved Oh! don't 
 you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, Margaret, I understand," said Jack
 
 212 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 quietly. "But you can't go on alone. I'm 
 with you in the work now, you know." 
 
 "Oh, and that too," cried Margaret. 
 "You don't know how it troubles me that 
 I've dragged you, too, into danger. I " 
 
 "Then you do care?" put in Jack eagerly. 
 
 "No, no, I don't," she said with sobbing 
 breath. "Not that way. I" 
 
 Howell put one arm around her shoul- 
 ders and with her pretty chin cupped in 
 his other hand raised her face to his until 
 he could look deep into her eyes. "Mar- 
 garet, look at me," he said, in a voice 
 of tender authority. "We'll have no false 
 pride. We will have no evasions. Sup- 
 pose you put this through, suppose we bring 
 this gang to justice, as you and your brother 
 and now I with you, have planned what 
 then?" 
 
 "Why, then," said Margaret, "we'll " 
 
 A knock on the door and Martha's voice 
 in a stage whisper, "It's me, Missie," inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 Howell opened the door, with ill-con-
 
 THE OTHER STORY 213 
 
 cealed disappointment, and the old negress 
 entered stealthily. 
 
 "Martha, Martha, what is it?" cried Mar- 
 garet feverishly, before the woman had a 
 chance to speak. 
 
 "There's a man down stairs, Honey, who 
 says he must see yo'," said Martha. 
 
 The girl cast a terrified glance at Howell. 
 
 "But he ain't so young nor so scruntious- 
 lookin' as this one," she added, with a 
 chuckle and a broad wink at Jack. "Shall 
 I let him up?" 
 
 Before the question could be answered 
 Mark Wilson pushed by the housekeeper 
 and entered the room, breathless from ex- 
 citement and hurry. 
 
 Margaret saw him, and gave a low cry of 
 relief and ran to him. "Oh, it's you, Uncle 
 Mark," she sobbed, "only you."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 
 
 MARTHA blinked the whites of her old eyes 
 sympathetically upon the situation. 
 
 "Yars, he said as how he was your uncle," 
 she interposed; "and as I ain't got no spe- 
 cial orders to keep out relations I just let 
 him in. I tole him dere was a young man 
 a buzzing roun' here, an' when he come up 
 he'd better knock on de doh. I tole him he 
 wouldn't find no 'Welcome' on de mat in 
 front of it. No, suh!" She gave a mean- 
 ing wink at Howell as she left the room upon 
 this comment. 
 
 "Uncle Mark, tell us, did you get any- 
 thing?" interrogated Margaret and the re- 
 porter of their new visitor. 
 
 The old man told his story breathlessly, 
 exhausted as he was from his unusual exer- 
 tion. "After you left, Howell," he began, 
 
 214
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 215 
 
 "I went back to the roof, you know, in 
 Fourth Street. I watched until I saw a 
 hand thrust through the bars of that window 
 there, and make a motion of dropping some- 
 thing. Then I made my way as rapidly as 
 possible to the street again. A lot of ur- 
 chins had collected in front of the empty 
 house, and were looking at something in the 
 hand of one of them. They talked and kept 
 looking upward, as though what they'd 
 found had dropped from the sky. 'What 
 you got there, boys?' I said, as I walked up 
 to them, and I tried to laugh. 'Gee, I guess 
 it's a riddle. It's got my goat,' said one of 
 them as with a shake of his head he held out 
 a linen rag which I could see had writing on 
 it. I tell you my heart was beating when 
 I took the thing from that boy's hand. 'I 
 guess some one's been kidding you boys,' 
 I said and walked carelessly off, the thing 
 still in my hand, as calmly as I could. Once 
 I turned the corner I jumped into a taxi and 
 here I am." 
 
 Margaret seized the piece of cloth her
 
 216 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 uncle held out to her and studied it intently. 
 
 "It is a message! It is, it is!" she cried 
 exultantly, and hurried from the room. In 
 a moment she was back again with a small 
 note-book in her hand a cipher. She 
 spead the rag out on the table and seated 
 herself, Howell looking over her shoulder, 
 his brow wrinkling in perplexity at the 
 blurred scrawl she held before her. 
 
 "Fire escape quintus blue coats 
 cord from old rug ground work dusk." 
 
 "What is it?" he demanded. "Can you 
 make it out?" 
 
 "It is in our private cipher," Margaret 
 explained. She turned the leaves of the 
 book in her hand rapidly and went on with 
 her code. 
 
 "Immense!" ejaculated Howell. "Sorry, 
 Mr. Wilson," he went on, turning to the 
 elder man, "but I'll have to ask you to get 
 back to that house just as quick as your 
 legs will take you. And don't leave it for 
 a minute if you have to bring it with you. 
 Don't take your eyes from it."
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 217 
 
 "I know," said Wilson. "Ill go. Will 
 you be there soon?" 
 
 "Yes, just as soon as we dig out this ci- 
 pher. Hurry!" In his excitement he al- 
 most pushed Mark Wilson from the room. 
 
 "Can you make it out?" he asked as he 
 joined Margaret at the table. 
 
 "Yes. The first word, 'fire-escape,' 
 means 'Am closely guarded !' ' 
 
 "Good! Good! Now quintus." 
 
 "Quintus, quintus " she repeated. 
 "Yes, here it is fifth floor." 
 
 Howell put the words together. "Am 
 closely guarded: 'Fifth floor.' Bully! 
 We're getting it ! Now 'blue coat !' ' 
 
 "Blue coat blue coats," she murmured 
 as she turned the pages; "I have it; it 
 means, 'Don't bring police.' ' 
 
 "Well, I should say not!" ejaculated the 
 reporter. "Now let me see, what's the 
 next: 'Cord from old rug.'' 
 
 For a few seconds the girl searched, then 
 shook her head in puzzled disappointment. 
 "There is no key to that here," she said.
 
 218 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 But after a moment's thought, she added, 
 "Oh, yes, that must be it! He has made a 
 cord from an old rug!" 
 
 Howell jumped to his feet as he caught 
 the significance of the words. "You have 
 it! That's it!" he cried. "He's going to 
 communicate with us by means of that cord ! 
 The rest! Now quick! quick! 'Ground 
 work at dusk.' What does that mean?" 
 
 A moment's hasty, trembling search, 
 then Margaret read: "Will lower. Will 
 lower?" She looked at the reporter ques- 
 tioningly. 
 
 "Don't you get it? Don't you see?" cried 
 Jack. "He will lower that cord at dusk." 
 His eyes were blazing and his face grew 
 crimson with excitement. "Am I a sleuth! 
 Are we sleuths, you and I?" he almost 
 shouted. Then he pointed to the window. 
 "Look, it is long after dusk now. Perhaps 
 the cord is there already. I'll get a return 
 message up to him if I have to climb up the 
 cord with it myself."
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 219 
 
 "But you'll be careful," cautioned Mar- 
 garet, "won't you? Remember there's dan- 
 ger?" 
 
 "Oh, hell with danger! Oh, my dear, I 
 beg your pardon," he added contritely. 
 
 Snatching a piece of paper he hastily 
 scribbled, reading aloud as he wrote: 
 "Friends are watching. How strongly 
 guarded? Strike match at window when 
 ready to return answer." 
 
 He folded the paper and put it in his 
 pocket, then turned to Margaret again. 
 "There! He'll be wise to that. Now keep 
 your nerve, little girl, until to-night. Re- 
 member, I'm with you." He caught her 
 hands in his and laid his lips on them, un- 
 rebufFed. "Margaret, you are not to forget 
 what I said to you," he commanded. "Re- 
 member!" 
 
 Again the wonderful smile flashed in her 
 eyes. "I'm only afraid it's you that may 
 want me to forget," she said. 
 
 He held her hands as in a vise, and his face
 
 220 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 was grim with determination as he answered, 
 huskily: "You must believe me, whatever 
 happens I >" 
 
 The slamming of the front door and the 
 peg-peg of a walking stick in the hall froze 
 the words on his lips. "Is that Clavering?" 
 he asked Margaret, hurriedly, as he saw her 
 face turn white and her eyes grow large with 
 apprehension. 
 
 "Yes! Yes! That awful man. I'm 
 terrified at the very sound of his feet," she 
 breathed. 
 
 "Courage!" Jack whispered to her. 
 "You must not give way now. Remember 
 what it means. Remember that we are 
 working to save Victor, and that he will get 
 a message to us to-night." 
 
 At his words her faltering spirit rallied. 
 "I'll try, oh, I'll try," she whispered back; 
 "I will do my very best." 
 
 An angry roar at the door made them 
 both turn suddenly. 
 
 "I thought you told me you didn't have 
 a feller!" yelled Clavering, looking at Mar-
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 221 
 
 garet vindictively, furious at this invasion 
 of his sanctum, sanctorum. He directed an 
 annihilating glance at Howell too, who was 
 making desperate attempts to meet the situ- 
 ation with placid unconcern so far as Mar- 
 garet was concerned. 
 
 "Now get into your reverse, and back up, 
 Little Nemo," he taunted, trying to draw 
 the novelist's fire upon himself. 
 
 "Don't call me Little Nemo!" Clavering 
 roared, shaking his cane at Howell threaten- 
 ingly. "What business have you here in 
 my house, anyway, I should like to know? 
 I told that black devil never to allow any one 
 up here. Any one! Get out! And you," 
 he added, turning to the trembling girl, 
 "You get to work! No feller, indeed!" 
 
 With a final outburst he shambled off into 
 his bedroom to change his coat. 
 
 Howell hurriedly approached Margaret 
 again. "I will get you out of here some 
 way to-night," he whispered. "Don't 
 fear!" 
 
 "Oh, can't you take me now?" she pleaded.
 
 222 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "No. He must not know. He'd raise a 
 row. What time does the old dub sleep?" 
 
 "He never sleeps," sighed Margaret. 
 
 "Could you get out about nine o'clock?" 
 persisted Jack. 
 
 "Yes; I can and I will," replied Mar- 
 garet with determination, ready to take any 
 chance now that should free her from the 
 strain of Clavering's dictation. 
 
 "Then meet me half way down the block 
 at nine," said Jack. "I will be there 
 with a taxi." He broke off abruptly and 
 commenced whistling an airy bit from "The 
 Pink Lady" as Clavering came back into the 
 room. 
 
 "You here yet?" exclaimed the criminolo- 
 gist irascibly. "Can't you find the door? 
 There it is. And when you leave take the 
 stairs up with you, so you can't come back." 
 
 The reporter gave no sign of perturba- 
 tion. "Now don't get excited," he cau- 
 tioned. "Just wait till you hear why I 
 called." 
 
 "I know why. To see her."
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 223 
 
 "Oh, guess again," said Jack. 
 
 "Then why?" asked Clavering. "The 
 devil knows I didn't invite you. I wouldn't 
 deprive him of your company," he chuckled, 
 his little eyes twinkling malevolently. He 
 turned to the mirror to adjust his black 
 skull-cap. 
 
 "The Sunday Editor told me to call and 
 ask if you can have your next chapter ready 
 for Saturday," said Jack. 
 
 "I don't know whether I can or not," 
 snapped Clavering. "You can tell your 
 Sunday Editor that he'll have it when I get 
 it good and ready, and if he sends you here 
 again he won't get it at all. My brains are 
 at my command. Not his," he shouted. 
 
 "Well, if your brains were at my com- 
 mand," retorted Jack, "I'd have them 
 canned and put on the market as an after 
 dinner nut. Good-night!" 
 
 With this parting shot the reporter 
 slammed the door and departed. Margaret 
 stifled a little sob of terror as she heard the 
 outer door bang. He had gone and left her
 
 224 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 alone. There was nothing that she could 
 do. Fate held her in its net and held her 
 fast. She heard the clock strike and her 
 thoughts came back as from a long distance. 
 
 "Twenty-one twenty-two twenty- 
 three" 
 
 She looked in the direction of the voice. 
 Clavering was at his hourly exercises, his 
 wrath forgotten for the moment. 
 
 But only for a moment. "That's a fool 
 reporter,* he growled, as soon as he had re- 
 covered sufficient breath. "How am I go- 
 ing to finish my story if I am disturbed in 
 this way?" He wheeled round on Mar- 
 garet with vehemence. "He came to see 
 you, I know. Does he think he can fool me? 
 ME? Now if you've got any love affairs 
 you keep them outside my house. Do you 
 see?" 
 
 "Mr. Clavering " protested Margaret 
 indignantly. 
 
 He cut her short. "Don't give me any 
 argument. I got a new train of thought in 
 my walk and that idiot has driven it out of
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 225 
 
 my head. Where's my pipe? Where in 
 hell is my pipe?" he demanded, searching 
 vainly on his table. 
 
 "Martha was here a little while ago; per- 
 haps she knows," suggested Margaret. 
 
 "Oh, she never knows anything. She 
 never did and she never will know any- 
 thing," he sputtered. He went to the head 
 of the stairs and called her. "Martha! 
 Martha!" he yelled. "Come up here!" 
 
 Hasty shuffling foot-steps sounded on the 
 stairs as the poor negress obeyed her mas- 
 ter's imperative summons. "Yas, sir! I'se 
 a comin', I'se a comin'," she panted. 
 
 "Well, stop coming and get here," he 
 shouted back. Then in a moment he re- 
 lapsed into a whining tone. "Everything 
 to disturb me to-day. Don't do that!" he 
 snarled at Margaret, who was sharpening 
 her pencil. 
 
 Martha entered, puffing from the effort 
 of her hasty ascent of two flights of stairs. 
 "Did yo' call me, sah?" she asked. 
 
 "Call you? What did you think I was
 
 226 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 doing? Taking vocal exercise? Where's 
 my pipe?" 
 
 "Whar did yo' leave it, sah?" 
 
 "I don't want to know where I left it. I 
 want to know where it is," shouted the au- 
 thor. 
 
