The Riddle and the Ring; or, Won by Nerve

by Gordon MacLaren

  For a moment Barry sat regarding the small face screwed up into afearsome scowl, noted the twitching eyebrows, and the clenched fistsvisible through the cloth of the blue trousers. Then he shook his head.

  "I'm afraid, Jimmy," he murmured, "that your bump of observation isn'tvery well developed. Are you sure the man wasn't tall and slim and dark,and rather good looking?"

  The red-headed youngster gasped, and, flinging back his head, metLawrence's eyes squarely for the first time.

  "How in blazes did you----" he stammered; and then broke off abruptly, avivid flush staining his freckled face.

  "I guessed," Barry returned quietly. "Look here, Jimmy," he went on, ina low, vibrant tone. "I'm going to tell you something which I haven'tspoken of to a soul to-night. I'm doing this because I need yourhelp--badly. A young girl is in trouble. She's been carried off bysome men whom she's never harmed in any way, and I've got to get herback--I've simply got to! That fellow who gave you the letter at theMerton House is one of the gang. That's why I want to know what helooks like. That's why I'm sure you're going to tell me everything youcan, for he's a scoundrel, Jimmy, nothing less; and no decent man wouldtry to shield him once he knew how bad he was."

  For the second time the boy looked straight into Barry's eyes. His facewas still flushed, but there was upon it an expression of intense,overpowering interest.

  "Is that straight, mister?" he demanded excitedly. Jimmy had alwayspined to be mixed up in some really big crime, but this was the nearesthe had come to realizing his dream. "You ain't stringin' me?"

  "I'm telling you the solemn truth," Lawrence returned seriously. "Ifthe reporters got on to it, there'd be the biggest kind of excitement inthe newspapers. She's the niece of Mrs. Wilmerding; one of the richestwomen in New York, you know."

  The youngster's eyes were popping out by this time, but he still seemedto hesitate.

  "He gimme a dollar," he explained doubtfully, "an' I promised----"

  "I wouldn't worry about that," Lawrence interposed. "He had no right tomake you promise to keep still about a crime."

  "Then I'll tell you," the boy burst out impulsively; and, with a longbreath, he plunged into a recital which Barry had no doubt was the truththis time.

  He had been called to the desk at six-five, and told to report to Mr.George Brown in the lobby of the Merton House. On arriving, he had noteven had to inquire at the desk for that person. A man had hurried up tohim as he entered the door, and, drawing him to one side, handed him asealed letter addressed to Mrs. Ogden Wilmerding on Fifth Avenue. Itmust be delivered at once, the stranger said; then, when he had paid theboy and Jimmy was turning to leave, he produced a dollar bill, and toldthe messenger that, if any inquiries were made, he was not to tellanything. The man was tall and slim, with dark hair and eyes, and worea silk hat. Jimmy pronounced him altogether a decided swell.

  "He told me it was a joke, an' he didn't want the parties to get wise tohim," the boy concluded; "but I kinda thought it was something differentfrom that."

  "It was--very different," Barry said thoughtfully. He was searching hismemory for any possible recollection of such an individual, but in vain."You're all to the good, Jimmy, and I can't tell you how much obliged Iam. I'd like to give you----"

  "I don't want nothin'," the youngster broke in decidedly. "You jestgive my name right to the reporters, that's all."

  "I will," Lawrence returned seriously, "if they get on to the case.What is it?"

  "Donovan--James F. Donovan."

  Barry noted it on a bit of paper with the inward determination to rewardthe boy in some way; then, after another word of thanks and a quickhandshake, he sprang to his feet and made his way hastily to the door.

  Three minutes later he was interviewing the telephone girl at the MertonHouse concerning the tall, slim man with the top hat who had called acertain number earlier in the evening.

  The young woman remembered the incident perfectly, and was able to addone or two particulars which had escaped the messenger boy, but whichonly made certain Barry's impression that he had never set eyes on theunknown.

  On his way out he scrutinized the hotel stationery, but without any realhope that it would prove identical with that on which the letter, waswritten.

