These thoughts swept West's brain in a sudden flash of revelation, but he had no chance to act; to denounce her, to make a single movement, before the door opened swiftly, and Hobart slipped eagerly into the room. The first glance the fellow had of the prisoner, standing erect and unbound, must have deceived him into believing the girl had succeeded in her quest.

"So you've set him free," he exclaimed. "The fellow has come to his senses, has he?"

"No, he has not," she snapped with temper darkening her eyes. "I was not afraid of him, so I let him loose, but he's made me no promise. Now it is up to you; I'm done."

She slipped out through the opening, and Hobart leaned against the door, pushing it shut behind her, his scowling eyes watching West intently.

"So, that is how it stands, is it, my man?" he growled threateningly. "You even refuse to accept the word of the lady, do you?"

"Those are very nearly the facts," West replied steadily. "Then I told her I thought she must be mistaken; now I believe she was sent here for no other purpose but to deceive me. If I ever had any doubt of a crime, it has vanished since this interview."

"What crime?"

"Murder; the killing of Percival Coolidge. Is that plain enough, Hobart? I want you to understand. I am fighting this case from now on in the open; it is going to be man to man."

"What the hell do you mean, you cur?"

"I'll tell you," went on West coldly, determined now to so anger the fellow as to bring the whole matter to a climax, reckless of the consequences. "I charge you with murder. I haven't the proof, but I'll get it; I do not know the object, but I'll find out."

"You fool! you'll never get away from here. My God, you must be crazy!"

"Never was saner in all my life, Hobart. I am a soldier, and am taking a soldier's chance. Now listen. I feel no particular interest in the death of Percival Coolidge. In my judgment the world is just as well off with him dead as alive. But what this means to Natalie Coolidge is another matter entirely."

"She told you—"

"Yes, she told me—a lie. That is what hurts; what makes me ready to take any chance to put you where you belong. You have lied to her, deceived her, made her your accomplice in crime. I'm fighting for a woman, because she has got no one else to fight for her."

"Oh, I see; in love, hey—with her, or her money?"

"With neither so far as I know," frankly. "She is a woman helpless in your hands; that is sufficient."

"But, hell, she hasn't any use for you—didn't she tell you so?"

"Quite plainly—yes. But that is no excuse for any man to play the coward. I am not afraid of you, Hobart, or your gang. You got me before by treachery; I was not looking for trouble. But now I am. I am going through that door, and if you try to stop me you are going to get hurt."

The fellow grinned, one hand thrust into the outer pocket of his coat, his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.

"You think so! You haven't a weapon on you, West, and if you take a step, I'll put you out of commission. I know how to handle your kind, you big bluffer. What I want to know is what you have got in your head, for, believe me, I don't take any stock in this woman stuff. Are you after the coin?"

"What coin?"

"Well, maybe a slice of old Coolidge's boodle. There's enough of it for all hands to have a dip. How does that hit you?"

"Sounds interesting at least," admitted West, so earnestly as to attract the other's attention. "But let's talk it over among ourselves—who is listening there?"

Hobart glanced behind at the nearly closed door. It was for only a second he was off guard, yet that was enough. With one leap forward, West struck, his clinched fist smashing against the side of the fellow's jaw. It was a wicked, vicious blow, with all the propelling force of the body behind it, and Hobart went down stunned, crashing the door tightly shut as he fell. Once he strove blindly to reach his feet, tugging madly at the weapon in his pocket, but West, feeling no mercy, and wide awake to the fact that any shooting would mean a call for help, struck again, sending his groggy opponent flat, and unconscious. It was all the swift work of a minute, and there had been no noise to arouse alarm. Hobart had not even cried out; the only audible sounds being the sharp click of the door, and the dull thud of a falling body.

West emptied the man's pockets, slipping two revolvers into his own; then stood for an instant motionless, staring down into the white upturned face. He had followed the impulse of the moment; had struck savagely; knowing it was his only chance. Thus far he had done well; but what next? He was conscious of but one thought, one purpose—to escape from this house, unpledged and still free to act. Yet how could this be accomplished? He had no plan, no knowledge even of his surroundings, of what lay beyond the walls of this room. His eyes swept the bare interior, seeing nothing to inspire hope. Hobart had said this room was practically a prison, and it looked it—the walls bare, and unbroken, and a rough single cot. All possibility of egress lay in the closed door, and a narrow window high up in the opposite wall, also tightly shut, and shaded by a heavy curtain.

His hand tried the door cautiously; the knob turned easily enough, but there was no yielding to his pressure. The lock was evidently on the outside, and he could discover no key-hole, no possibility of operating it from within. Then, besides in all probability, a guard would be posted outside in the hall, waiting for some signal from Hobart. West glanced again at the recumbent figure, bending over to make sure of his condition, then, gripping a chair, silently crossed the room.

There was not a minute to lose. He knew that he must choose quickly whatever course he pursued. Any instant Hobart might recover consciousness, and gain assistance by a rap on the door; indeed his confederates without might not wait for the signal. The silence within, the length of time, might arouse suspicion. The only chance lay in immediate action. Standing on the chair West found the window had been securely nailed into place, but this had been done so long ago, it was quite possible for him to work the nails loose, yet it required all his strength to press up the warped sash sufficiently far to enable him to gain a view outside. It was not encouraging. Evidently he was upon the third floor, at the rear of the building, looking down into a cluttered up back yard. His eyes could scarcely distinguish what was below, as the only glimmer of light came from a far distant street lamp at the end of an alley, the faint rays creeping in through holes in the fence. Yet one black shadow seemed to promise the sloping roof of a shed directly below; but even with that to break his fall, it was a desperate leap.