 "Let me think. Whar did I see dat 
 pipe," said Martha, scratching her head as 
 if to stimulate remembrance. 
 
 "Stop scratching your head," com- 
 manded her employer. "If you've got 
 such a thing as a thought, don't disturb it. 
 Ah! Here it is," he ejaculated, finding the 
 pipe at last on the mantel, and filling it from 
 his tobacco jar. 
 
 "Huh!" muttered Martha, "I always find 
 dat nasty thing on the floor. S'pose I ain't 
 
 got nothing else t' do, side huntin' fo' dat. 
 j " 
 
 "Stop muttering," shouted Clavering. 
 "If you've got anything to say, speak up. 
 Do you hear? Speak up!" 
 
 "Yes, sah!" bellowed Martha. "Yes, 
 sah!"
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 227 
 
 "Don't shriek at me," complained Claver- 
 ing petulantly. "And why did you let that 
 fool reporter up here? Haven't I told you 
 never to allow any one in this house? 
 Haven't I?" 
 
 "No, sah. Yes, sah," stammered Martha. 
 "I tole him he couldn't come in, but he jes' 
 busted in right by me." 
 
 "Well, if you let him in again I'll skin 
 you alive, do you hear? Now get out!" 
 
 Martha threw one irate glance at her em- 
 ployer and banged the door as she left the 
 room, adding fresh fuel to Clavering's irri- 
 tation. 
 
 "Everything to annoy me to-day," he 
 whimpered, like a great baby, as he struck 
 another match for his pipe. "Had the fin- 
 ish of this chapter worked out beautifully. 
 It all came to me in my walk, and now 
 it's gone. Left me," he went on mourn- 
 fully. 
 
 He struck his fifth and successful match 
 at last, changed his spectacles and placed 
 his manuscript before him. <f Well, well,
 
 228 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 let's get at it! Where were we? Read the 
 last I gave you." 
 
 With a little silent prayer for courage to 
 go on, Margaret began to read her notes. 
 
 " 'For a thrilling moment the woman 
 stood silent, motionless. She could scarcely 
 credit her good fortune; the golden oppor- 
 tunity to search for the coveted information 
 had come. She listened. But no sound 
 reached her waiting ears.' ' 
 
 "Waiting ears," repeated Clavering. 
 "Waiting ears. Now let's see." 
 
 He paused a moment, picturing in his 
 mind the room at the Beaumont, no slightest 
 detail of which had escaped his ferret-like 
 eyes on his visit to it that memorable after- 
 noon. 
 
 "The door to Morton's bedroom was over 
 there," he mused aloud. "The room in 
 which the stenographer worked there; and 
 the desk with the telephone down there." 
 He indicated the positions with his hand as 
 he spoke. "That's right, isn't it?" he in- 
 quired of Margaret suddenly.
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 229 
 
 Startled she replied, "Why, how should I 
 know?" 
 
 "Why? Good Lord! Haven't you 
 heard me go over it times enough to know?" 
 he inquired testily. "Oh, all you think of is 
 getting your salary, I suppose." Then he 
 began pacing up and down the well-worn 
 track on the faded red carpet, repeating to 
 himself: "Listening ears. Listening ears. 
 What was that word I had? Stream? 
 Current? Ah!" bringing his hands to- 
 gether with a resounding smack "Tide. 
 That was it. Tide ! Now it's coming back. 
 Ready?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Margaret, gripping her 
 pencil to keep it steady in her trembling fin- 
 gers. 
 
 ' 'At last the tide had turned in her fa- 
 vour. She was alone in the room of the man 
 she hated with all the power of her heart. 
 Suddenly, realising this ' ' 
 
 He paused, as if some word he uttered had 
 struck a discordant note. "No! No, that 
 won't do. Not enough distinction in that.
 
 230 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Change it to: 'Realising this in one blind- 
 ing thought, that swept across her brain with 
 the vividness of a flash of forked lightning, 
 she sprang forward with quick, stealthy 
 steps to take advantage of her oppor- 
 tunity.' " 
 
 Margaret's pencil slipped from her fin- 
 gers. Her lips parted as if she must cry 
 out to him to stop. 
 
 ' 'Reaching the desk,' " he went on, " 'she 
 tried to pry open the top, then began hunt- 
 ing feverishly among the papers, in the 
 drawers, for the object of her search. Alas, 
 it was not there. Like a baffled animal 
 hunting its prey she paused. But she was 
 not the woman to be beaten by one disap- 
 pointment. She continued her desperate 
 search. Reaching the table by the window 
 she knelt, and ripping up the edge of the 
 carpet, with an exultant cry, she drew forth 
 the paper she had been working months to 
 capture.' Got all that?" 
 
 With an air of satisfaction Clavering
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 231 
 
 paused to relight his pipe, and the girl 
 gripped her table in a mighty effort at self 
 control. 
 
 "Ha!" chuckled the novelist, pleased and 
 gratified with the thrilling portrayal; "I 
 suppose you wonder how I knew that?" 
 
 "Well," stammered Margaret, trying to 
 conceal her terror. "It is rather " 
 
 "Not at all," he interrupted her. "Sim- 
 ply observation and common sense. Just 
 common sense. Nothing else." 
 
 Margaret gave a sigh of relief and 
 breathed more easily. If that were all! 
 She had feared he might be trembling on the 
 verge of one of his curious, terrifying intui- 
 tions. 
 
 "And of course the fool police," went on 
 Clavering, "never bothered to investigate 
 the edges of the carpet as I did. Old grape 
 nuts knew enough for that! And I found 
 that a tack had been pulled up under the 
 table by the window and the dust there had 
 been disturbed. Only spot where it was.
 
 232 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 H'm," he grunted. "It's an old trick! 
 Used it in one of my own stories once ; that's 
 how I happened to look there." 
 
 "But how did you know that a paper was 
 hidden there?" questioned Margaret nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 "Well, it couldn't very well have been a 
 brick house, now, could it?" he vouchsafed. 
 "Where were we?" 
 
 Where were they? It was unnecessary 
 to refer to her notes, the words were fairly 
 dancing before her eyes, burned into her 
 brain ! ' 'Drew forth the paper she had been 
 working months to secure,' " she repeated 
 faintly. 
 
 " 'She had been working months to secure. 
 But even as she did so, a sound fell 
 upon her waiting ears that sent a cold thrill 
 of horror to her heart Some one was mov- 
 ing in the room, behind her/ Put that last 
 sentence in italics. That's the end of that 
 chapter. Now put 'To be continued in our 
 next/ " 
 
 "Martha ! Bring up some drinking water
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 238 
 
 and have it cold too, do you hear?" he 
 shouted out into the hall. 
 
 "Yes, sah!" came up the response from 
 the nether regions. 
 
 "Rather thrilling, that last chapter, I 
 think," he remarked to Margaret, in a tone 
 of self-gratulation. "Knew that I could 
 make a story of that Morton murder, soon 
 as I heard it. It's all true, too. Ha! If 
 the police would only read my stories in- 
 stead of following up senseless clues they 
 might catch that woman easily. Might 
 catch her myself, eh? And show 'em there's 
 a little air left in 'that flat tire' yet." Evi- 
 dently Captain Ryan's words still rankled 
 in his soul. "Maybe I'll catch her yet, 
 maybe I shall," he mused as he paced the 
 floor of the study back and forth. 
 
 "Catch her! Catch her!" the words 
 burned themselves still deeper into Mar- 
 garet's brain as with shaking fingers she tried 
 to type out the last of Clavering's chapter. 
 
 "Here's de water, sah, and de ebenin' pa- 
 pers," announced Martha, coming in with
 
 234 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 a disgusted sniff at the smoke-laden atmos- 
 phere. 
 
 Clavering took the papers and settled 
 down in his chair to search their pages. 
 
 "What's this?" he exclaimed. Excitedly 
 he began to read aloud : ' 'PLAN TO STOP 
 
 CRIME WAVE IN NEW YORK * * * BOARD OF 
 ALDERMEN OFFERS REWARD FOR DETECTION 
 
 OF CRIMINALS * * * Owing to the un- 
 paralleled wave of crime that has swept 
 over New York city, and because of 
 the many atrocities that have gone un- 
 punished, the Board of Aldermen this 
 morning passed a resolution, offering a 
 reward of five hundred dollars for informa- 
 tion that will lead to the arrest and convic- 
 tion of the perpetrator of each of the 
 following crimes: The murder of William 
 Cutler in Bronx Park on October thirtieth. 
 The abduction of Willie Saphiro in Brook- 
 lyn on November first.' ' 
 
 "I found out that one," commented Clav- 
 ering with conviction. "He got away to 
 Europe. I told the police how to catch him.
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 235 
 
 but they laughed at me." He glowered into 
 space for a moment, then continued: 
 'The blowing up of the house at 17 Grand 
 Street on December first and the killing 
 of twelve Italians! Huh! Black Hand 
 stuff! No interest in that!" 
 
 At the next item Margaret's heart 
 stopped beating for a moment, then gal- 
 loped on like a race-horse: "'Murder of 
 James Morton at the Hotel Beaumont' " 
 Clavering sat bolt upright and scanned the 
 lines again intently. "What do you think 
 of that?" he ejaculated. 
 
 "Of what?" inquired the girl with as- 
 sumed curiosity. 
 
 "Five hundred dollars offered for the ar- 
 rest of that stenographer." 
 
 "What stenographer?" 
 
 "Why, the one who killed James Mor- 
 ton. The woman we've been writing 
 about," Clavering explained, looking at her 
 shrewdly. 
 
 He rose again and began to pace the floor 
 excitedly. "Five hundred dollars! That
 
 236 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 is a lot of money ! And think of the glory of 
 catching her too! That's worth as much as 
 the reward in advertising alone !" His colour 
 rose in his cheeks and his eyes glittered. 
 "I ought to be able to catch that girl! 
 What's my imagination worth if I can't work 
 that out? The clue ought to come to me, 
 just as it did in the case of Father Domin- 
 ick. I literally imagined how that crime 
 was committed. Pictured the murderer, 
 too, and it all turned out very nearly as I 
 had described it in my story." 
 
 He caught up the paper again and read: 
 " 'Any one having information regarding 
 the above, write or call on Inspector Mc- 
 Kim, Police Headquarters, 250 Centre 
 Street. Telephone 3000 Spring/ " 
 "McKim?" said Margaret; "is he?" 
 "Well, well!" interrupted her tormentor 
 unheedingly, and dropped the paper and 
 rubbed his hands together chuckling exult- 
 antly. "I'll get her! I'll get her!" he 
 cried. "I've got it all in my mind right up 
 to the point of her disappearance. But
 
 TO BE CONTINUED 237 
 
 that'll come too! That'll come! I never 
 knew how the Priest's assassin got away 
 from the church undetected, but I imagined 
 that he put on some of the robes he found in 
 the vestry; and, by Jupiter, that was the 
 very thing he really did. What do you 
 think of that?" he demanded, pointing his 
 long, bony finger at Margaret. "Huh! 
 You think I know nothing about the detec- 
 tion of criminals, eh? Well, I'm going to 
 show you that I do. I'm going to show you 
 by describing in the very next chapter just 
 how that crime was committed." 
 
 "But how can you? That would be im- 
 possible!" exclaimed the girl. In spite of 
 the danger closing in upon her she could not 
 but feel a curious interest in the remark- 
 able uncanny workings of this old man's 
 mind. 
 
 "Impossible, is it?" he muttered, ram- 
 ming a fresh charge of inspiration into the 
 bowl of his pipe. "We'll see! Now, we'll 
 go on again. Chapter eight. THE CEIME 
 * no, no, make it THE MURDER/'
 
 238 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "The Murder," Margaret wrote down, 
 and for a moment, in the stillness of the 
 room, she thought her heart must be beating 
 loud enough for Clavering to hear.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE MURDER 
 
 "THE Murder!" 
 
 Clavering tasted the words upon his lips 
 like an epicure with an inviting dish. "Got 
 that?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, then, now: ready." He took his 
 favourite pose, with one hand resting on the 
 table, his other outstretched and holding his 
 pipe, and began his dictation. " 'For a brief 
 thought the woman stood motionless, trans- 
 fixed with terror.' . . . No, make it hor- 
 ror. . . . 'Transfixed with horror! And 
 then slowly, summoning her whole strength, 
 with one supreme effort she faced about. 
 . . . The man in whose room she thought 
 she was alone . . . the man whom she 
 hated and feared most in all the world, was 
 
 239
 
 240 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 standing there with his back to the bedroom 
 door, watching her, a cruel smile in his leer- 
 ing eyes.' ' 
 
 He paused to search for a match and Mar- 
 garet gave a gasping cry. Clavering heard 
 it, and turned quickly to see his assistant 
 sitting with her face buried in her trembling 
 hands. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" he inquired 
 fretfully. "You're not sick, are you?" 
 
 Margaret forced a little laugh, desperately 
 shaking off the sensation of faintness that 
 threatened her. "Oh, no, no, it's nothing. 
 Only it was such a tense moment in the story. 
 You made it so real that I just felt I must 
 scream for the girl." This time the laugh 
 was more successfully hysterical. 
 
 For a moment a smile lighted up Claver- 
 ing's scowling face. Here was real appre- 
 ciation of his genius. None of his other 
 stenographers had ever been more than dum- 
 mies ; this one had imagination. 
 
 "You bet I make them real," he chuckled, 
 "and it's going to be even more real pres-
 
 THE MURDER 241 
 
 ently. Now, ready." His long arm began 
 its gesticulation. " 'For a tense, breathless 
 moment the two regarded each other in si- 
 lence. It was the man who spoke at last. 
 ... In a sneering voice he taunted her 
 . . . telling her he had trapped her, and 
 demanding the paper she had stolen. . . . 
 But the woman stood her ground, defying 
 him to do his worst. . . . Then suddenly, 
 as the man realised the danger that the in- 
 formation she had in her possession might 
 hold for some one . . . some one he 
 wanted to save, he grasped the telephone on 
 the desk to warn those in danger . . .' ' 
 
 "No, no! It was not to warn!" cried 
 Margaret, impelled as if by some hypnotic 
 power to tell the truth. Too late she real- 
 ised what she had done, and shrank from the 
 anger of Clavering's face. 
 