  In the doorway he paused undecided. The fact that the man had sent hismessage from the Merton House showed absolutely nothing. He might havecome from a totally different part of town in order to divert suspicionand throw possible pursuers off the track. That would be a naturalmove, anyway, and Lawrence hesitated a long time before an idea came tohim.

  Then suddenly his eyes brightened and he glanced swiftly up FourthAvenue. He knew the neighborhood very well, and could recall nostationery shop near it. Nevertheless, he told the chauffeur to driveslowly around the square, and to stop if he rapped on the glass.

  The circuit was of no avail. The taxi reached the southwest cornerwithout the signal having been made, and Barry told the man to proceedon down University Place at the same slow speed. A block passed, thenanother; but before the third corner had been reached Lawrence struckthe glass with such force as nearly to shatter it, and, leaping out ofthe still-moving machine, darted into a narrow little shop bearing asign above the door to the effect that stationery and cigars could behad within.

  As the girl came forward, he fumbled in his pocket and produced theletter.

  "Have you any writing paper like this?" he asked, extending it to her,but still retaining a hold upon one corner.

  She bent forward to glance at the texture, and at that instant Barryrealized with a start that he had handed her the letter which had comefrom the little man in black, inclosing the five one-hundred-dollarbills.

  "I beg pardon," he said hastily. "I've made a mistake. This is thekind I want."

  He drew forth the other letter; then, with a swift catching of thebreath, stood staring stupidly from one to the other. For a second hedid not move. He could not believe this odd coincidence. He held thetwo sheets to the light. The watermarks were identical. He lowered thesheets and examined them intently. In size, color, texture, qualitythey could not have been more alike had they come from the same box.

  What did it mean?

  *CHAPTER XXXVIII.*

  *IN CAPITALS OF RED.*

  In a moment Barry had recovered himself. After all, the sheets beingidentical did not prove that they had come from the same shop. No doubtthere were hundreds of stores in New York which kept that kind of paperin stock. It was an odd coincidence, that was all.

  "This is the sort I want," he said quietly, meeting the girl's curiousglance with indifference. "About two quires will be enough--with onepackage of envelopes."

  His perfect ease of manner seemed to reassure her, and she glanced atthe paper he held out, then shrugged her shoulders.

  "I'm afraid I can't give you even a quire," she said, reaching up to ashelf behind her and taking down a box. "I noticed when I sold a sheetand envelope this afternoon that there were only a few left."

  "This afternoon!" Lawrence exclaimed, with well-simulated surprise. "Iwonder if it could have been my friend Davis, who wrote this letter?Was he tall and slim and dark?"

  "That's him," the girl answered. "He was dressed swell, too, and wore ahigh hat."

  "Funny, isn't it?" Barry commented. "Well, give me what you have. Isuppose you'll be getting in some more of the same kind soon."

  "I'm afraid not," she returned, wrapping the few sheets with accustomeddeftness. "The firm that supplied us with this has gone out ofbusiness. This box is three or four years old. It got lost in thestock, and I only ran across it about a week ago, and put it on sale.You'd have a hard job locating a bit of it anywhere in town. We've gotsome which is just as good, though."

  It was with difficulty that Lawrence made an easy, casual answer, paidfor the paper, and left the shop. The girl's explanation had left nodoubt in his mind that the thing which had seemed so impos
sible wastrue. The man in black and the agent of those who had kidnaped ShirleyRives had both come to this obscure little shop to purchase writingpaper.

  It was incredible that there could be any connection between the two,yet Barry had seen so many apparently impossible things transpire withinthe past week that he began to doubt everything.

  Out of the whole intricate medley of events, however, one fact stoodclear and distinct: The men who had sent both letters must be livingsomewhere within a comparatively short distance of the little shop.University Place is not a main artery, like Broadway or Sixth Avenue;people do not pass through it, as a rule, unless they have businessthere or live in the neighborhood. There are no car lines on it--it isa sort of back eddy, away from the rush and turmoil and passing of greatthrongs.

  But, now that he was sure Shirley's place of captivity was not so veryfar away, Barry could not make up his mind what to do. He couldtraverse the streets one by one, to be sure, but what would thataccomplish? It was scarcely likely that chance would again direct hisfootsteps as it had done in sending him here from Union Square.