He stared into those uncertain depths, endeavouring to measure the distance, deceived by the shifting shadows, afraid of what lay hidden below. For the moment he forgot all that was behind him, his whole mind concentrated on the perils of so mad a leap into the dark. The awakening came suddenly, the chair jerked from beneath his feet, his body hurled backward. He fell, gripping at the window seat, so that he was flung against the support of a side wall, able to retain his feet, but not to wholly ward off a vicious blow, which left him staggering. Half blinded, West leaped forward to grapple with the assailant, but was too late. Hobart rushed back out of reach of his arms, and rapped sharply on the door panel. It opened instantly, and big Mike, closely followed by another man, pushed forward into the room. West was trapped, helpless; one man pitted against three. He backed slowly away, brushing tack the dishevelled hair from his eyes, watching them warily, every animal instinct on the alert.

Mike took one comprehensive glance at the scene, at the overturned chair, the half-open window, the trapped man crouching motionless against the further wall. The meaning of it all was plain, and his bar-room training gave quick insight as to the part he was to play. He spoke gruffly out into the dark of the hall behind him, an order to some one concealed there; then shut the door tightly, and faced West, his head lowered like a bull about to charge. West understood; he was locked in to fight it out—three against one. Hobart was nearest to him, his face swollen and red, his eyes ugly slits, with teeth snarling between thin lips. The fellow laughed sneeringly, as their glances met.

"Now we'll take care of you, Captain," he taunted. "Never mind his guns, Mike; there's not a load in either of them. Give the guy what he is looking for. Come on you terriers!"

But West did not wait. There was only one chance, and he took it—to carry the fighting to them. He had no doubt of the emptiness of his guns, and hurled one straight at Hobart's head, leaping forward with the other clutched in his hand straight at Mike, who had scarcely time to fling up one hand in defence. The thrown weapon missed its mark by a narrow inch, striking the wall behind, and falling clattering to the floor, but the other broke through the big saloon-keeper's guard, and sent him reeling to his knees, a gush of blood reddening his hair. Again and again West struck him, driving him prone to the floor before the other two dragged him away, wrestled the weapon from his hand, and closed with him in a desperate death grapple.

What followed he never could relate. He was mad with fury of the fight. A mere animal defending life with every means at hand, caring nothing for either wound or hurt so that he won out in the end. Mike was out of it, but the two grappling him fought like wild cats, rough barroom fighters, resorting to any tactics to disable their opponent. Yet it was this that saved him. Crazed as he was, madly as his brain whirled in the fierce struggle, his long training held supreme—he knew how to fight, remembered instinctively every trick and guard. Again and again his clinched fist reached its mark, and slowly he broke away from clutching hands, and regained his feet. It was a terrific struggle, but luck, as well as skill, was with him. The next he knew, out of the red ruck, was that he had Hobart by the throat, jammed against the wall, with fingers clinched in the throat. Then he saw the other coming, a dim, shapeless thing, that he kicked at viciously. The boot must have landed, for he was suddenly free to strike the purple face fronting him, and fling the helpless rocking body in a huddled mass on the floor.

By God, it was over with; he had won breathing space, a chance to see what was about him. Yet that was all. The fellow he had kicked was already up, doubled from the pain of the blow, but with mad eyes glaring at him. Hobart had struggled to his knees, cursing fiercely as he swept the blood out of his eyes. They would both be on him again in a minute, more desperate than ever, and the door was locked—there was no chance there. The window! Ay! there was the window. Death either way, yet a chance; and he was man enough to take it. He leaped on the chair, and clambered up; he heard Hobart swear, and felt the grip of a hand on his dangling leg; kicked himself free, and was on the ledge. He never looked below, or took time to poise for the leap. Heedless, desperate, scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung his body out over the edge, and fell.



CHAPTER XVIII

UNDER COVER

The shed roof was below, and he struck it, fortunately feet first, but the sharp slant of the boards sent him hurtling forward over the edge into a miscellaneous pile of boxes beneath, his body finally resting on the hard ground. He lay there dazed, the breath knocked entirely out of him, bruised, and scarcely certain whether he was dead or alive. For the moment, he seemed to have lost all consciousness, unable to realize even what had occurred in that upper room, or to comprehend the necessity of immediate flight. All about him was intense darkness, and, after the crash of his fall, no sound broke the silence. He could see nothing, hear nothing to arouse his faculties; his flesh quivered with pain, although he felt sure no bones were fractured, for he could move both arms and limbs freely, while after the first shock, his mind returned to activity, dominated by the single conviction that he must get away from there before those men could get down stairs.

But how? He retained no strength, no ability to use his limbs sufficient to carry him away from the neighbourhood swiftly. He felt paralysed, numb, even his brain functioning strangely, the danger of his helpless condition its only incentive to action. He endeavoured to rise, rolling partially over in the effort which failed, but the movement, slight as it was, left one hand dangling over an excavation at his right. His fingers explored the edge of this opening cautiously, revealing a cellar-way, leading down into the basement. The opening was black, silent, mysterious, yet it was a hiding place. If he could manage to roll down those steps into those depths below, he might hide there unseen, until he regained strength, until the first effort at pursuit had been abandoned. Then there might be a chance for escape.

West grasped the idea clearly enough. Those fellows would be there swiftly. If they found him gone they would have no doubt but what he landed safely, and had made a get-away. They would search, of course, perhaps out into the alley, hoping he might have been injured, but it was hardly probable they would think to explore the cellar. Even if they did, he could surely creep into some dark corner where he might escape observation. Anyway, crippled as he was, this offered the one and only chance. He could not argue and debate; he must act.

He rolled over, and lowered himself down into the opening, locating the half-dozen broken and rotted steps with his feet. He made no attempt to stand, but simply slid down, finding a partially closed door at the bottom, the passage-way blocked by a litter, the exact nature of which could not be determined in the darkness. With some difficulty, and more than ever conscious of his weakness, and the pain of bruises, he managed to crawl over this pile of debris, and crouch down finally in the intense blackness within. He felt like a trapped rat, still gasping for breath, his body quivering from exertion.