 "How do you know? Am I writing this 
 story, or are you?" he roared. 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" she said pleadingly. 
 "I was so interested." Again she gave a 
 nervous little laugh. "Do you know I find
 
 242 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 I can hardly help working out that plot my- 
 self?" 
 
 "Oh ! You want to be a novelist, do you?" 
 he grunted. "Well, be one, and starve 1" 
 He stood for a moment trying to pick up 
 the thread of his narrative. "What did you 
 interrupt me for?" he snarled, helpless until 
 his eyes fell upon the telephone on the desk. 
 
 "Oh, I have it! 'He seized the telephone 
 on the desk to warn those in danger. 
 "Quick," he cried, "give me the Cafe Rossa- 
 mano!" (The proprietor may not like 
 that, although he ought to pay me a thousand 
 dollars for the ad. Make it the Cafe Ros- 
 sini.) ' "Give me the Cafe Rossini. Quick!" 
 he cried. . . . The woman, determined not 
 to be thwarted in her purpose, sprang to- 
 wards the desk. . . . There, lying on the 
 table was a stiletto. ... As the murderous 
 thing caught her gaze, a glittering steel-like 
 look flashed into her grey eyes.' ' 
 
 "Grey eyes!" cried Margaret. The words 
 brought her to her feet. Was this another 
 freak of his imagination, or was he "How
 
 "SHE HAD EYES LIKE YOURS, ANT) SHE WAS ABOUT YOUR HEIGHT, TOO."
 
 THE MURDER 243 
 
 did you know her eyes were grey?" she 
 stammered. 
 
 "How did I know her eyes were grey?" 
 He looked over his spectacles at her. "I 
 know it by the study of inclinations. Did 
 you think I selected the colour at random? 
 Brown-eyed people never have self-control 
 enough to commit desperate deeds. Nor do 
 blue-eyed people; nor have they the quick- 
 ness required in such a crisis as this. She 
 had grey eyes," he snapped emphatically. 
 He moved a step nearer to the girl and 
 peered into her big, startled eyes. "Eyes 
 just like yours," he said. 
 
 "Like mine?" she echoed, shrinking back 
 from his piercing scrutiny. 
 
 "Yes. She had eyes like yours, and she 
 was about your height, too," he added, as 
 with a calculating glance he took her meas- 
 ure. 
 
 "Why?" she asked breathlessly. "Why 
 do you think that?" 
 
 "She must have been about your height to 
 strike the blow at the angle she did. Like
 
 244 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 that !" He made as if he were striking him- 
 self above the heart, to illustrate his point. 
 
 Margaret was held as in a spell by his eyes. 
 Magnified by the powerful lenses of his spec- 
 tacles they seemed to bore into her very mind 
 like a drill. He extended his long arm to- 
 wards her. "Look here!" he exclaimed, as 
 if struck by a sudden thought. 
 
 The girl grew rigid. What was coming? 
 Was he going to proclaim her the murderer 
 of James Morton then and there? 
 
 "Look here," he said again, "when this 
 story is published in book form and the ar- 
 tist begins his illustrations I'm going to have 
 you pose for him." 
 
 At this sudden drop from tragedy her 
 face crimsoned, then went white again; and 
 then a sudden impulse seized her to escape 
 from his magnetic power. "Mr. Clavering," 
 she called out, "I can't go on with your 
 work. You will have to get another stenog- 
 rapher," she protested. 
 
 At her announcement, the glass of water 
 that he was in the act of swallowing almost
 
 THE MURDER 245 
 
 strangled him. "Can't go on?" he coughed 
 and sputtered. "What are you talking 
 about? Why can't you go on?" 
 
 "For two days now I have had only three 
 hours' sleep," she answered tremulously, 
 "and I am breaking down under the strain. 
 You will have to get some one else. I can't 
 go on." 
 
 She turned wearily to the door, as if her 
 departure were a thing immediate. 
 
 "Wait a minute!" he cried, catching her 
 by the arm. "You mustn't. I can't get 
 any one else now. I must finish this chapter 
 to-night. Wait!" he begged almost pite- 
 ously, as she shook her head. Then he 
 changed his tone and tried flattery. "You're 
 the best one I've ever had to take my 
 dictation. You're a steady girl, always 
 ready for work, never want to go out. Per- 
 haps you are only nervous. You do look a 
 little peaked, I see." He half pushed, half 
 led her back to the table as he talked, pat- 
 ting her shoulder encouragingly. "Now 
 we'll work till eight o'clock, and then I'll
 
 246 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 send you with Martha to the moving-picture 
 show. There, there." He placed her pen- 
 cil in her nerveless fingers. He fumbled in 
 his pocket and then, as if he were trying to 
 soothe an unhappy child, "Have a pepper- 
 mint?" he asked, and offered her a candy 
 which he pulled out of a paper bag. 
 
 "No, I thank you," she declined mechan- 
 ically. 
 
 Could she go on till eight o'clock, she won- 
 dered. She had promised Jack to try. She 
 would try, once more. She took up her pen- 
 cil, with unconquerable will. "I am ready, 
 Mr. Clavering," she said. 
 
 "Good girl! Good girl!" he said, and 
 patronisingly patted her arm. "Come on! 
 Come on! We've been wasting time. We 
 must get along with the work. What was 
 that last I gave you?" 
 
 And Margaret's voice was steady again 
 now as she read : ' 'For an instant, as the 
 murderous thing caught her gaze, a steel-like 
 look flashed into her grey eyes.' ' 
 
 "Yes, yes! That's it!" he nodded. "'A
 
 THE MURDER 247 
 
 steel-like look flashed into her grey eyes.' ' 
 
 For a moment the novelist stood in con- 
 templation, then as was his custom he began 
 to work out what he called the "Mechanics" 
 of his situation. 
 
 "Let's see. The stiletto was lying on the 
 table there He was stabbed in the left side 
 So he must, then, have been standing with 
 his right side to the table." He put himself 
 in the imaginary position, raising the tele- 
 phone on his desk in his left hand, "with the 
 'phone like this," he added. Then as he felt 
 the situation grow he turned to Margaret 
 and commanded : "Come here !" 
 
 Slowly, as if drawn to him against her will, 
 she obeyed his summons. 
 
 "Now we'll suppose that you are the 
 woman, standing there," he said excitedly, 
 not noticing her shudder at his words. He 
 took a long dagger-like paper knife from his 
 desk. "Here, take that," he commanded, 
 and placed it in her hand. 
 
 The vision which the feel of the cold metal 
 conjured up in her made her close her eyes
 
 248 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 and bite her lips; nevertheless she did what 
 she was told to do. 
 
 "Now where would you strike me?" Clav- 
 ering asked her, as though he were a surgeon 
 lecturing at a clinic. 
 
 "Where? ... I ..." 
 
 She raised her arm with the knife gripped 
 in her hand, then with an exclamation of hor- 
 ror threw the shining thing far from her, and 
 reeled backward almost fainting. 
 
 Clavering caught her in his arms. 
 
 "Why, what's the matter? How white 
 you are! What ails you?" he cried out. 
 
 "It's nothing, nothing," she protested 
 eagerly. "It's only that you are making it 
 so real." 
 
 "Of course I make it real," he said. 
 "That's why people read my stories. But 
 for God's sake don't faint," he pleaded as 
 he helped her to the table. "We can't spare 
 the time. I like to dictate to you. you feel 
 things so." Again he thrust the pencil be- 
 tween her fingers. "Come on, now," he 
 urged, his eyes snapping with enthusi-
 
 THE MURDER 249 
 
 asm; "I'm just beginning to feel this my- 
 self." 
 
 He stopped and picked up the paper knife 
 from the floor where it had fallen. "Now 
 get this," he began " 'With a sudden im- 
 pulse she clutched the handle of the stiletto, 
 and plunged it deep into his villainous 
 heart! He'" 
 
 But at this critical moment the door-bell 
 rang persistently. 
 
 "Thank God!" Margaret ejaculated so 
 fervently that Clavering turned upon her 
 with an angry scowl. 
 
 "What's the matter now!" he demanded. 
 
 "The door-bell rang," she said weakly. 
 
 "Well, let it ring," he shouted. "Where 
 were we?" He tried in vain to recover the 
 interrupted thought. "Now you've thrown 
 me off again," he complained peevishly. 
 He looked at the paper knife in his hand and 
 it spoke to him as a prompter from behind 
 the scenes. His eyes brightened. "Now I 
 have it," he went on. " 'She plunged the 
 knife deep into his villainous heart ' '
 
 250 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Tap, tap," came from some one at the 
 door. 
 
 "There's some one knocking," Margaret 
 said to him. 
 
 "I don't care if there is!" bellowed the 
 frantic author. "I don't intend to be dis- 
 turbed when I'm dictating. 'Plunged it 
 deep into ' ' 
 
 "Rap, rap, rap." 
 
 "There it goes again," he almost cried. 
 
 "Shall I see who it is?" persisted the girl. 
 
 "No! Sit down. I won't be bothered," 
 he thundered. ' 'Plunged it deep into his 
 villainous heart,' " he repeated at the top of 
 his voice, as if to drown out any other sound. 
 The knocking at the door sounded again 
 more loudly. "Oh, pshaw!" he groaned 
 despairingly, dropping his arm to his sides. 
 "How can I concentrate my thoughts with 
 that racket going on? Tell me that, will 
 you? How can I dictate when I'm dis- 
 turbed like that? Well, who is it?" he 
 shouted to the door. 
 
 "It's me, sah," came in Martha's voice.
 
 THE MURDER 251 
 
 Clavering gripped the knife in his hand 
 and strode to the door. "What do you 
 want?" he demanded. "What do you 
 want?" he cried, flourishing the knife 
 above her head. "You black chimpanzee! 
 Haven't I told you never to disturb me 
 when I am dictating? Haven't I?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sah!" gasped Martha 
 with chattering teeth. "I done " 
 
 "No, you won't beg my pardon. Don't 
 you dare to beg my pardon," he yelled. 
 "What is it? What do you want? Can't 
 you talk, you screw-eyed, flat-nosed Sene- 
 gambian you you " He broke off with 
 a fantastic cry, "I can't think of enough bad 
 adjectives to use on you!" 
 
 "Well, if you find any, I hope dey choke 
 you," Martha found breath to retort at last. 
 
 "Well, what is it?" he demanded. 
 
 "Dere's a lady down stairs, and she wants 
 t' see you very pertickler," explained Mar- 
 tha. 
 
 "I don't know any ladies, and I won't see 
 her," said Clavering.
 
 252 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "She wrote something on dis yere card," 
 persisted Martha. "She said to give it to 
 you and you'd see her sure." 
 
 Clavering snatched the card, which had a 
 deep mourning border, from Martha's hand. 
 "Let me see it," he said, and as he looked at 
 it Margaret saw his shaggy eyebrows rise in 
 an expression of keen surprise. "Is she 
 down stairs?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sah," said Martha. 
 
 "I'll see her. But tell her to think of what 
 she has to say on the way up, and say it 
 quick when she gets here." 
 
 "Yes, sah," said the housekeeper and 
 shuffled out and down the stairs. 
 
 More than ever with a sense of impending 
 danger Margaret followed the old negress 
 outside the door. She must get to her room 
 somehow, she thought, before this other 
 woman saw her, whoever she was. Who 
 could she be, this mysterious person who 
 sought an interview with one who kept him- 
 self so secluded from the outer world? 
 
 Clavering looked hard at the card he held
 
 THE MURDER 258 
 
 in his hand, snapping its edges irritably, and 
 suddenly his eyes lighted. "A relative of 
 the late James Morton, she's written here," 
 he muttered. 
 
 "Where are you going?" he demanded, 
 seeing her manoeuvre. 
 
 "Why," stammered Margaret, "I sup- 
 posed of course you'd want to see her alone." 
 
 Her answer seemed to satisfy him. 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course. You get a little rest 
 while I see her. We must finish that chap- 
 ter to-night, mustn't we? I'll call you when 
 she goes. A relative of the late James 
 Morton. Huh! I may get some informa- 
 tion from her about that stenographer."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A RELATIVE OF THE LATE JAMES MORTON 
 
 IT was a very sable draped figure, the face 
 concealed by a heavy crepe veil, that Martha 
 conducted into Clavering's study a moment 
 later. The housekeeper stood in open- 
 mouthed wonder watching the woman as she 
 glided into the room. Her curiosity was 
 nipped short by her employer calling sharply 
 to her: "Well, are you a relative of James 
 Morton too?" 
 
 "No, sah, no, sah," stammered Martha. 
 "I ain't never had no relatives like dat." 
 
 "Then get out," was the testy command. 
 
 "Yes, sah," answered Martha, closing the 
 door as slowly as she could, to get another 
 look at the black spectre. 
 
 Before addressing his mysterious visitor, 
 Clavering looked her over from head to foot 
 
 254,
 
 A RELATIVE 255 
 
 with a scrutinising stare. "You want to 
 see me?" he asked curtly. "Well, then, be 
 quick. I've only a few minutes to spare for 
 you." 
 
 "You are Mister Clavering?" began the 
 woman. 
 
 "You know I am," he snapped. "There's 
 a minute wasted asking that! You wrote 
 on this that you were a relative of the late 
 James Morton who was murdered at the 
 Hotel Beaumont." 
 
 The woman took a cautious look about the 
 room before replying, "Si, Senor." 
 
 "Senor?" Clavering raised his eyebrows. 
 "Oh, you're a Spaniard, are you?" 
 