  Puzzled and undecided, he told the chauffeur to follow him, then set outslowly toward Fourteenth Street. If he only had some one with whom totalk things over it would be much easier. Two heads are always betterthan one; and even Jock Hamersley might be able to suggest some feasibleplan.

  "I suppose there's nothing to prevent my hustling up and getting the oldchap," he murmured as he reached the corner of the busy cross street."It'll only take a few minutes. Hang it all! I believe I'll do it."

  He turned toward the taxi, which had come to a stop beside the curb, andhad almost reached the door when a newsboy darted toward him, waving asheet with gaudy scareheads.

  "Wuxtry!" he shrilled, thrusting the paper under Barry's nose. "Allabout banker's suicide! All about turrible shootin'! Wuxtry! Paper,mister?"

  Lawrence shook his head impatiently, and was about to step into the taxiwhen his eyes fell upon the flaming headlines of the paper, and for asecond his heart almost ceased to beat:

  Trust Company Official Shoots Himself! Julian Farr, of the BeekmanTrust, Blows His Brains Out. Defaulter in Many Thousands, He LeavesBehind a Confession Exonerating Former Employee.

  Without a word, Barry snatched the sheet and thrust a coin into theboy's hand.

  "Never mind the change," he said hoarsely.

  Eagerly, feverishly, his eyes raced over the lines of large print. Itwas the old, old story, sordid in detail, inevitable as to conclusion.Julian Farr, cashier of the Beekman Trust, had started in by livingbeyond his means, and, getting in a hole, used the funds of the bank tospeculate with. Once, when exposure threatened, he had saved himself bythe despicable device of throwing the blame upon another man. The secondtime such a thing was impossible, and so, penniless, desperate, with abank examiner due the following day, he had solved the whole problem,after the fashion of many cowards, with a little piece of lead.

  The one graceful, decent action, which stood out in vivid contrast toall the rest, was the full and complete confession he had left behind,taking the responsibility of that first defalcation and explaining indetail how entirely blameless Barry Lawrence was. And, as the latterread the last word of this printed document, his eyes sparkled and agreat joy surged through him.

  He was free again--free from the shackles of suspicion and accusationwhich had been fastened upon him so unjustly! His name was no longertarnished. It had been cleared in a manner which could leave no doubtin the mind of a single soul concerning his absolute honesty.

  Then, like a flash, he came back to the present. What did thismatter--what did anything matter when Shirley Rives was still in thehands of this unknown gang? He was wasting precious time, and,thrusting the paper into his overcoat pocket, he jerked open the door ofthe taxi.

  "The Yale Club--and hustle!" he said tersely as he stepped hastily intothe car.

  *CHAPTER XXXIX.*

  *HAMERSLEY TAKES A HAND.*

  Jock Hamersley, after leaving his friend, entered the club briskly, and,having freshened up a little, took the elevator to the dining room. Itwas early, but his appetite had been making itself felt for some time,so he did not wait for a congenial companion to sit at his table.

  The result was that he finished the meal and descended again to thelower floor before seven. Here he strolled about a little, chattingbriefly with one or two friends, but with his mind altogether on theproblem which faced Barry Lawrence.

  When Jock once got something well fixed in his mind it was extremelydifficult to find room for anything else. The more he considered thescheme of tripping up the mysterious persons who had been followingLawrence, the more he liked it, and the more anxious he was to put itinto operation. He knew that Barry would not be likely to show up muchbefore eight, and consequently, after fretting and fuming impatientlyfor some ten or fifteen minutes, he decided to take a stroll to use upthe intervening time, with the added hope that something more mightoccur to him.

  Leaving word with the hall man that he would be back shortly, he slippedinto his coat and sallied forth into the street. For a moment hehesitated; then, turning to the right, he walked briskly toward FifthAvenue.

  He had scarcely reached the corner, and had not even decided which wayto turn, when suddenly a man, coming up behind, touched him lightly onthe arm.