Yet his retreat had been none too rapid. The silence above was broken by the creak of an opening door, the sound of excited voices, and a sudden gleam of light, finding entrance through the open cellar-way. West startled, crept back into a corner, every nerve alert at approaching peril. He recognized Hobart's voice, as the fellow plunged down the steps from the first floor out into the yard.

"To hell, of course he's here!" he stormed. "My God, man, he dived out head first; I saw him. He'll be dead as a door nail now. Come on with that lantern, Turner. Where in thunder is the ladder—does any one know?"

"You think he lies on the roof?"

"Why not? That's where he must have struck, ain't it, Shorty? I don't know though; it is so steep he'd most likely roll off. Here, you, let me take the glim. There's nothing here in these boxes. Ah, there's the ladder; climb up, Shorty, and see if the guy is stuck anywhere on the roof. Go on! What are you afraid of; if he's there, he's a stiff all right, believe me."

Turner's voice, hoarse and rumbling, came back from above.

"There ain't nuthin' up here, Jim. Damn me, if I don't believe the cuss got clean away. Gee, but he was sure a nervy guy all right."

"Nervy? Crazy, you mean. But he never took that fall without busting something. The bird is lying about here somewhere. You make sure he ain't up there, Shorty."

"Well, he ain't; I kin see every inch o' this roof. Perhaps he fell in between them barrels down there."

The two evidently searched thoroughly, the rays of the lantern dancing wildly about, while Hobart savagely cursed his companion, and reiterated his belief that no man could ever take that plunge, and escape unhurt.

"It couldn't be done, I tell you; maybe he could crawl, but that would be all. Why he went down head first; I saw him go out the window, and that drop would daze a cat. Say, Shorty, maybe the stiff dropped down into this cellar-way. Let's take a look."

The light streamed in through the narrow opening, and some one scrambled cautiously down the rotted steps. West, drawing himself securely back behind the protection of his barrel, saw the lantern thrust forward, and a face behind it peering in the shadows. The fellow did not advance into the room, but Hobart did, pressing his way roughly past, and standing there full in the glow of light, staring about into the dim shadows. He evidently saw nothing to arouse suspicion, for his voice was angry with disgust.

"Not a damn sign here, Shorty. It looks like the fellow maybe did get away. But it beats me how. There ain't no place now for us to look but the alley."

"An' if he ain't there?"

"Then we'll hop this dump mighty sudden, I'm telling you. We'll slip out and leave Mike to explain how he got his coco cracked. With that guy loose, it won't be healthy for me hanging around here."

"He ain't got the goods on you, has he?"

"No, he ain't got the goods, but he is dead wise to some things, and he didn't get out of that shindy up stairs without getting hurt. He'll be sore all right, and will raise all the hell he can. It's safer to keep out of the way."

"An' what about that other buck, Hobart? It won't do to have him picked up, if this guy gets the harness bulls to take a look around here."

"That ain't his style, Shorty; he won't spiel anything to the cops about this row. He's an ex-soldier, a Captain, and he's nuts on the girl. That's why he dipped into this mess—trying to save her—see? Maybe he won't be so keen now, after the song and dance she gave him up stairs. I'm half inclined to think the guy will drop out entirely, damn glad to get off alive, now he believes she is as rotten as the rest of us. But I ain't sure—maybe he is the kind that sticks. That's why I don't take any chances just now. Things ain't quite ripe for a get away—see?"

"Sure; she gave him some straight stuff, hey?"

"She certainly did; she's as smart as she is good looking. It somehow don't strike me this guy is going to bother her any more. I'm figuring that he's out of it."

"But his partner?"

"Oh, we'll leave him somewhere propped up against a door. Likely he'll never know what happened to him, or where. He ain't nothing to be afraid of—just a butler with a cracked head. It's the other guy who has got the brains. Come on; let's take a look out in the alley."

Their shadows vanished up the stairs, the glow of light disappearing, and leaving the cellar in impenetrable darkness. West did not venture to move, however, content to wait until thoroughly assured the way for escape was clear. He had not learned much from this conversation, except to increase his conviction that a serious crime was being consummated. The full nature of this conspiracy was as obscure as ever; rendered even more doubtful indeed by the active participation of Natalie Coolidge. This was what puzzled and confused him the most. He could no longer question her direct interest in the affair, or her willingness to assist in overcoming his efforts. Even without the free testimony of the men this fact was sufficiently clear. She had deliberately lied to him, attempted deceit, and then, when he refused to yield to her efforts, had so reported to Hobart, and left him to his fate. It was manifestly impossible for him to believe in her any longer. Yet what could it all mean? How could she hope to benefit by such an association? Why could she thus shield the murderers of Percival Coolidge? What possible object could there be in the commission of this crime, except to gain possession of her own fortune? It was all mystery to his mind; a new unanswerable question arising wherever he looked.

What strange influence could this man Hobart exercise over the girl? To West's judgment he was in no way the sort of man to appeal to Natalie Coolidge. He was of a low, cunning order, with some degree of outward polish, to be sure, yet inherently tough, and exhibiting marks of a birth-right which indelibly stamped him of a social class far below her own. Surely, she could not love the fellow, yet unquestionably he possessed a mysterious power over her, difficult to explain through any other hypothesis. If West had not known the young woman under different conditions, he might have accepted this theory, and dismissed the whole matter from mind. But it was the haunting memory of that earlier Natalie Coolidge, the mistress of Fairlawn, which would not permit his complete surrender. She had seemed all that his dream of womanhood called for. Unconsciously, he had given her his heart, and he could not tear the remembrance from mind. There was something wrong, terribly wrong; what it was he had no means of knowing, yet, there in the dark, he determined he would know, would never be content until he learned the whole truth. All his hope, all his future, depended on the answer.