 "Yes. My name is Juanita Perez." 
 
 She gave another look at the doors as she 
 inquired in an eager voice, "You speak 
 Espagnol?" 
 
 "No, no, but you need not be afraid," he 
 answered, noticing the nervous shifting of 
 her head. "Raise that veil. I can't talk 
 with any one with a lace portiere over her 
 face."
 
 256 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 She hesitated a moment, then threw back 
 the thick crepe. 
 
 "Ah!" ejaculated Clavering. "Yes, I 
 can see that you are a Spaniard. And 
 you're a relative of Morton's, are you?" He 
 brought his hand down upon the table with 
 a thump of satisfaction. "I said in the be- 
 ginning he was a Spaniard, or an Italian; 
 and I was right." His little eyes began to 
 snap as he leaned forward to begin his cross- 
 examination. "What relation was the mur- 
 dered man to you?" 
 
 "He he was my uncle." 
 
 "Oh, he was, eh? H'm," he pondered to 
 himself, "she doesn't seem to be cock-sure 
 of it." Then aloud, as she began to shift 
 uneasily under his steady gaze, he went on: 
 "Well, what did you come to see me for?" 
 He was tapping with the paper knife upon 
 the table impatiently. 
 
 "Because I think that you can help me," 
 said the woman. 
 
 "Help you?" His long neck protruded
 
 A RELATIVE 257 
 
 from his collar with a jerk. "Why should 
 I help you?" he asked. 
 
 "I have been reading your clever story of 
 the Morton Mystery as it came out in the 
 paper " the visitor went on. 
 
 "Nothing strange about that!" its author 
 interrupted. "Thousands are reading it. 
 Those who are too stingy to buy a paper 
 are stealing it over other peoples' shoulders." 
 
 "But, Senor, you could not write this story 
 so well unless you knew something " 
 
 "Knew something!" he jerked out as if 
 she had struck him. "Of course I know 
 something. Don't I look intelligent? 5 ' 
 
 "But in your story you say so many things 
 which are true," said Juanita Perez, with a 
 little shiver. 
 
 "True? Of course they are true." His 
 head shot forward close to hers. "But how 
 do you know that they are true?" he de- 
 manded looking at her meaningly and in- 
 tently. 
 
 She recoiled instinctively from his gaze,
 
 258 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 then, after looking towards the door, turned 
 to him again and asked: "Are we quite 
 alone, Senor?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "Come 
 to the point." 
 
 "Well, I" 
 
 Again his head shot forward as he inter- 
 rupted her with: "Wait a minute though." 
 His tone was now that of an inquisitor. 
 "If you are Morton's relative, why haven't 
 you come forward to claim his effects, eh?" 
 
 The woman hesitated a moment and then 
 said slowly: "Because I was arrested for 
 being the one who " 
 
 "O h, I see. You are the woman who 
 called on Morton just before the murder?" 
 
 "Si, Senor." 
 
 "And Ryan arrested you! Ha! Ha!" he 
 chuckled, adding with a sneer, "The fool!" 
 
 "Yes, it was an outrage," protested the 
 lady vehemently. 
 
 "And he called me a flat tire," muttered 
 Clavering vindictively. "But how did you 
 get away from him? Why did he let you
 
 A RELATIVE 259 
 
 go?" he continued in his cross-examina- 
 tion. 
 
 "Because two cab drivers saw me leave 
 the hotel twenty minutes before the murder." 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" he gloated. "So they found 
 those cabbies at last, did they? I found 
 them that very afternoon." He paused a 
 moment as if in self -admiration, then went 
 on : "At about what time did you call upon 
 Morton?" 
 
 Juanita calculated a moment : "At about 
 four o'clock." 
 
 "And you left at twenty minutes to five?" 
 
 "Si, Senor." 
 
 "While you were there did you see this 
 woman, this Mary Hadfield, the stenogra- 
 pher?" 
 
 "No : Mr. Morton had told her not to come 
 that day. So I didn't see her then." 
 
 "Then." Clavering caught the emphasis 
 she put on the word. "You haven't seen 
 her since then, have you?" he demanded 
 eagerly. "No one saw her leave the hotel." 
 
 "No one but me "
 
 260 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "You saw her, you?" Clavering started out 
 of his chair. "By George, we are getting at 
 the missing link in this thing." He rubbed 
 his hands together excitedly. "You say you 
 saw her leave the hotel? How?" 
 
 "By the fire-escape, from Mr. Morton's 
 room." 
 
 "The fire-escape!" The World's Great- 
 est Authority on Crime was pacing the floor 
 enthusiastically. "By the fire-escape! That 
 was it, eh? That was how I had it worked 
 out in my walk, and then things drove it out 
 of my head. I was going to end this chap- 
 ter with the woman running down the fire- 
 escape, just as the men were breaking down 
 the door!" 
 
 Back and forth he walked in his excite- 
 ment, his face glowing with inspiration, en- 
 tirely unconscious for the moment of his 
 visitor, who leaned forward watching him as 
 though he had suddenly taken leave of his 
 senses. 
 
 "Well, well," he demanded, after he had 
 walked himself into some semblance of
 
 A RELATIVE 261 
 
 sanity. "What then? Where were you?" 
 
 "In a doorway across the street, waiting 
 for Mr. Morton to come out," said Juanita. 
 
 Clavering drew a chair close beside her. 
 "Yes? What then? What happened?" 
 
 "I had been waiting about fifteen minutes, 
 when I saw a window in Morton's apartment 
 open and a woman come out and go down 
 the fire-escape to the street." 
 
 "Could you see her face?" 
 
 "Yes, when she came under the light." 
 
 "Dark hair? Grey eyes? About so 
 tall?" Clavering indicated by a gesture. 
 
 Surprised at the accuracy of the descrip- 
 tion, Juanita answered, "Si, Senor." 
 
 Clavering clapped his hands. "That's 
 the woman!" he cried. 
 
 Juanita rose from her chair in astonish- 
 ment. "The woman? You know her?" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Know her?" The criminologist shook 
 his head. "No, only in my imagination," he 
 said, his eyes gazing so fixedly into space 
 that Juanita started and cast a quick look
 
 262 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 behind her, expecting actually to see some 
 one there. 
 
 "How was she dressed?" demanded Clav- 
 ering, for even his fertile brain could not 
 compass that millinery detail. 
 
 "A dark blue skirt and coat; with a white 
 shirt waist and a red hat," she said promptly. 
 
 "Uh-huh!" went Clavering, making a 
 mental note of the description. "Well, then, 
 when she got to the street where did she 
 go?" 
 
 "She crossed to where a taxi was waiting 
 right in front of me and jumped into it, tell- 
 ing the chauffeur to go quick to the Cafe 
 Rossamano." 
 
 "Cafe Rossamano!" Clavering exclaimed. 
 "The Cafe that Morton was calling up when 
 he was stabbed!" His head was now 
 stretched forward like a hound's that sniffs a 
 scent. "Good! Did you follow her?" 
 
 "Yes, in another cab. When she reached 
 the cafe she looked about for a minute. 
 Then a man grabbed her and tried to kiss 
 her Another man ran up and struck him
 
 A RELATIVE 263 
 
 down Then some friends got the man into 
 a cab and drove off with him She ran after 
 the cab for a minute, but finally gave up and 
 came back to the restaurant." 
 
 "Where did she go then?" 
 
 "She did not seem to know where to go. 
 She walked and walked. She would stop 
 always before a hotel as if to go in and then 
 turn away. I followed her to Forty-second 
 Street and Broadway. Then I think that 
 she saw me and knew I was following her, 
 for she ran quickly into a subway station 
 and jumped on a train that was just starting. 
 I missed the train, and could see her looking 
 back at me as it pulled out. So I lost her." 
 
 "Did she go up town or down town?" 
 
 "Down town." 
 
 "Uh-huh ! What time was this ?" 
 
 "It was nearly seven." 
 
 "What did you do then?" 
 
 "I started for my home. The newsboys 
 were calling out an extra about a murder at 
 the Hotel Beaumont. I bought a paper, 
 and then," here the lady choked with real
 
 264 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 emotion and pressed her black-bordered 
 handkerchief to her eyes, ''and then I learned 
 of Mr. Morton's death." 
 
 "Did you think then that the stenographer 
 had killed him?" queried Clavering, heart- 
 lessly breaking in upon this grief. 
 
 "Si, Senor," the lady answered with a 
 sob; "I felt sure of it." 
 
 "Did you tell the police about her?" 
 
 Here the relative of the late James Mor- 
 ton forgot her sorrow for a moment, and with 
 flashing eyes answered excitedly: "No! I 
 would tell the police nothing." 
 
 "Why not?" Clavering demanded sharply, 
 for the first time betraying some suspicion 
 of the woman's cleverly acted role. 
 
 "We did not want them to know anything 
 about this case." 
 
 "We? Who are 'We'?" 
 
 Something in the novelist's continued 
 cross-examination made her answer warily: 
 "We? Why, the relatives of Mr. Morton." 
 
 "Oh!" said Clavering, and raised his eye- 
 brows to take a side-long glance at his vis-
 
 A RELATIVE 265 
 
 itor. She was clever, and she thought she 
 was fooling him, did she! But it was his 
 move in the game next and he went on: 
 "Why didn't you want the police to know? 
 What had Morton been doing?" 
 
 The woman leaned toward him in a con- 
 fiding way, and lowering her voice said 
 softly, and with a suggestion of embarrass- 
 ment: "Well, you see, Mr. Morton was a 
 married man, and this girl " 
 
 "The stenographer, you mean?" 
 
 "Yes. She was his his What you 
 call it?" She paused as if uncertain of the 
 word. "Ah, yes, his mistress. You see she 
 killed him through jealousy. His wife, she 
 knew nothing about her, and we are anxious 
 she should not know. It would kill her, for 
 she loved her husband very dearly." 
 
 She drew a long, sobbing breath and again 
 had recourse to the handkerchief. The 
 black symbol of woe was flourished consider- 
 ably as she finished her recital of the scandal 
 overshadowing the house of Morton. 
 
 "Qh! And he had been deceiving his wife
 
 266 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 about this girl, eh?" said Clavering, with an 
 apparent sympathetic understanding of the 
 situation, though at the same time an in- 
 credulous smile twitched the corners of his 
 mouth. "You're sure that's the right story, 
 are you?" he asked. His tone implied that 
 it was a good story but had failed to register. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I'm sure," the woman eagerly 
 answered. 
 
 "Well," said Clavering, rising and walk- 
 ing leisurely across the room, "that wasn't 
 the way I had worked it out." 
 
 "And how had you worked it out, Senor?" 
 the woman asked. 
 
 The crafty old man took a position where 
 he could watch his visitor's face success- 
 fully, and said musingly: "Well, you see, 
 I was going to have Morton a member of 
 the Scarlet Band" 
 
 The almost imperceptible start she gave 
 did not escape his keen eyes. 
 
 "The Scarlet Band?" she stammered. 
 
 He had known she was playing a part, but 
 he had not expected his first shot to take such
 
 A RELATIVE 267 
 
 good effect. "What is the Scarlet Band?" 
 she hastened to inquire. 
 
 Clavering looked surprised. "Never 
 heard of the Scarlet Band?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head, then repeated naively 
 her inquiry, "What is it?" 
 
 "Xever heard of the Scarlet Band?" re- 
 peated Clavering in a tone of shocked dis- 
 appointment. "Well, I am surprised! I 
 thought everybody knew about that. That's 
 why I have written my story about it." 
 
 "But what is it?" she persisted. 
 
 "You said you were reading my story, 
 didn't you?" 
 
 He walked slowly towards her, gesticulat- 
 ing with his long, bony fingers. She shifted 
 uneasily under his steady gaze, and com- 
 menced a nervous drumming upon the table, 
 as he said ponderously, "It's a notorious band 
 of cunning, conspiring criminals " 
 
 The woman interrupted him, springing to 
 her feet in an outburst of well-feigned indig- 
 nation, exclaiming, "Mr. Morton could have 
 had nothing to do with anything like that."
 
 268 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Of course he couldn't," said Clavering, 
 with an appeasing pat on her shoulder, "but 
 he's going to have in my story." Then 
 changing abruptly to an uninterested man- 
 ner, he announced curtly: "Have to ask 
 you to go now. Haven't done any work to- 
 day. Good-bye." 
 
 He seated himself at his desk with an air 
 of finality, and began scanning the pages of 
 the manuscript before him. 
 
 The woman protested. "But Mr. Clav- 
 ering, I have not yet told you why I called." 
 
 "Well, why did you call?" he snapped out. 
 
 "To tell you that if you find the stenog- 
 rapher, we the relatives will pay you 
 well." 
 
 "What makes you think I can find her?" 
 he asked indifferently. He was very busy 
 as he transferred the mental notes he had 
 made during the interview to the paper be- 
 fore him. 
 
 "Because you have hit upon so many 
 things that are true so far. And then, be- 
 sides, I have read that you have told the po-
 
 A RELATIVE 269 
 
 lice how to catch hundreds of criminals in 
 New York." 
 
 Clavering looked up with an air of grati- 
 fication. "So you've heard that, have you? 
 Well, it's true, and they call me 'Old Grape 
 Nuts.' Well, perhaps Old Grape Nuts will 
 show them a thing or two about this case 
 yet." he chuckled, as he underlined the notes 
 before him. 
 
 The woman leaned across the table and 
 smiled persuasively. "You are so clever. 
 Won't you help us find this Mary Hadfield? 
 We will pay you five hundred dollars if you 
 will." 
 
 "Oh, you will, eh? Want that girl pretty 
 bad, don't you? What are you going to do 
 with her when you find her?" 
 
 "We intend to take her out of the coun- 
 try." 
 