  "Beg pardon, sir," said a voice in his ear, "but have you any idea whereI can find Mr. Barry Lawrence?"

  Whirling about in surprise, Hamersley saw, standing beside him, a slim,slight individual of medium height, smooth-shaven and dressed in aninconspicuous manner. He was holding an envelope in one hand; and Jockfirst sized him up as a clerk from some banking or brokerage house. Hewas about to answer freely, when he suddenly recalled the variedassortment of men who had been trailing Barry of late, and paused.

  "What do you want him for?" he asked abruptly, at length.

  "The chief wanted me to give him this," the stranger explained promptly,holding up the letter. "Said it was most important he should have it atonce. He isn't at his hotel, and they don't know where he's gone."

  "Humph!" grunted the big chap. "Who's your chief?"

  "Mr. Marvin, of Kane & Marvin," was the swift response.

  Hamersley knew the Wall Street firm very well, and, having no notion ofBarry's affairs, it seemed quite possible that the latter might be doingbusiness in that quarter. Nevertheless, a vague, intangible suspicionmade him hesitate, and in that fortunate pause a conviction suddenlyflashed into his mind which almost took his breath away.

  The fellow beside him was none other than the detective who hadinveigled Lawrence into the empty house on Twenty-fourth Street the verynight before.

  Jock remembered his friend's description perfectly, and, moreover,recalled Barry's having said that he was the identical man who had satnext to them at the Belmont cafe. There could be no mistake. This was,indeed, the man, and Hamersley's first feeling was one of infiniteregret that the chance they had been seeking should come when Lawrencewas not on hand to take advantage of it.

  On the heels of that, however, came a swift determination to work thetrick alone. He could do it if only he kept his head and handled thesituation cleverly. He would do it, and give Barry the surprise of hislife. With a tremendous effort to keep his voice casual and careless,he plunged into the game.

  "I see," he said. "But what gave you the idea that I could tell youanything about him?"

  "Mr. Marvin said he belonged to a college club on Forty-fourth Street,"the unknown returned glibly. "When I asked for him back there, theysaid he wasn't a member, but that he sometimes came in with you. That'swhat made me hustle out after you. I want to get rid of the thing andbeat it home to supper."

  His easy tone was most convincing, and, had he not been perfectly sureof his identification, Jock would never have dreamed that anything wasout of the way. For a second he hesitated, digging into his brain forsome plau
sible means of finding out more. Unfortunately Jock's brainwas of the slow-moving variety which so often accompanies big, brawnybodies, and nothing occurred to him.

  "Sorry I can't help you," he said at last; "but I haven't an idea wherehe is now. He's going to meet me at the Yale Club at half past eight orso. Why don't you come around then and see him?"

  "Half past eight! I can't hang around till then. Still, I suppose I'llhave time to get supper and come down afterward, won't I?"

  "I should think so," Hamersley returned, with an affectation ofindifference he was far from feeling.

  "I'll do it," the stranger said decidedly, thrusting the letter into hispocket. "Half past eight, you say? Much obliged for the information."

  With a quick nod, which Jock returned, he started briskly up the avenue,leaving the Yale man staring, helplessly after him in a perfect agony ofindecision. He wanted to follow the fellow, and yet he realized howutterly futile such a thing would be. The man would be wise to the gamebefore he had gone a block, and that would probably spoil everything.

  What should he do? What could he do? The man was rapidly getting awayfrom him, and Hamersley fairly danced on the pavement as he triedfrantically to think.

  It was at this moment that he caught sight of "Shrimp" Bradley brisklycrossing the avenue.

  *CHAPTER XL.*

  *THE OPEN DOOR.*

  As his cognomen indicated, Bradley was short and slim andboyish-looking. He had fresh, rosy cheeks and innocent, bland blueeyes, which reminded one vaguely of cherubs and better worlds than this.In reality he was as sophisticated a little chap as had ever made thelives of New Haven professors miserable; and he had a command oflanguage which, during his two years of "coxing" on the varsity shell,had caused the hair of even those hardened athletes to stand on end. Tothe harassed Hamersley his appearance at that particular moment seemedlike a direct dispensation of Providence.