Hobart and Turner were absent for some little while; the sound of their voices ceased, but the distant flicker of the lantern enabled West to trace their progress up the alley, and then back again. They returned in no pleasant humour, convinced that their expected victim had escaped safely, but made no further effort to search the yard. Hobart said enough to make it plain that his immediate project was to disappear, leaving Mike to his own devices. With this point settled the two tramped heavily up the stairs, and disappeared within. West, confident at last, that the way was left clear, wriggled out from his place of concealment behind the barrel, and stood erect. He felt stronger now, and in less pain, convinced that his injuries were in no degree serious. He could move his limbs freely and his mind was active. The darkness was so intense he had to grope his way forward, anxious to make no noise which might betray his presence. No doubt the basement could be reached in some way from the floor above, and any unusual sound below might easily attract attention.

In the intensity of the gloom, his sense of direction failed, taking him somewhat further back before he finally located the exact position of those outer steps. Then as he turned abruptly, his foot came in contact with an obstacle on the floor. For an instant he could not determine what it was; then, with a thrill of horror, he realized the presence of a human body. There was no sound, no movement, and West drew back from contact with the object, shrinking in horror. Then he gripped himself sternly—whoever, whatever this was, he must know. Alive or dead he must determine the truth. He bent over, feeling with his hands in the darkness. Good God, the flesh was warm; it was no cold corpse he touched, but a living human being; ay! tied like a mummy, unable to move hand or foot. Then, as suddenly, his groping fingers, eager enough now, discovered the cause of silence—the man was gagged, cruelly gagged, helpless to utter a sound.



CHAPTER XIX

THE COMING OF A MESSAGE

The situation once realized, West worked rapidly. If this bound man was Sexton, the quicker he could be released the better. Hobart had already revealed his plans, and might appear at any moment for the purpose of executing them. If escape was to be achieved, it must be accomplished at once. In the darkness his fingers could do nothing with the knot, but the sharp blade of a knife quickly severed the twisted cloth, and the gag was instantly removed from between the clinched teeth. The man moaned, breathing heavily, but made no other sound while West slashed at the cords lashing his limbs, finally freeing them entirely. Not until this had been accomplished did he pause long enough to ask questions.

"There; that's the last. Now who are you—Sexton?"

"Yes, sir," weakly, and in a mere whisper, "an' I know yer voice, sir. Thank God, yer found me, sir."

"It was a bit of luck; but we'll talk that over later. Now we've got to get out of here. Can you walk?"

"I don't know, sir; after a fashion, maybe. I'm mighty stiff and numb, sir. Oh, Lord, but that hurts; give me a hand, an' perhaps I can make it."

"Take it easy; work your legs up and down like that; good, that will restore the circulation. How long have you been lying here?"

"I don't know, sir," his voice strengthening. "I must have been hit, the way my head aches. The first thing I knew after I went into that room with you, I was lyin' here in the dark. I couldn't move or speak, sir, an' it was so black, I kind of got it into my head maybe I was dead and buried. If it hadn't been for my hearing things—voices talking, and all that—I guess I would have gone clear batty. Maybe I didn't get everything straight, sir, but one o' them fellows was Hobart, wasn't he?"

"Yes; we walked right into his trap. The fellow who came over to the table and talked to us was Jim Hobart. He knew me at first sight it seems, and easily guessed what we were there for."

"And was Miss Coolidge here too, sir?"

"Yes, she was; I had a talk with her that has mixed me all up, Sexton. She seems to be hand in glove with these fellows. But how did you suspect she was here?"

"I heard her voice, sir; up there somewhere, sir, soon after I come to my senses. She and some man went along outside. Sounded like he was makin' her go with him. I couldn't get much of what was said, but he sure talked awful rough, an' she seemed to be pleadin' with him. They wasn't there but just a minute, an' then, a little later, I heard an automobile start up."

"You have no idea how long ago this was?"

"No, I ain't, sir. I been lyin' here about half dead, I guess, an' I don't seem to have known anything after that, until those fellows come down here with the lantern. Were they hunting after you?"

"Yes; I outwitted them up stairs, and jumped from a window. But that is enough talk now; we'll go over the whole affair when we are safely away from this place. How is it? do you think you can navigate?"

Sexton responded by getting slowly to his feet. He trembled, and was so uncertain, as he attempted to grope forward, that West grasped him firmly, helping him slowly toward the foot of the steps. Even this effort, however, helped the man to recover somewhat the use of his numbed limbs, while his breathing became much easier. The two crept up the stairs cautiously, and surveyed the cluttered up yard as best they might in the dim light of the distant street lamp. It appeared entirely deserted, nor was there any evidence that the building above was occupied. No doubt lights were burning within, but if so the shades must have been drawn closely, allowing no reflection to escape. No better opportunity for evading notice could be hoped for, and West, alert now to every chance, made instant decision.

"They are all inside. Creep along behind that pile of lumber to where you see the hole in the fence. I'll be just behind you. That's the way."

The narrow alley was much lighter, yet still dark enough to conceal their movements, as they clung close to the deeper shadows. Except for an old cart it was unoccupied, the surface covered with ashes, so packed as to leave no trace of wheels. Ahead of them at the end of the block, glowed the only street lamp visible. Sexton, by now largely recovered from his late experiences, broke into a run, with West following closely behind. Both were eager to escape from the immediate neighbourhood unseen. Suddenly Sexton stumbled, but arose almost instantly to his feet again, grasping something which gleamed like silver in his hand.

"Not hurt, are you?" asked West anxiously.

"No; what's this I found?"

The other took it impatiently.

"What is it? Why a small pocket knife, of course. Come on, man, don't stand mooning there." He slipped the article carelessly into his pocket. "Let's get out into the open while the road is clear."

"Where are you going?" Sexton panted, endeavouring to keep beside him. "Have you anything planned out?"