 "Oh, yes! Put her away where no one 
 will ever see her again," he grinned ironi- 
 cally. "Very anxious to save Mr. Morton's 
 name from scandal, aren't you? Pretty 
 risky business, this putting people away."
 
 270 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "But there need be no risk," urged the 
 woman, fearful lest Clavering decline to help 
 her after all. "You can depend upon our 
 silence." 
 
 Clavering twirled his pencil in his hand as 
 if undecided. "Well " he began. 
 
 "Yes?" she encouraged hopefully. 
 
 "If I should get any information, where 
 could I reach you?" 
 
 She scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper 
 and handed it to him. "You may call that 
 telephone number." 
 
 "968 Gramercy," he read. "With whom 
 am I to talk?" 
 
 The woman deliberated a moment. "Ask 
 for Enrico Savelli," she said. 
 
 "Enrico Savelli," repeated Clavering, 
 writing the name on the same slip as the tele- 
 phone number. "Is he one of the mourn- 
 ers?" She did not see the look of grim 
 humour twitching at the corners of his 
 mouth. 
 
 "Yes, he is one of us," she answered.
 
 A RELATIVE 271 
 
 "All right. I'll do the best I can. Good- 
 bye!" 
 
 Juanita smiled radiantly at him as she 
 rose to leave the room. "I am very glad to 
 have met so wonderful a man as you, Mr. 
 Clavering," she said. "And you will try to 
 find the girl, won't you? Good-bye!" she 
 smiled upon him sweetly as she closed the 
 door behind her. 
 
 Clavering sat listening intently till he 
 heard the hall door close below. Then he 
 snapped his fingers contemptuously. "Pah! 
 Relatives of Morton nothing! Scarlet 
 Banders! That's what they are!" 
 
 He began a drumming on the table and 
 his thoughts travelled back over the inter- 
 view. What did they want with the girl? 
 Had she been a traitor? He dismissed 
 the scandal story at once; he knew the 
 woman lied. Five hundred dollars' reward ! 
 He would give twice that for the glory of 
 marching into headquarters with the assas- 
 sin of James Morton! He smiled as he
 
 272 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 pictured the consternation among the crest- 
 fallen blue-coats when he should appear and 
 say: "Well, here's the woman! I told you 
 that it was the stenographer!" 
 
 From imaginary triumphs his mind came 
 back to the notes before him. The Spanish 
 woman had given a good description of the 
 girl and her movements after she had left 
 the Beaumont. He ought to find her now. 
 With his customary method of working out 
 situations he began to assemble his new 
 material. "Let me see," he mused aloud; 
 "Taxi to Cafe Rossamano! Forty-Second 
 Street to Subway Station. Down town. 
 Down town," he repeated. "Yes, she would 
 have a better chance of eluding pursuit 
 there." Again he read his notes. "Medium 
 height, dark complexion, grey eyes, dark 
 blue skirt and coat white shirt waist and a 
 red hat. Red hat!" he repeated. Then 
 something registered in his brain with a click. 
 "Where have I seen a woman with a red 
 hat?" He never took much notice of women
 
 A RELATIVE 273 
 
 in his preoccupied walks; why should a red 
 hat be filling a pigeon hole in his memory 
 now, he wondered. 
 
 "Jupiter!" 
 
 He sprang to his feet and began pacing 
 the floor furiously. He saw the wearer of 
 the red hat now ! 'Twas the girl he had en- 
 gaged at The Refuge for a stenographer! 
 The one who was working for him now! 
 Yes, she had worn a dark blue skirt and coat 
 and a white shirt waist. His gaze wandered 
 to the table where she had been working, 
 and narrowed till his eyes seemed to be only 
 points of light. Why had she wanted to 
 quit work so abruptly? Why had she 
 nearly collapsed when he had asked her to 
 enact the stabbing? He sank into his chair 
 again and sat there rigidly. 
 
 How she had tricked him! And he had 
 thought it was his vivid writing that had 
 moved her! "Am I an old fool?" he gasped, 
 his anger at himself almost choking him. 
 He half rose as if to go and summon her,
 
 274 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 then hesitated. "I must make sure," he 
 muttered. 
 
 With feverish haste he searched in the tele- 
 phone directory for a number. 
 
 "6 4 2 Chambers," he commanded. 
 "Hurry, you fool! Now don't give me 
 any back talk. Hello? Is this The Ref- 
 uge? Miss Towne? This is Winthrop 
 Clavering talking." He lowered his voice. 
 "What can you tell me about that ste- 
 nographer whom I got at your place two 
 weeks ago? Nothing? Just came from 
 where? Chicago? Did she complain of 
 being ill, to you? Huh? Oh! Only ex- 
 hausted and very much agitated? Thanks. 
 That's all I want to know. Good-bye!" 
 
 He hung up the receiver and brought his 
 hand down on the desk with a blow. It was 
 all clear now. A woman answering the 
 description of the one seen to leave the Beau- 
 mont by the fire-escape had gone to The 
 Refuge exhausted and agitated, and he, he, 
 Winthrop Clavering had brought her here
 
 A RELATIVE 275 
 
 and had seen her every day and not sus- 
 pected her. His eyes glittered, and his 
 thin lips twisted in a cunning smile as he 
 said aloud: "Well, my dear! We'll see 
 how you can stand a little more dictation!"
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE TRAP 
 
 MARGARET HOLT sat at the table, and with 
 pencil poised surveyed the dingy room. 
 Only two hours more and she would be out 
 of it forever, thank God! She looked at 
 Clavering as he stood with arm outstretched 
 ready to begin his dictation, and caught her 
 breath sharply. Was it her imagination or 
 was there a stealthy vigilance in the baleful 
 gleam of the eyes he fixed on her? Who 
 could his caller have been? 
 
 "Now start a new page. Begin Chapter 
 nine," his voice interrupted her. 
 
 ''Chapter nine? You haven't finished 
 Chapter eight," she reminded him, darting a 
 quick look at him, wondering what was caus- 
 ing him to deviate from his usual order. 
 
 "I know, we'll go back to that," he ex- 
 plained, taking a position near her table 
 
 276
 
 THE TRAP 277 
 
 where he could get a better view of her face. 
 "Er " a moment of deliberation "We'll 
 head this chapter The Refuge." 
 
 "The Refuge?" she exclaimed startled. 
 Why that place, she wondered. She tried to 
 throw a tinge of amused criticism in her tone, 
 as she repeated, "The Refuge." 
 
 Her confusion had not escaped Clavering. 
 
 "There's a lot of atmosphere in that," he 
 chuckled, and then added, with a fiendish 
 grin: "And I'll manage to get a thrill in it 
 too. All ready?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The answer was so faint as to be barely 
 audible. The girl crouched over her work 
 as if some enemy were to spring upon her 
 at any moment. 
 
 Without taking his eyes from her face, 
 Clavering went on with relentless precision: 
 ' 'Reaching the fire-escape, down which she 
 fled from the scene of her crime, the assassin 
 leaped to the pavement.' ' He paused to 
 note Margaret's trembling hand, which re- 
 laxed its hold upon her pencil, and the shud-
 
 278 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 
 
 der that shook her body. " 'Jumping into a 
 taxi she drove at break-neck speed to the 
 Cafe Rossamano . . .' ' The girl's eyes 
 widened and she pressed her hand hard 
 against her heart. The man saw her and 
 hurried on. 
 
 'To get with all haste her information to 
 her waiting friend; but alas, he was not 
 there.' ' The sinister old face relaxed in a 
 grin. She was gripping the table hard now. 
 ' 'For a moment she paused, uncertain of 
 her next move. Where could she go? The 
 police would soon be on her track.' ' His 
 dictation came faster now as he saw his vic- 
 tim swaying under its accusing weight. 
 " 'Like a frightened animal she fled for 
 hours. Up one street and down another. 
 Into the Subway and out again at the next 
 stop.' ' Here he stopped and watched the 
 girl. She was trying to recover her control, 
 she was trying to force her pencil to respond. 
 But he had her! He had her. It needed 
 only one last thrust, " 'Already the news- 
 boys were crying out "Extra! All about
 
 THE TRAP 279 
 
 the murder at the Hotel Beaumont!" She 
 turned into a side street and suddenly, into 
 her big grey eyes, came the light of hope. 
 There across the street an electric sign 
 flashed its welcome : "The Refuge." ' " 
 
 Clavering crouched like an animal about 
 to spring upon its prey as he saw the girl's 
 head fall forward on the table. She was 
 at his mercy now! With a brave effort she 
 roused herself. 
 
 "No, no, I can't go on," she cried, as she 
 swept the papers before her to the floor. 
 "Can't you see that I am tired and sick? 
 This confinement is killing me. I can't go 
 on!" 
 
 She darted for the door, but Clavering, 
 with the agility of a cat, intercepted her and 
 turned the key quietly in the lock. 
 
 "No you don't. You can't leave here 
 now!" 
 
 She stood motionless, her face very white. 
 "Can't leave here? I am not your prisoner, 
 Mr. Clavering!" 
 
 "Yes, you are my prisoner," he said.
 
 280 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Margaret recoiled and he slowly advanced 
 towards her. "Jupiter, but you're clever!" 
 he cried. "For two weeks you've fooled me, 
 me, the world's greatest authority on crime, 
 and all the time I thought it was my story 
 that was moving you." 
 
 "It was, it was. What else could it have 
 been?" the challenging grey eyes answered 
 back. 
 
 . The long arm of the novelist darted to- 
 wards her with its pointing finger: "It was 
 the guilty conscience of an assassin that was 
 moving you," he hissed. 
 
 "What do you mean?" the girl demanded, 
 making a last desperate stand at denial. 
 
 Slowly, relentlessly, while he unctuously 
 rubbed his hands, Clavering hurled his ac- 
 cusation at her: "You are the woman who 
 murdered James Morton, and I'm going to 
 give you up!" He strode to the telephone 
 and she saw him take up the directory. 
 
 "My God!" she thought. "He is going 
 to give me up to the police. It will mean 
 Victor's death! He shall not do it! He
 
 "YOU ARE THE WOMAN WHO MURDERED JAMES MORTON, AND I'M 
 GOING TO GIVE YOU UP !"
 
 THE TRAP 281 
 
 shall not!" The lines of her mouth tight- 
 ened and a determined gleam came to her 
 eyes. "No, you are not going to give me 
 up!" she cried, and sprang to the table and 
 placed her hand on the telephone. 
 
 "Who will stop me?" he snarled. 
 
 "I will!" 
 
 "You! Ha! 3100 Spring!" He had 
 found the number. 
 
 "It is true I did it ! But," she added with 
 subtle emphasis, "you are not going to give 
 me up until you know why I did it. That's 
 not in your story, you know." 
 
 "You confess?" 
 
 "Yes! I am going to tell you everything 
 and you are going to listen!" 
 
 He felt himself falling under the spell of 
 her superb determination. With a snort he 
 tried to shake it off and reached for the in- 
 strument once more. "I tell you I'm going 
 to give you up !" he cried. 
 
 But Margaret snatched the thing out of 
 his reach. If she could only hold him, make 
 him listen : "No you are not, I say!"
 
 282 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 He made a movement as if to spring upon 
 her and wrest the telephone from her grasp ; 
 but again he felt the magnetism of her defi- 
 ance. This was no ordinary criminal, this 
 slender girl who stood there with flashing 
 eyes and white face. Why had she killed 
 James Morton? What had been her mo- 
 tive? Ah, that was where his story had 
 been weak ! He had never been sure of the 
 motive. He would get it from her, and 
 then, with a murmur, of whose significance 
 he did not guess, he nodded to her, "Sit 
 down!" 
 
 As if the tension that had buoyed her up 
 had snapped at last, she sank weakly into a 
 chair, and after one of those minutes of 
 silence that seem eternities, Clavering drew 
 his chair close to hers, peering into her eyes 
 and saying sharply: "Now tell me the 
 whole story." 
 
 Again Margaret told through the events 
 that led up to her employment by Morton. 
 For all the evidence he gave of sympathy 
 she might have been pouring her tale into
 
 THE TRAP 283 
 
 the ear of a granite sphinx. But once he 
 admonished her sharply, "Not so fast!" 
 And when she came to her brother's abduc- 
 tion at the Rossamano, and her fear of its 
 consequences to him, the novelist rubbed his 
 hands in satisfaction. "So they got your 
 brother, did they?" he gloated. "He 
 wouldn't take my advice." 
 
 Margaret's heart sank. With a man's 
 life at stake, would Clavering prove vin- 
 dictive? And he, why should he not give 
 up this girl, he thought. She had con- 
 fessed that she had committed the murder. 
 He had found out her motive ; that was what 
 he needed for his story. Of course there 
 were extenuating circumstances; still she 
 had done it. If her brother had fallen 
 into the hands of the Scarlet Band it was 
 his own fault. He had been warned. If 
 he knew so much more than anybody else, 
 let him get himself out of their clutches. 
 If he let the girl go, what then? She was 
 bound to be caught sooner or later, and then 
 he would be robbed of the glory and the sat-
 
 284 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 isfaction of confronting Ryan with her. 
 "You couldn't catch your own feet!" The 
 captain's taunting words came back to him. 
 Had he not boasted that he would walk 
 into headquarters with that stenographer? 
 "And by Jupiter I will!" he broke out. 
 
 He crossed to the telephone. Margaret, 
 alert for the reopening of hostilities, caught 
 his arm. "What are you going to do?" she 
 cried. 
 
 "I've caught you and I'm going to give 
 you up!" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Clavering, think, think!" She 
 dropped on her knees beside his chair. "It 
 is not for myself," she pleaded. "Think of 
 my brother in the clutch of those men! 
 You have in your hands the power to save 
 him! Think of the good that he has done! 
 Think of all that he and I can do in this life, 
 if you spare us! His life means so much 
 to every one; to the city; to the coun- 
 try!" she buried her face in her hands and 
 sobbed. 
 