"Not very much; Milwaukee Avenue first. There is sure to be an all-night restaurant somewhere in sight. Telephone for a taxi, don't dare to risk a street car, we both look too tough."

"Suppose they will follow us?"

"Hardly; they will have no idea which way we went, or how long we'll have been gone. All Hobart will think about now will be getting out of sight himself. Once we turn off this street, we'll be safe enough."

It was considerably past midnight when the two men finally reached the University Club; they had lunched at an all-night restaurant, washed and made themselves as presentable as possible, yet were hardly recognizable as they entered the Club lobby. Neither possessed a hat; Sexton was in his shirt sleeves, while West's coat clung to him in rags. Without waiting to explain anything to the servant in charge, except to state briefly that Sexton would be his guest for the night, the Captain hurried into the waiting elevator, and accompanied by his companion, ascended to his apartment above.

The reaction from the excitement of the evening left Sexton dull and drowsy once he felt secure from any possible danger. His only desire was to lie quiet, and forget. Stretched out on a comfortable lounge, he fell asleep almost instantly, making no effort even to remove his clothes. West was of a different temperament, his mind far too active to find sleep possible. His only desire was to think, plan, decide upon some future course of action. With mind busy, forgetful of the very presence of his companion, he indulged in a bath, again dressed himself, and, lighting a cigar, settled back into an easy chair to fight the whole out alone with himself.

The adventures of the night had greatly changed his conception of this affair in which he had become so strangely involved. The mystery confronting him appeared more difficult of solution than ever. His first vague theory of the case had already gone completely to smash. Question after question rose before him which remained unanswered. He was more thoroughly convinced than ever that Percival Coolidge had been murdered; that the act had been committed either by Hobart himself, or under his direction. He possessed no proof, however, nor could he figure out a motive for the crime. Who was this Jim Hobart? That was one of the first things to be learned. Was he in any way personally interested in the fortune left by Stephen Coolidge? Or did he hold any special relationship with the murdered man? How could he expect to profit by the sudden death of Percival? More important still, what peculiar influence did the fellow exert over the girl? Here was by far the deeper mystery, the one that troubled him most. The others seemed possible of explanation, but the sudden change in Natalie Coolidge was beyond all understanding.

Except in face, form, dress, outward appearance, she no longer seemed to West as being the same woman he had formerly known. His original interest in her had vanished; he had learned to distrust and doubt her sincerity and truth. Beyond all question she was openly playing an important part in this tragedy under Hobart's direction, but for the life of him he could not figure out to what end. Still the very mystery of it had its fascination. While he felt no longer any special desire to serve her, to further risk his life in her cause, yet he experienced a fierce determination to learn what all this really meant; to uncover the object these conspirators had in view. Although he imagined love no longer spurred him on, his real interest in the affair became even more intense, with an aroused desire to read the riddle. He convinced himself that from henceforth this was to be his only object—not the girl, nor any attraction she once had for him, but a stern determination to solve this crime, and bring its perpetrators to justice. If she was involved it could not be helped, she would have to suffer with the rest; his own duty was clear.

Yet how could he begin action? What clue did he possess which could be followed? Practically none. Before morning, that saloon on Wray Street would unquestionably be deserted, except perhaps by its proprietor, and Mike would simply deny everything. A search of the place would be useless, for Hobart would be too sly a fox to leave any trail. Two possibilities remained; the police might have some record of the fellow, might know his favourite haunts, even be able to locate his next probable hiding place. If not, the only hope remaining would seem to be Natalie Coolidge. She would undoubtedly return to Fairlawn; was probably there already, and, by shadowing her, the whereabouts of Hobart would surely be revealed either sooner or later.

But possibly there was a quicker way to learn their purpose than by thus seeking to find either. If it was the Coolidge fortune which was at stake, why not endeavour to learn in whose trust it was being held, and what steps were being taken to safe-guard it? This investigation ought not to be particularly difficult, even though he possessed no authority; he could explain the nature of his interest to an attorney, and be advised how to proceed. Determined to take all three steps the first thing next day, West rested back comfortably in the chair, already half asleep. One hand rested in his pocket, and as his fingers fumbled some object there, he suddenly recalled the knife Sexton had found in the alley.

He drew the article forth curiously, and looked at it under the glow of the electric light—it was a small silver handled pen-knife, such as a lady might carry, a rather strange thing to be discovered in a dirt alley back of Wray Street. The incongruity struck him forcibly, and he sat up, wide awake once more, seeking for some mark of identification on the polished handle. There was none, not an inscription of any kind, but he noted that the single slender blade did not fit closely down into its place. He opened it idly to learn the cause—beneath appeared the white gleam of tightly folded paper.



CHAPTER XX

WHAT THE TELEPHONE TOLD

All West's indifference vanished instantly. He had to pry the paper out, so closely had it been wedged in beneath the closed knife blade, and it required a moment in which to straighten it out so that the writing was discernable. Even then the marks were so faint, and minute, he could not really decipher them until he made use of a magnifying glass lying on the desk. A woman's hand, using a pencil, had hastily inscribed the words on a scrap of common paper, apparently torn from some book—the inspiration of an instant, perhaps, a sudden hope born of desperation. He fairly had to dig the words out, letter by letter, copying them on an old envelope until he had the message complete: "Please notify police to search Seminole quick."

West read this over, word by word, again and again. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Had it any possible connection with the case in which he was interested? There was no signature, nothing to guide him; yet in some way the plea sounded real, was a cry of distress, an appeal for help. It could be given no other meaning, yet how long had it been lying there in the alley? Not any great length of time surely, for the polished silver was far too conspicuous to escape notice. It must have been dropped during the night, within a very short time of its discovery. But what did the words signify? "Notify police" was clear enough, but "search Seminole" meant absolutely nothing. What was "Seminole"—an apartment house? A hotel? A saloon? Perhaps the police would know; evidently the writer so believed, or she would never have used the name with such confidence. A familiar name to her, she assumed that the police would have no difficulty in instantly locating the place meant. The haste with which the message had apparently been written, its short, sharp words, bespoke urgent need, the consciousness of imminent peril. Plainly the writer had used the only means at hand in a hurried desperate effort to gain assistance.

"The police." The request had been for the police; then why not appeal to the police? Why not take the note now directly to headquarters, and let them help solve its mystery? At first West hesitated, yet a moment's thought convinced him this would be the logical course to pursue. He could accomplish nothing alone, unguided. His appealing to the police need not necessarily involve any disclosure relative to the Coolidge matter. He had found this note accidentally in an alley in the northwest section of the city; his being there need require no special explanation; he did not understand its meaning, but it was quite evidently a police matter, and consequently he placed it in their hands. That all sounded natural enough. Besides at this hour of the night there was no other place to which he could go for information.

He looked at Sexton, who was sleeping soundly, and decided not to awaken the man. He had no use for his services just now; the City Hall was only a few blocks away, and he might not be out more than an hour himself. He would leave a note so that if by any chance he should be delayed, Sexton would understand what had occurred. He scratched this off hastily, placed it in a conspicuous place, and swiftly departed, after extinguishing the light. He was no longer conscious of fatigue, or the pain of bruises, his mind eager to learn the meaning of this new discovery.

It had been a quiet night at the City Hall Station, and West encountered no difficulty in reaching the presence of the lieutenant in charge. The latter gazed at his caller curiously over an early edition of the morning paper, as the officer who had opened the door to the inner office, said rather doubtfully.

"This guy wants to see you personally, sir; he wouldn't talk to no one else."

"All right, Slavin; shut the door, and I'll hear what he has to say. What is it, my man?"

West explained swiftly and clearly, his manner of speech, as well as his statement as to who he was, evidently making a favourable impression on his listener, who interrupted the brief narrative with several respectfully asked questions. He look the note, spread it out on the desk, and studied it carefully.

"Looks genuine enough," he commented at last, "but not very clear. I don't know any place in this town called Seminole. Wait a minute though; perhaps one of the boys may have an idea."

He pressed a button on top of the desk, and in response to the summons, a side door opened, and a main in plain clothes entered.

"You rang, sir?"

"Yes, McAdams; this gentleman here—"

"Captain West, as I am a sinner!" he exclaimed. "Gee! but I am glad to see you again, old man! Say. By Gad! you don't remember me."

"Oh, but I certainly do, Mac," and West grasped the extended hand heartily. "It's a devil of a surprise, that's all. Saw you last at Brest, the day you sailed for home. So this was your job, Sergeant?"

"Been with the department ever since I was a kid. Put me in plain clothes since I came back. Lieutenant, this is Captain West, over across the pond with the Engineers; we were buddies for about two months. What was wanted, sir?"

"Well, Captain West has just been telling me a rather peculiar story, and wanted some information I thought perhaps you could give; you know the old town right now better than I do. First of all, do you recall any crook by the name of Hobart—Jim Hobart?"

"Hobart? Hobart? no, not off hand, I don't. How old a man is he, Captain?"

"Middle-aged, anyway; an active fellow enough, but his hair is quite grey."

"Do you know where he hangs out?"

"The last I saw of him was in a saloon known as Mike's Place over on Wray Street."

"Off Milwaukee; yes, I know. Mike is a big Pole, but has never had any serious trouble so far as I know. However, being there is no special recommendation to a guy, but I don't believe this man Hobart has been pulled since I've been on the force. And you don't recall the name, Lieutenant?"

"No; but he might be an old timer come back. Look him up in the index, Mac. That will soon tell you whether we have got any such mug, or not."

McAdams drew out a thick volume from a near-by cabinet, and ran his fingers swiftly down a long column of names, indexed under the letter "H." Suddenly he stopped, with an exclamation.

"The lad is here all right—Government offence, fifteen years ago, third arrest; mugged number 28113. Let's look him up, and see if he is the same man. Come over here, Captain."

"Is that the fellow?" he asked.

West studied the face seriously.

"Yes, I believe it is, Mac," he said at length. "He looks much older now, but those are his features all right. What was his game?"

"'Con' mostly, according to the record; only one conviction though, two years in Detroit for using the mails to defraud. Oh, yes, here is something different, 'assault with intent to kill'—indeterminate sentence to Joliet for that. Nothing heard of him since. So he is back, and at the old game again. Do you want him brought in, Captain?"

"No, not yet. I haven't anything against the man now but a suspicion. I wanted to learn his record, that's all. This inquiry was only incidental. What I'm really interested in just at present is something I picked up in the alley back of Mike's Place three or four hours ago. It's a note in a woman's hand-writing, and when I found it, it was hidden in a small silver pen-knife, such as a lady might carry. I thought it might have some connection with the case I'm trying to catch this fellow Hobart in."

"There is a woman in it, then?"

"Yes; but I haven't got things hitched up sufficiently to talk about it. The note itself is blind."

"In what respect?"

"Well, here it is. Can you make it out? I'll read it for you—'Please notify police to search Seminole quick.'"

"No signature?"

"None."

"But that is plain enough, isn't it?"

"Yes, if you know what she means by Seminole; what is it? a street? an apartment house? a saloon? Do you know of anything under that name?"

McAdams stood motionless thinking.

"No, by thunder, I don't," he admitted reluctantly. "There is no street of that name in the city. There used to be a shady hotel over on Ontario Street called 'The Seminole,' but that was torn down ten years ago. I never heard of any other—did you, Dave?"

"No," answered the lieutenant slowly, sucking away at a cigar. "I just been looking over the directory, and I don't find nothing. Maybe it's the name of a boat—seems to me I've heard some such name before, but I don't just recollect where."