 But Clavering seemed deaf to her en-
 
 THE TRAP 285 
 
 treaty. "No," he snarled, "I'm going to 
 give Ryan the laugh." 
 
 He reached for the telephone and she 
 raised her head. In a flash she saw the 
 name Savelli on the paper on his desk. 
 "Savelli! Good God!" 
 
 "Spring " Clavering began. 
 
 Frantically she placed her hand over the 
 transmitter "Mr. Clavering, listen! What 
 good is it going to do you to give me up? 
 Why not capture all those terrible men? 
 You know where they are, you have the tele- 
 phone number of their leader, Enrico Sav- 
 elli, before you now!" Craftily she pic- 
 tured the enterprise. "Why not capture 
 them all? Think what a marvellous thing 
 it would be? How it would enhance your 
 reputation as a writer! What a wonderful 
 climax it would make to your story, to save 
 the Assistant District Attorney and capture 
 the entire Scarlet Band!" She incited him, 
 flattered him, with all the skill a terrified, 
 desperate woman could command. 
 
 His face grew rigid, his lips parted as if
 
 286 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 he gasped for breath. Then she saw his 
 eyes begin to snap again and his head pro- 
 trude. Had she touched the magic key that 
 should loose the genii of his imagination? 
 Had she? 
 
 He drew a long breath. "You're right!" 
 he muttered. "If I rescue your brother I 
 may catch the whole gang!" 
 
 "Don't say 'may,' say will! Of course 
 you will," she urged. 
 
 "What would Ryan say then, eh?" he 
 gloated. "Why, the entire police force 
 would die of apoplexy!" 
 
 "Yes, or of chagrin!" she agreed. 
 
 "And as you say, what a finish for my 
 story!" he ejaculated, throwing up his arms. 
 "The description of the rescue would make 
 a great chapter, wouldn't it?" There was 
 something almost pathetic in the way the 
 lonely old genius began to turn to the girl 
 beside him for sympathy. She felt a hypo- 
 crite, but she must go on. 
 
 "Wonderful, wonderful! Think of the 
 thrills you'd cause," she elaborated.
 
 THE TRAP 287 
 
 "But," he shook his head, "there's a chap- 
 ter before that. When I had you on the 
 rack ! Ha ! ha ! I did have you on the rack, 
 didn't I? That's a good heading: 'The 
 Rack!' ' He caught up a pen and made a 
 memorandum: "Chapter ten The Rack. 
 Chapter Eleven The Rescue." 
 
 "Mr. Clavering, you will save my brother, 
 won't you?" pleaded Margaret. 
 
 "We'll see, we'll see," he cried. 
 
 He came to a sudden halt again at the 
 sound of the doorbell. "Now who's that?" 
 he asked petulantly. 
 
 "Oh, perhaps it's Jack! I mean Mr. 
 Howell," corrected Margaret. The sur- 
 prised look on Clavering's face was very 
 genuine. 
 
 "Jack! Hm! I knew you had a feller!" 
 he said, adding, as he looked over his spec- 
 tacles at her and saw the flush crimson- 
 ing her face: "Pretty fond of him, aren't 
 
 you?" 
 
 "How can I help it?" she demanded pas- 
 sionately. "He's been so good to me."
 
 288 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Huh !" grumbled Clavering. "He called 
 me Old Grape Nuts." 
 
 "Oh, do you suppose he can possibly have 
 some word from Victor?" she interrupted 
 anxiously. 
 
 There came a sound of hurrying steps on 
 the stairs and Howell burst into the room. 
 "Margaret, Margaret," he called in a hoarse 
 whisper that yet was almost as penetrating 
 as a shout: "I've got it!" 
 
 In the excitement of his entrance he had 
 not seen Clavering, but as he caught a 
 glimpse of his scowling face and feared lest 
 he had betrayed her secret, the change in his 
 own was ludicrous. 
 
 Margaret saw his consternation and came 
 to the rescue. "You may go on, Jack. 
 Mr. Clavering knows everything now. He 
 found me out, as I told you he would. I 
 knew that I could not deceive him." 
 
 "Good Lord! Is the game up, then?" 
 asked Jack. 
 
 "But he is going to help us!" Margaret 
 exclaimed joyously.
 
 THE TRAP 289 
 
 "I haven't said that I would," growled 
 the unfeeling novelist. 
 
 "Help us!" Howell was puzzled. How 
 could the old sleuth who had sworn to arrest 
 the murderer of James Morton help them, 
 he wondered. 
 
 "Yes," Margaret continued, as though 
 the author had not spoken. "Mr. Claver- 
 ing and I have talked it all over. He sees 
 a way to rescue Victor and capture that 
 whole gang." She gave the bewildered 
 Jack one long, expressive look. "He is 
 going to have all that material for his story ; 
 don't you see what a wonderful opportunity 
 it is for him?" 
 
 Thoroughly awakened to the situation 
 now, Howell proceeded to co-operate too and 
 do his share. "Why, Mr. Clavering," he 
 exclaimed, "if you can save Victor Holt and 
 walk into headquarters with that whole 
 bunch of ginks in the bag, your reputation 
 as a detective will be made! And think of 
 the advertising there is in it! Look at the 
 headlines in the paper!" Here the news-
 
 290 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 paper man was in his element. "SCAR- 
 LET BAND GETS THE HOOK! 
 FAMOUS AUTHOR PUTS ONE 
 OVER ON THE BLUE-COATS. I'll 
 
 write you up myself." 
 
 Clavering's narrow chest began to expand 
 as Howell dipped his blarney brush into 
 colours more and more dazzling. "WIN- 
 THROP CLAVERING CORRALS 
 NEW YORK'S NOTORIOUS BAND 
 OF CRIMINALS. And then your pic- 
 ture and Margaret's and Holt's And then 
 Carnegie with the medal!" He placed 
 his hand on the lapel of Clavering's coat as 
 if decorating him, grandiloquently. "And 
 think what a boost it will give your novels. 
 Why, they can't be printed fast enough." 
 
 For a moment Clavering had the vision of 
 the dream of a life-time come true. He saw 
 Winthrop Clavering, The World's Greatest 
 Detective, inscribed in the Hall of Fame, 
 saw all his failures, all his disappointments 
 blotted out by the victorious hand of success. 
 Then he shook himself. "Huh !" he grunted ;
 
 THE TRAP 291 
 
 "changing your tune about 'Old Grape 
 Nuts,' eh?" 
 
 Jack hastened to absolve himself. "Now 
 Mr. Clavering, you know I didn't mean " 
 
 "Oh, never mind that!" snapped the au- 
 thor. "You said something about getting a 
 message from Holt. What have you found 
 out?" 
 
 "I went to the house on Fourth Street, 
 Margaret, you know," said Jack, "to look for 
 the cord Holt was to lower from the window. 
 I knew that I was taking big chances, but I 
 went right after it." 
 
 "It was there?" asked Margaret, quivering 
 with excitement. 
 
 "I kept in close to the house, till something 
 caught on the rim of my hat. I put my hand 
 up and felt a piece of tape. To make sure 
 I gave it a yank. In a second I felt it 
 tighten in my hand, and I knew that I had 
 hold of a live wire. Then I fastened our 
 message to it and gave another jerk and up 
 she went." 
 
 "And he knows now that we are trying to
 
 292 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 rescue him!" exclaimed the girl in a perfect 
 transport of joy and relief at last. 
 
 "Huh! Huh!" said Clavering. "What 
 did you do then?" 
 
 "Well, I knew it wouldn't do to stick 
 around that house too long," continued Jack, 
 "so I hustled to Mr. Wilson's, that's her 
 Uncle Mark, you know, to his room across 
 the street and watched for the signal we had 
 agreed upon together. I had not waited 
 long before I saw the flicker of a lighted 
 match. I tell you I almost jumped from 
 the window in my rush to get to that cord." 
 
 "He got an answer to you, did he?" broke 
 in Clavering, now following the game with 
 the keenest concentration. 
 
 "Yes," said Howell, and produced a slip 
 of paper from his hat lining. It read : "Am 
 guarded by four people. Enrico Savelli " 
 
 Clavering reached for the address his late 
 visitor had given him. "Huh! Good! Go 
 on!" he said. 
 
 "Juanita Perez and a Jew, Weinberg, and 
 another man. If you can get three of them
 
 THE TRAP 293 
 
 away, I can manage the fourth and escape." 
 
 "He says that, does he?" said Clavering. 
 Then, after a moment's pause, he asked, 
 "Who is the woman? This Juanita?" 
 
 "Juanita Perez? I know her. She's one 
 of the gang," said Margaret. 
 
 "That must be the woman who followed 
 you from the Beaumont, the Spanish woman 
 who called here to-night," said Clavering. 
 He favoured the girl with a look of grim 
 humour. "Hence some of my marvellous de- 
 ductions," he added. Then he sought his 
 path on the red carpet again, his treadmill 
 of inspiration, and paced back and forth, his 
 head bent forward. 
 
 Margaret, with a gesture, warned Howell 
 not to disturb his meditations. She knew 
 they would lead him to some vital point. 
 
 "If we could get three of them away he 
 might have a chance," the novelist muttered. 
 "That ought to be easy! That ought to be 
 easy!" He stopped abruptly, and Mar- 
 garet knew by the flashing of his eyes that 
 he had formed a plan.
 
 294 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Do you know any of the detectives who 
 have been working for Holt?" he demanded 
 with a suddenness that made Howell jump. 
 
 "Sure. I know Billy Flynn, Holt's most 
 trusted assistant," said Jack. 
 
 "How well do you know him?" asked 
 Clavering. 
 
 "I lunch with him about once a week," 
 replied the reporter, wondering what was 
 coming. 
 
 "Know his telephone number?" 
 
 "Sure I do!" said Jack. 
 
 "Well, sit down there," Clavering com- 
 manded. "How far from here is the house 
 where they've got Holt?" 
 
 "Five minutes at the outside," was How- 
 ell's calculation. 
 
 "All right! All right, then. Call up 
 Flynn." 
 
 "What's the idea?" demanded Jack. 
 "Put me on." 
 
 "Don't ask questions! Call him up, will 
 you?" persisted the criminologist. 
 
 Howell went to the telephone: "3555
 
 THE TRAP 295 
 
 Spring But what am I to say when I 
 get him?" he demanded. 
 
 "Can't say anything till you do get him, 
 can you?" vouchsafed the crafty Clavering. 
 
 "Hello! Three - five - five - five Spring? 
 Billy Flynn there? It's Jack Howell, of 
 the Evening Telescope. . . . All right !" 
 
 "Is he there?" asked Margaret eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, they've just gone to get him." 
 
 "Good!" said Clavering. "Now ask him 
 how soon he can get four of his best men up 
 here to my house," he directed further. 
 
 Howell nodded his understanding. 
 "Here he is ! Hello, that you, Billy? This 
 is Jack Howell. Listen! I think I've got 
 a big tip about Holt. Wait! Don't go 
 crazy yet. It looks like a haul for some of 
 that Scarlet Band bunch. I am at Win- 
 throp Clavering's, the author's, 263 Wav- 
 erly Place. How long would it take you 
 to get four of your best men up here? Hold 
 the wire." Howell turned to Clavering, 
 who stood at his elbow with his big silver 
 time-piece in his hand.
 
 296 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "He says he can get them here in fifteen 
 minutes." 
 
 "He can, eh?" reflected Clavering for a 
 moment. "That's too soon. Tell him 
 to get them here in just twenty-five minutes 
 from now. Twenty-five minutes. No 
 sooner." 
 
 "Hello! Can you work it to get here in 
 just twenty-five minutes from now? . . . 
 Just a minute He says yes." 
 
 "All right," said the author, and snapped 
 his watch cover sharply. "Let me talk to 
 him a moment. Hello!" he called, very 
 suavely. "Good evening! Listen! It is 
 just half -past eight now. Can you get your 
 men here at exactly five minutes to nine? 
 All right. You will find the front door un- 
 locked. Post four men in the hall and 
 watch the front of the house. When you 
 are ready, throw some pebbles against the 
 window of the second floor front. Pebbles," 
 he reiterated, "not rocks. When you see 
 the lights go out you rush the front room. 
 Understand? AJ1 right! Now don't make
 
 THE TRAP 297 
 
 any blunders. Good-bye!" Then turning 
 to Howell he directed, "You go to the house 
 where they've got Holt." 
 
 "Surely," Jack acquiesced. Old Claver- 
 ing's daring plan was beginning to unfold 
 itself to him reassuringly. 
 
 "You watch that house. If you see two 
 men and a woman come out of it, you get 
 word to Holt. See?" 
 
 "I'm on the job!" said Howell. He 
 dashed off eagerly to execute his part in the 
 game. Again Clavering consulted his 
 watch and moved to the telephone. 
 
 "Oh," broke in Margaret, "how can I ever 
 thank" 
 
 "Sh! Keep quiet!" the old man com- 
 manded. "968 Gramercy!" he called into 
 the receiver. Margaret held her breath. 
 
 "Hello! 968 Gramercy? This is Win- 
 throp Clavering. To whom am I speaking? 
 Oh, you are the young woman who came to 
 see me this afternoon? Well, I want to talk 
 with Mr. Savelli. None of your business!" 
 he snapped; "I want to talk with Savelli,
 
 298 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 and hurry up." He looked at his watch 
 carefully. "Hello? Is this Savelli? This 
 is Winthrop Clavering talking. Now you 
 listen to me. If you can get here to my 
 house in ten minutes I'll hand that stenogra- 
 pher over to you." 
 
 The girl drew a gasping breath but the 
 pressure of Clavering's hand on her own re- 
 assured her. 
 
 "What? How could I hand her over to 
 you if I hadn't found her? Here, and bring 
 that young woman who called on me this 
 afternoon, to identify her. And I want you 
 to bring another man. You have got to 
 overpower her and take her away by force. 
 I don't want any noise about it. She's a 
 very dangerous woman." He shot a comi- 
 cal glance at the slender girl across the table. 
 "What! You haven't got another man 
 there? Oh, I'm sorry! I shall have to turn 
 her over to the police then. Good-bye," he 
 ended, but without taking his ear from the 
 transmitter. Then followed an ironical
 
 THE TRAP 299 
 
 grin "What? Oh, I thought you could. 
 Hurry up ! You've only got eight minutes 
 now. I can't hold her here all night, can I? 
 All right. Good-bye!" 
 
 "They are coming here?" cried Margaret, 
 terrified; but Clavering did not stop to 
 answer her. He went to the hall door in- 
 stead and called: "Martha! Martha, come 
 up here a minute!" 
 
 "Now it's all right. We'll get on," he 
 said to Margaret. "We'll get on!" Then 
 to Martha, "Now you listen to me." 
 
 "Yes, sah! I'se a-listening." 
 
 "In a few minutes I am expecting some 
 callers. Two men and a woman." 
 
 "My sakes!" exclaimed Martha. "What 
 a lot of callers yo's havin' t' day." 
 
 "Mind your own business," snapped Clav- 
 ering, "and try to get carefully into that 
 thick skull of yours what I am telling you. 
 Now when these persons come, you show 
 them right up here, and then you go down 
 stairs and unlock the front door. Do you
 
 300 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 see?" He shook his fist in the old house- 
 keeper's face and added, "Don't you forget 
 anything, now!" 
 
 "No, Martha," urged Margaret. "Don't 
 forget ; it means a lot to me." 
 
 "No, I won't fergit, Honey, don't yo's 
 worry," Martha promised as she went out. 
 
 Clavering rubbed his hands gleefully. "I 
 think I've got them. I think I've got them! 
 If those detectives don't fool me ! It would 
 be pretty bad if they got here too soon 
 before those devils." 
 
 "Oh, you can depend upon Mr. Flynn," 
 Margaret assured him. 
 
 "Well, I hope so!" he growled; then ex- 
 citedly he added: "Oh, if it all comes out 
 as I have planned, it'll be the greatest story 
 I've ever written. Sherlock Holmes! 
 Pah! The creation of a disordered brain!" 
 
 "But, Mr. Clavering," broke in Mar- 
 garet anxiously. "What shall I do when 
 the people come?" 
 
 "You had better go into your room and 
 stay there, no matter what happens."
 
 THE TRAP 301 
 
 "And you will be careful, won't you?" 
 pleaded Margaret, who knew too well how 
 desperate were the men he was luring to the 
 house. 
 
 He patted her hand gently. "I'll take 
 care of myself. They won't catch the old 
 fox napping. And when we have them, 
 we'll start right in and finish that story, eh?" 
 
 He began to pace the floor. In his hand 
 he held his watch, and in his eyes was the in- 
 tent, feverish look of the gambler who 
 watches for a card to fall upon the table. 
 Margaret withdrew reluctantly to her room.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE PLOT 
 
 "Two gentlemen and a lady to see you, sah!" 
 announced Martha, just ten minutes after 
 Clavering's telephone message to Enrico 
 Savelli. 
 
 "Gosh!" he ejaculated. How did they 
 get here so soon ? He wondered if he should 
 be able to delay the proceedings until the 
 detectives were safely arrived? In some 
 way, somehow, he mu^t, or his plan would 
 end in miserable failure. "Well, show them 
 up here," he said presently. 
 
 "Yes, sah," answered Martha. 
 
 As the old negress shuffled out Clavering 
 pushed up the window and looked anxiously 
 up and down the street. There was no sign 
 of any one outside. 
 
 "That's right," he muttered. "I told 
 them not to come for twenty-five minutes." 
 
 302
 
 THE PLOT 303 
 
 Then he closed the window suddenly as he 
 heard Martha returning in the hall, accom- 
 panied by other footsteps and a silken rustle 
 that he connected with the draperies of the 
 relative of the late James Morton. He 
 climbed the rickety ladder to his book- 
 shelves, and he made a show of hunting for 
 some volume there. 
 
 "Right this way, please," said Martha, 
 opening the door of the study. 
 
 Enrico Savelli, Juanita Perez and a 
 fidgety little man with a huge nose whom 
 there was no difficulty in identifying as 
 Weinberg, entered the room quietly. 
 Juanita had on the same elaborate mourning 
 that she had worn upon her earlier visit. 
 Savelli also was dressed in quiet colors, but 
 betrayed the carefully anointed hair and 
 twisted moustaches of a barber. 
 
 The novelist peered down upon the group 
 from the top round of his ladder a moment. 
 "Oh, yes ; the relatives of the late Mr. Mor- 
 ton," he exclaimed. "Sit down. I'll be 
 with you in a minute." He proceeded in a
 
 304 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 very leisurely way to take a book from the 
 shelf and began to dust it, muttering a while, 
 but making no further move. 
 
 Weinberg began to snap his fingers im- 
 patiently, while Savelli scowled up at the 
 unperturbed figure on the ladder; neither 
 enjoyed the humour of the situation that 
 was clear. 
 
 "Just looking for a book," explained Clav- 
 ering, replacing the one he held and reach- 
 ing for another. "Ah! here it is!" He 
 opened it, looked it through from cover to 
 cover, and then descended. 
 
 "Johnson's Anatomy. That's it! Have 
 to know everything nowadays to be an au- 
 thor," he explained. "Must understand 
 what you are writing about. If one of your 
 characters has liver complaint, you've got to 
 know where the liver is ; the colour of it and 
 its size, you see." 
 
 A grunt of impatience escaped from Sa- 
 velli. Weinberg got up and sat down 
 again. 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Clavering," interposed
 
 THE PLOT 805 
 
 Juanita Perez at last, as she saw that Clav- 
 ering was about to deliver an exhaustless 
 lecture on his favourite theme. "We have 
 only a little time, you know. This is Mr. 
 Savelli, Mr. Clavering." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Snivelli?" Clavering looked over 
 his spectacles at the oily Italian, who ac- 
 knowledged the introduction and resented 
 the wrong cognomen with a curt bow. "And 
 who is the other gentleman?" 
 
 Juanita next introduced the nervous little 
 man with the large nose and the snapping 
 fingers. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Weinberg? Very glad to meet 
 you, Mr. Weinberg." Producing the bag 
 of sweets from which he occasionally re- 
 galed himself, he offered it to the exas- 
 perated Jew, and added: "Have a pepper- 
 mint?" 
 
 "No I No !" barked Weinberg. 
 
 "You?" Clavering graciously offered it to 
 Savelli. 
 
 "No!" said Savelli, with a disgusted growl. 
 
 "Perhaps I can tempt you?" said the host
 
 306 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 quite unabashed, turning to Juanita ; but she 
 too was not to be placated in that way. 
 
 To consume more time, the crafty sleuth 
 searched in the bag to find a peppermint 
 for himself and thrust it in his mouth. The 
 effect of the apparently innocent lozenge 
 was extraordinary. 
 
 "Ugh !" he sputtered, "moth balls ! Darn 
 this old coat ! Plague take that old Martha. 
 Moth balls, ugh!" 
 
 But sympathy for this contretemps did 
 not efface the very obvious appearance of 
 impatience at the delay in the countenances 
 of his three callers. He turned about upon 
 another tack. 
 
 "Weinberg," he said, reflectively. "Had 
 a character in one of my books once called 
 Weinberg. Good Italian name, that." 
 
 The irony of this remark appeared alto- 
 gether to escape his impatient visitors. 
 With an exasperated sigh Senora Perez en- 
 deavoured to bring Clavering finally to the 
 business they had in hand. "Mr. Claver-
 
 THE PLOT 307 
 
 ing," she began, "we have no time to waste. 
 Mr. Savelli and Mr. Weinberg left im- 
 portant business to come here." The 
 Italian confirmed this with a nod and Wein- 
 berg's nails commenced their nervous snap- 
 ping again. 
 
 "Oh, they did, eh?" commented Clavering. 
 "Well " he apologised for his deliberation, 
 "then we must hurry." 
 
 Savelli rose from his chair. "Yes, yes, 
 where is she?" he demanded fiercely. 
 
 "She? Who?" Clavering asked blankly. 
 
 "The woman! The stenographer," said 
 Savelli. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes," said Clavering, as if at last 
 he realised the object of their visit. "Oh, 
 I've got her right where I can put my hand 
 on her. Don't you forget that." 
 
 There was a simultaneous expression of 
 surprise from each of the members of the 
 Scarlet Band. Savelli was the first to speak : 
 "She is not here?" 
 
 The novelist returned the Italian's glare
 
 808 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 with a look of tolerant surprise. "Why of 
 course not," he said. "What made you 
 think that she was here?" 
 
 "I thought from what you said over the 
 telephone " A thunderous scowl began to 
 make the evil face of Savelli look more dan- 
 gerous than ever. 
 
 "I told you that I had found the woman, 
 but you don't think that I'd keep her here, do 
 you?" demanded Clavering. "I told you 
 that she was a dangerous character," he 
 added with an aggrieved look, as if the idea 
 of using his study as a place of detention for 
 dangerous females was preposterous on its 
 face. 
 
 There was another hurried exchange of 
 uneasy glances between Savelli and the 
 woman, while Clavering strained his ears to 
 catch some sound from the street. 
 
 "Then you must take us to her at once," 
 asseverated the Italian, and Weinberg, re- 
 newing his Jack-in-the-box antics from his 
 chair, chimed in: "Yes, yes, at once, do you 
 hear?"
 
 THE PLOT 309 
 
 "Just a minute, in a minute," promised 
 the novelist in pacifying tones. "Why, 
 what's the matter, Mr. Weinberg? You act 
 as if you had St. Vitus's dance. Did you 
 ever read my story about the burglar 
 who had St. Vitus's dance? It finally be- 
 trayed him. Where is that story?" He be- 
 gan searching among a pile of books on the 
 mantel, surreptitiously looking out of the 
 window all the time. 
 
 The exasperated trio held a mumbled con- 
 versation together. 
 
 "He is an old fool," Weinberg was saying, 
 and looked ready to cry from vexation. 
 
 "Sh!" protested Juanita, trying to quiet 
 her impatient companions. "Let me try him 
 again." Then, addressing Clavering in her 
 sweetest tones, though he seemed unmindful 
 of her presence, she pleaded: "Come; take us 
 to the woman, this stenographer, at once if 
 she is not here." 
 
 "Eh?" He turned from his search among 
 the books. "Of course," he added in a tone 
 of abject apology, "you see I get so inter-
 
 310 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 ested in my stories that I forget everything 
 else. Of course. We will go now to the 
 woman." 
 
 With sighs of relief the gangsters rose and 
 prepared to follow Clavering. "Oh, do I 
 need an overcoat?" he stopped and asked 
 abruptly. "Is it cold out of doors?" He 
 went to the window again, peered at the ther- 
 mometer, then dropped his glance quickly to 
 the street. 
 
 "No, no," assured Juanita. "It is not 
 cold. Come!" 
 
 "All right ! Fifty-five, the glass says," he 
 demurred. "I don't want to get a cold. 
 Colds are very bad for mental workers. 
 They clog up the cells of the brain." He 
 went to one of his shelves and took down a 
 jar to show them. "Did you ever see a hu- 
 man brain? It's a most interesting study." 
 He struck a professional pose, and with a 
 wave of his long arm began: "This is the 
 brain of a criminal. You notice the forma- 
 tion of the left lobe . . ." 
 
 "Ah! Bah!" broke in Savelli impatiently,
 
 THE PLOT 311 
 
 looking ready to strangle the criminologist 
 then and there, and Juanita implored : "Mr. 
 Clavering, Mr. Clavering, if you do not take 
 us to the woman now we shall not be able to 
 wait." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," meekly replied the 
 enthusiast on brains, taking time nevertheless 
 to replace the specimen carefully on the 
 shelf. "There, that's right. Now we'll 
 go." 
 
 Again the trio started towards the door. 
 "Here, hold on! Wait a minute!" called 
 Clavering again. 
 
 "What is it now?" growled Savelli sav- 
 agely, while the Jew fairly danced around 
 the room in convulsions of impatience. 
 
 "Did you bring the money?" 
 
 "Yes!" the Italian snarled. "We have it 
 here." 
 
 "Let's see it!" demanded Clavering, 
 sitting at his table, and indicating plainly 
 that proceedings were at a standstill until 
 they could satisfy him on the point of their 
 financial standing.
 
 312 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "You do not trust me!" glowered Savelli. 
 
 "I don't trust anybody. Let me see the 
 money," persisted the novelist-financier. 
 
 Savelli glanced at Juanita, who nodded 
 her head. "I will convince you," he said 
 then, and drew from his pocket a large roll 
 of bills and slapped them on the table before 
 Clavering. "There are five hundred dol- 
 lars," he added sarcastically. "Will you 
 count them?" 
 
 Clavering moistened his fingers and with 
 maddening deliberation counted bill after 
 bill. "Is it all good? No counterfeits?" he 
 queried, taking up a huge magnifying glass 
 from the table, and peering through to test 
 the validity of the greenbacks, which were 
 evil-smelling enough to have been long in 
 circulation. 
 
 "It is good money from the Banca Napoli 
 e Sicilia," asserted the Italian. 
 
 "Well, I'm not sure about that one," ob- 
 jected the examiner, with a prolonged scru- 
 tiny of one yellow-back beneath the glass. 
 "Maybe it's all right, though." He fin-
 
 *IS IT ALL GOOD? NO COUNTERFEITS? HE QUERIED, TAKING UP A 
 HUGE MAGNIFYING GLASS."
 
 THE PLOT 313 
 
 ished counting slowly. "Look here! This 
 is only five hundred dollars." 
 
 "That is what I said," protested Juanita. 
 