"A boat! Well, that's a straw anyway, and worth looking up." Mac picked up the telephone. "Who is on at the Harbour Master's office this time of night?"

"Winchell, usually, and he'll have a record there."

The detective jiggled the receiver impatiently.

"Yes, this is police headquarters calling. Give me the Harbour Master's office, please—I said the Harbour office. Oh, is this you, Dan? Bob McAdams speaking. Do you know of any boat on the lakes called the Seminole? What's that? A lumber schooner at Escanaba? Never makes this port, you say? And you don't know of any other by that name? Sure, I'll hold the wire; look it up."

"Not a very promising lead," he said over his shoulder, "but Dan will have the dope for us in a minute."

He suddenly straightened up, the receiver at his ear.

"I didn't quite get that, Dan. A medium sized yacht, you say? Where is it? Oh, at the Jackson Park lagoon. I see; and who did you say owned it? What's that? I didn't quite catch the name—Coolidge? What Coolidge? Exactly; the fellow who killed himself out south. Hold the wire."

He swung about to face West, the receiver still at his ear.

"This mean anything to you?"

"It surely does," eagerly. "The girl I spoke of was Natalie Coolidge. By all the gods, we are on the right track."

"All right, Dan," resuming his conversation. "What's that? Coolidge had the boat up the river a few weeks ago trying to sell it. That's how you happened to remember the name—I see. Say, is there any one out at Jackson Park I could talk to at this hour? Who? Oh, yes, the Life Saving Station. Sure: somebody will be on duty there. Thanks, old man—good night."

He hung the receiver up on the hook, and reached for the telephone directory.

"Some luck, I say. Jackson Park—oh, yes, here it is. All right, Central; sure, that is the proper number. This is the City Hall Police Headquarters again; hustle it up, please. Hullo, Jackson Park Life Saving Station? Good; this is McAdams speaking from the City Detective Bureau. Is there a yacht out there in the lagoon called the Seminole? belongs to a man named Coolidge; medium sized boat, with gas engine. Yes; what's that? Not there now; went out into the lake about two hours ago. The hell it did! Who was aboard? do you know? Say that again; oh, you wasn't on watch when she sailed; your partner said what? Three men and a woman. All right, yes, I got it. Say now, listen; this is a police matter, so keep your eyes open. It will be daylight pretty soon, and if you get sight of that boat, call up the City Hall Station at once. Do you get me?"

He wheeled about, smiling whimsically.

"It's on again, off again, Flannigan. We had it, and we have it not. Dave I am getting interested; I feel the lure of the chase. What say you? Can you spare me for a day or two? You can? good enough; we'll comb the lakes until we find out who is sailing aboard the Seminole. You're with me, old man?"

West extended his hand silently, and the fingers of the two clasped in a mutual pledge.



CHAPTER XXI

THE YACHT "SEMINOLE"

There was little to do but wait impatiently for some further message of guidance. McAdams dispatched a few telegrams to nearby lake ports, and briefly outlined certain plans of action for the morrow, provided nothing further was heard from the missing boat; these included a possible visit to Fairlawn, and a city-wide search for Hobart, who both men decided could not be included among the party on the yacht. West told his new assistant the entire story in detail, and Mac's interest in ferreting out the matter became intense. It was the kind of case which fascinated him with its mystery, but no theory he could spin born from long police experience, seemed to exactly fit all the revealed facts. The great puzzle revolved about the strange actions of the girl; her part in the affair presenting an unsolvable riddle. They must have talked for an hour, discussing the situation frankly from every angle, yet arriving at no definite conclusion. The sky in the east was red with dawn when both men fell fast asleep in their chairs, still waiting.

It was nine o'clock, and still no word. The two had eaten a hasty breakfast in a restaurant across the street, discussing the situation again thoroughly, but to no more satisfactory result. It seemed impossible to reconcile certain facts. If the silver knife, with its call for help, had indeed been dropped by Natalie Coolidge, and she was being held a prisoner in the hands of villains on board the Seminole, why had she acted toward West as she did in that house on Wray Street? To all appearances there she had been hand in glove with the conspirators, willing even to connive at the Captain's murder if necessary to the success of their crime. Only one theory was possible; that the girl was under constraint, driven to her strange act by personal fear. She dare do nothing else, terrorized by the threats of Hobart, and her own sense of utter helplessness in his power. This, and this only, must be the answer to the riddle.

McAdams, unable to remain quiet, departed to get his police search started in an attempt to discover Hobart in his new hiding place. The fellow could not be on the yacht, as that had sailed from Jackson Port at far too early an hour for him to have possibly made one of the party. He would still be in the city then, securely concealed in some dive of the underworld, perfecting his plans, whatever they might be, and, perhaps, arranging to join those on the boat later. The detective even thought this unlikely, his theory being that Hobart merely desired to get the girl safely out of the way for a length of time sufficient to enable him to complete his nefarious scheme. He argued that Natalie was in no real danger; she would be held no doubt, kept out of sight as long as was necessary, but otherwise left uninjured. This was no strong-arm crime, but a high class confidence game, and the important thing was to quickly lay hands on Hobart. With him once in the toils, the whole conspiracy would instantly collapse. With this end in view, McAdams took up the man's trail, leaving West to stand guard over the telephone.

The latter called up Sexton, and hurried him out to Fairlawn, with instructions to find out all he could from the servants there relative to any late developments. He expected no important revelation from this point, as Natalie could not have returned home, yet there might have been a telephone communication, or some other occurrence of interest to furnish a clue. Sexton was instructed to report the result of his investigation at the earliest moment possible. This accomplished, nothing remained for West to do, but sit down and wait for something else to happen.

The delay was shorter than he anticipated. There was a sharp ringing of the bell, the police operator responding quickly.