 Clavering pushed the money towards Sa- 
 velli scornfully. "No! I wouldn't waste 
 my time for five hundred dollars." 
 
 "But that was our agreement," persisted 
 the woman. 
 
 The novelist shook his head obdurately. 
 "Why, I wouldn't get mixed up in this for 
 less than a thousand dollars at least, my dear 
 lady." 
 
 "Oh, but we couldn't afford to pay that. 
 We are poor," whined Weinberg. 
 
 Clavering took up his manuscript as if 
 he had no further interest in their project. 
 "Be careful of the stairs when you go out. 
 It's dark in the hall," he cautioned as if he 
 had spoken the final word. 
 
 With muttered imprecations the trio 
 paused for consultation. Glavering listened 
 intently. Were they really going? Had 
 he played the game too far? He glanced 
 at his watch. In three minutes Flynn ought
 
 314 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 to give his signal. The novelist held his 
 breath in suspense; then as he saw the three 
 turn back again, he bent more busily than 
 ever over his manuscript. "Ah, ha!" he 
 chuckled to himself. "The flies haven't 
 wriggled out of the web yet." 
 
 "We will give you six hundred dollars," 
 Juanita announced, as she came back to his 
 desk. "That is all we can do; the relatives 
 are poor." 
 
 Only two minutes more, Clavering was 
 calculating. 
 
 "Well, when you get rich, come back and 
 I'll talk with you," he replied, without rais- 
 ing his eyes from the pages before him. 
 
 Another mumbled conference followed; 
 then Juanita threw another pile of bills on 
 the table. "We will give you what you 
 want, then," she said curtly. 
 
 "So! Not so poor as you were a while 
 ago," said Clavering, gathering up the 
 money. He rose and glanced at the clock. 
 The time had nearly reached the crucial mo- 
 ment. "Well, all right! Now I must
 
 THE PLOT 315 
 
 change my coat." He moved off and had 
 almost reached his bedroom door when 
 "Snap, Snap," something rattled against 
 the window pane. An exultant smile 
 beamed upon his crafty face as he turned. 
 
 "What's that?" cried Savelli, starting up. 
 
 "It's those street ruffians blowing beans at 
 my window. I'll get my cane and give them 
 a good thrashing," Clavering raged. 
 
 The Italian gripped his arm. "Why did 
 you send for us to come here?" he demanded 
 savagely. 
 
 "Why, I thought you wanted to capture 
 that stenographer," was the meek reply. 
 
 A sharp cry of warning from Weinberg 
 brought Savelli to the door. 
 
 "Listen!" cried the terrified Jew. 
 
 There was a sound of hurrying feet in the 
 hall below. Juanita rushed to the door too, 
 and bent her ear. 
 
 "It's a trap!" she shrieked, rushing back 
 to her companion. With an oath Savelli 
 drew a knife and lunged at Clavering: 
 "You " his voice trailed off in an unmean-
 
 316 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 ing rattle. The next moment they found 
 themselves in utter darkness. 
 
 The novelist had reached the electric light 
 switch and turned off the light. There was 
 a rush of feet on the stairs, the darting flash 
 of a dark lantern. Curses and blows and 
 cries sounded. 
 
 "Here's one of them!" 
 
 "I've got him!" 
 
 "Drop that knife ! Drop it !" 
 
 A scream, the snapping of handcuffs, then 
 the voice of Flynn shouting to his men to put 
 on the lights, followed. 
 
 "The switch! Right hand, by the door!" 
 yelled Clavering. 
 
 Click! Flash! The lights were on. 
 
 "Ha! Ha!" jeered Clavering. "A good 
 joke, eh?" 
 
 In the moment of darkness he had 
 mounted the library ladder like an agile cat, 
 and now, in the blinding rekindling of the 
 light, stood revealed on the very top of the 
 bookcases, near the hall door, grinning down
 
 THE PLOT 317 
 
 with almost boyish glee at his dramatic cap- 
 ture. 
 
 There came another sound of feet upon 
 the stairs, whereupon Jack Howell and a 
 good-looking young man whom there was no 
 difficulty in identifying as Victor Holt burst 
 in, dragging between them still another ter- 
 rified captive. 
 
 "Well, this is immense!" shouted the re- 
 porter, as he looked about the room. 
 "We've got all four of them! Here's the 
 man who did the trick, Mr. Holt." He 
 grasped the hand of the elated Clavering 
 and presented the lawyer and the novelist to 
 each other. 
 
 But the latter had no time for congratu- 
 lations. 
 
 "Get them out of here!" he commanded, 
 waving his hands impatiently at the detect- 
 ives. "Get them out of here! I've got to 
 get to work again. Hah!" he ejaculated, 
 as the gangsters were led away. "Got an 
 idea for another chapter! 'The Round
 
 318 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Up.' ' And he began to scribble hastily at 
 his desk. The capture of four members of 
 the Scarlet Band was lost as an everyday 
 occurrence in the resurgence of his ruling 
 passion. 
 
 "But Margaret, my sister, where is she?" 
 demanded Holt, laying his hand on the old 
 man's shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, that's so!" said Clavering, who had 
 been oblivious of Margaret too in the flood 
 of inspiration that swept over him. "I'll call 
 her!" 
 
 Margaret came quickly at his summons, 
 and paused at the door a moment, then with 
 a wild cry of joy rushed straight to her 
 brother's arms. 
 
 "Victor! Victor!" she sobbed as he 
 clasped her close. "I have you back ! You 
 are safe! Oh, my dear, is it true? Is it 
 true?" 
 
 For a moment Victor Holt could not 
 speak. Then he bent his head close to the 
 dark one of his sister lying on his breast. 
 "There, there, dear, it's all right! It's all
 
 THE PLOT 319 
 
 right, Honey! We are together again. 
 There, dear! There." 
 
 Howell, choked by a strangling feeling in 
 his throat, slipped out of the room. The 
 criminologist blew his nose and blinked, with 
 an unaccustomed moisture in his eyes. . . . 
 
 The following day, true to Howell's pre- 
 diction, the papers were full of Clavering's 
 achievement. It was with a supreme grin 
 of satisfaction that the novelist read the 
 head-lines: "WINTHROP CLAVER- 
 ING THE AUTHOR RESCUES VIC- 
 TOR HOLT AND CORRALS NEW 
 YORK'S MOST NOTORIOUS GANG- 
 STERS." 
 
 "Huh!" he grunted. "And they would 
 call me 'Old Grape Nuts' eh? I suppose 
 that reporter has given himself some credit 
 too." However, though he read every word 
 of the stirring account, he could find no 
 mention of John Howell. Everything was 
 Clavering Clavering Clavering. 
 
 There was a great rounding up by Holt 
 and his men during the next few days, for
 
 320 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 Howell had communicated to them the re- 
 sults of his visit to Dixon, the radiographer. 
 Dixon had succeeded wonderfully in photo- 
 graphing the contents of the package that 
 Margaret had secured at the Beaumont, and 
 by means of the purloined and X-rayed list 
 nearly all the members of the Scarlet Band 
 were run to earth and captured. The pub- 
 lic drew a long sigh of relief and sat back to 
 await the next in order of the city's nine 
 days' wonders. But it was indeed a long 
 time before complete oblivion overtook the 
 doings of the Scarlet Band.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE END OF THE STORY 
 
 SPRING had come again, and the wooded 
 hills about Chester, up in Maine, were green 
 with vigorous, new foliage. The brook that 
 wound down the hillside babbled its welcome 
 to the vernal change, and leaped forward 
 along its rocky bed in copious floods. Now 
 stopping to take breath in some shady pool, 
 pushing on again over mossy rocks, in whirl- 
 ing, Dervish-like eddies, it joined with the 
 birds to make Spring audible. 
 
 Margaret Holt watched the sparkling 
 water. It seemed to be singing to her, an- 
 swering the troubled questions in her heart ; 
 "Spring! Spring!" it sang. "It is the time 
 to be joyous! The past is dead! Beyond 
 there are tranquil waters. Come! Come!" 
 
 A,nd Victor Holt too paused a moment, 
 as he came up the bank winding his reel, to 
 
 321
 
 322 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 watch his sister. What a picture she made, 
 he thought, as she sat there, leaning her chin 
 upon her hand. Her grey eyes, black now 
 with the intensity of her thought, gazed 
 sweetly into space; the soft breeze blew 
 gently on the tendrils of her lustrous hair; 
 her cheeks were flushed with pink ; her whole 
 figure glowed with spirit and perfect health. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Sis?" he 
 asked, as he dropped to the ground beside 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," she answered, startled. 
 Involuntarily she crushed a letter in her 
 hand, and hid it in the grass beside her. 
 
 "You've had a letter from Jack Howell 
 lately, haven't you?" he asked casually, as 
 he lighted his pipe. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, with a sigh, "and I 
 don't know what to say to it." 
 
 "Well?" Victor blew the smoke from his 
 mouth in curling rings. "What do you 
 want to say?" 
 
 The girl was silent for a moment, then 
 with a sudden impulse gave the letter to her
 
 THE END OF THE STORY 823 
 
 brother. "Read it, Vic, and tell me," she 
 said. 
 
 He took the crumpled thing and opened 
 it out. The words were badly blotted by 
 tears, he guessed. He read : 
 
 "You say the past has made you an outcast 
 from the world. Well, that's not so. And yet, 
 until you feel differently, let's have a new world 
 of our own. It will be a little one, but I don't 
 mind being exclusive. There can never be anyone 
 else in the big world for me, so why condemn me 
 to a life of miserable loneliness? Come and live 
 in my heart and let that be your world. You say 
 you can't get away from yourself. Why, yes 
 you can, for in this heart of mine no one can fol- 
 low you. I realise all you say about the work to 
 which you have consecrated yourself; but haven't 
 you now done your share? Why not take up a 
 new mission in life, and devote yourself to making 
 one miserable man happy? Think it over, little 
 girl. Don't write me again that nothing can 
 change your decision, because you are only fooling 
 yourself. I can change it, and I am going to do 
 it, too, if we wait to celebrate our; honeymoon in 
 the Old Couples' Home. But tell me now that we 
 need not wait. Say yes !
 
 324 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 "Write me care of my club, for I may be out 
 of town a week or two." 
 
 Victor smiled as he handed back the let- 
 ter. "Good old Jack," he said. "He's a 
 wonder. Pure gold." A great wave of 
 gratitude made his voice husky. "If it 
 hadn't been for him, little girl," he said, 
 "neither of us would have been here to-day." 
 He watched Margaret for a moment, then 
 said abruptly, "Don't you love him, Sis?" 
 
 He could see her lovely colour mounting 
 from throat to brow, but she only shook her 
 head. The grey eyes met his bravely. "It 
 would not be right," she answered. 
 
 "Now look here, Margaret," said Victor. 
 "You must not go on brooding over the past. 
 Jack knows, and he loves you, and wants 
 you. There's your answer to that. If 
 you're wavering between duty and happi- 
 ness, I can settle that for you now. Never 
 so long as I live shall you go back to the 
 work you've been doing. You've done your 
 part and enough. My God, what a part it 
 has been!" His voice shook, as he hurried
 
 THE END OF THE STORY 325 
 
 on. "It is work for men now. You have 
 asked my advice, and here it is. If Jack 
 Howell means happiness to you, take him. 
 You have every right." 
 
 Margaret sat where he left her, and 
 watched him disappear through the trees. 
 With a sigh, she reached for the letter that 
 lay on the ground beside her. Her hand 
 brushed a little bunch of forget-me-nots that 
 she had thrust into her belt as she came 
 through the garden. She took them up 
 and held them close, and the quaint words 
 of Howell's in The Refuge came to her: 
 "A souvenir of our meeting, a nice little 
 bunch of forget-me-nots," he had said about 
 his wounded fingers. She had a sudden 
 vision of the bruised and bleeding hand, and 
 with a little cry of love and longing, she 
 pressed the blue flowers passionately to her 
 lips. 
 
 " 'Out of town a week or two,' the letter 
 said. Why," she mused, aloud, "I wonder 
 where he is?" 
 
 "Well, he's in the country just now,
 
 326 THE CONSPIRACY 
 
 getting close to Paradise," said a familiar 
 voice among the trees behind her. She 
 sprang startled to her feet and turned. 
 
 Jack Howell himself was standing there, 
 looking at her with grave, intent eyes. 
 
 For an instant his glance travelled to his 
 letter, which had fluttered to the ground, 
 then back to her face again. He smiled: 
 "Well?" and again he said, as he had said 
 once long before, "Well? " 
 
 Victor Holt sat swinging his legs from the 
 bars of the pasture fence as Howell, with 
 his arm about Margaret, came slowly down 
 the wooded road. "Thank God!" he mur- 
 mured fervently as he saw them together, 
 and perceived the radiance in his sister's 
 face. 
 
 "And after all," said Jack, seizing Victor's 
 extended hand, "old Clavering has struck it 
 right again." 
 
 "Clavering? How's that?" said Victor. 
 
 "Listen to this," Jack said, and gaily 
 waved a clipping that he extracted from his
 
 THE END OF THE STORY 327 
 
 pocket. "I culled this from the final chap- 
 ter of the great story," he explained. 
 
 Victor laughed as Jack began to read 
 aloud dramatically: 
 
 ' 'As the now beaten and baffled Scarlet 
 Banders were led away, shackled to the de- 
 tectives, a half sob of triumph broke from 
 our heroine's lips. Then the light of love 
 flamed into her beautiful grey eyes and she 
 turned towards the young reporter waiting 
 with outstretched arms to receive her. At 
 last she had found her real refuge. With a 
 sob of ecstatic joy, the words came from 
 her lips ...'"" 
 
 "Margaret," cried Victor. 
 
 "The words, 'I love you,' " quoted Mar- 
 garet, prettily, in conclusion. "Yes, Victor, 
 it's true." 
 
 THE END
 
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