"Police Headquarters. What's wanted? McAdams; no he is not in just now. Who is calling him? Harbour Master's office; all right; hold the wire a minute."

He turned his head around.

"Must be your case, Captain; better hear what they have to say."

West grasped the receiver eagerly.

"Is this the Seminole matter?" he asked swiftly. "Certainly, I understand about it. What's that. Oh, Winchell told you to call up if you learned anything. Of course; what is it? Yes, I hear; just found her tied up at north side of Municipal Pier. What's the trouble? Engine working bad, and had to come in, hey? All right—thanks; I'll go straight over and see them."

This was great luck, yet there was very little he could hope to accomplish alone, without the help and authority of McAdams. Even if the vessel had been stolen—which was probably not true—he possessed no power of arrest. All he could hope to do would be to keep the fellows in sight until Mac showed up, and, if possible, prevent them from putting out into the lake again. Even in that he needs must be cautious not to be seen by any of the gang who might recognize him. An alarm, proving they were being followed, would doubtless send them scattering instantly. If they were to be trapped, no suspicion could be aroused.

West thought of all these things as a taxi bore him across the city to the pier, and acted accordingly. The open air restaurant accorded him every reasonable opportunity for concealment, while affording ample view of whatever was going on. It was a bright, sunshiny day, the waters of the lake a deep blue. No crowd was present, yet enough people were at the tables, or lounging about the pier, to make his presence unnoticeable. The pleasure boat for Lincoln Park, a band aboard, and with a barker industriously busy, was close by, surrounded by a bevy of women and children. Beyond these, on the same side, snuggled close against the cement wall, lay the yacht. West ordered a drink, and sat down at a table within easy view, although partially concealed himself by a pillar supporting the roof.

The Seminole was a much larger boat than he had anticipated seeing, yet he could not doubt her being the vessel sought. The name was plainly stencilled on the bow, as well as upon the dingy towing astern. Her deck lay almost even with the promenade, and he was able to trace her lines clearly from where he sat. The craft had evidently been constructed for comfort as well as speed. He noted two short masts unrigged, a bridge forward of the wheel-house, together with a decidedly commodious cabin aft. The deck space between was clear, except for the hatchway leading down to the engine. The planking was clean, as though newly scrubbed, while every handrail glistened in the sun. The cabin appeared tightly closed, even the windows being heavily draped. Some mechanics were evidently working below; there was a sound of hammering, and occasionally a fellow in overalls appeared at the hatch opening. No one wearing any semblance of a yacht uniform was visible, although four or five men lounged about the deck, or close at hand on the pier, apparently connected with the vessel. Two were well-dressed, rather gentlemanly appearing fellows, the others of a decidedly rougher class, although bearing no outward marks of being sea-men. While an air of carelessness was assumed by all these, yet West, watching them closely, felt that they were very much on their guard, anxiously waiting an opportunity to depart. No face among the party had any familiarity; he had encountered none of them at Mike's Place the evening before. Satisfied as to this, he left the table, and strolled out on to the promenade, joining the crowd watching the Lincoln Park boat get underway. So far as he could observe this movement attracted no attention, although a moment later his eyes plainly caught a bit of drapery drawn slightly aside at one of the cabin windows of the Seminole, and, he felt convinced, the quick gesture of a woman's hand.

There was a woman on board then! This certainty of knowledge by evidence of his own eyes, set his blood leaping. Whatever the purposes of these people he was again upon the right trail. The uplifted curtain was immediately lowered, and, if any signal had thus been conveyed, there was no other evidence visible. A little later one of the two better dressed fellows loafing on the pier, a rather heavily built man, with closely clipped red moustache, and a scar over one eye, slowly crossed the deck, and entered the cabin. He came forth again a moment later, asked some question of the workmen below and then clambered back carelessly over the rail, joining his companion on the pier.

"A half hour yet; it was quite a job the boy's had, but they are making time. Come over here a minute."

They walked forward, out of earshot from where West sat on a bench in the sun. He watched the fellows closely, yet without neglecting the boat, but they neither glanced toward him, or seemed aware of his existence. Convinced that they felt no suspicion, but were merely exercising ordinary precaution not to be overheard, the watcher soon banished all fear of them from his mind. His whole thought centred on the early arrival of McAdams. Until the detective came, there was nothing he could do but sit there quietly and wait. But what if the necessary repairs were completed, and the Seminole sailed before Mac got there? The fellow called Joe had mentioned half an hour, and he probably meant that was the time set by the mechanics for completing their job on the engine. Beyond doubt, the intention was to depart immediately. Was there any means in his power by which this could be prevented? The only suggestion which came to him was the picking of a quarrel in some way, with the two men ashore. The boat would never depart unless they were aboard, as they were evidently the leaders of the gang, yet this would be a most desperate expedient, to be resorted to only when all other effort had failed. The two were husky chaps, and he would probably be the one to suffer most in such an encounter. Besides it would put them on their guard, and possibly avail nothing. Why not speak to the fellows pleasantly, and naturally? They had no reason to be suspicious of him; he was but one of many others lounging idly about the pier. His curiosity would seem reasonable enough, and he might thus gain some clue as to their destination. Then, even if they did sail before Mac appeared, they could be safely intercepted in time for a rescue. Indeed, such information, if it could be gained, would give opportunity to plan effective action.

Circumstances seemed to work to this end, the two men strolling carelessly back toward where he sat, pausing within a few feet of him, all their attention apparently riveted upon the yacht.

"Had some hard luck?" he ventured. "Engine give out?"

The red-moustached one glanced about, his eyes surveying the speaker indifferently.

"Broke a piston, and had to be towed in," he replied carelessly, "We'll be off again presently."

"Nice day for a sail."

"Sure is."

The very indifference of the fellow led West to take a chance.

"Some nice boat you've got there. The Coolidge yacht, isn't it? Haven't seen it out lately."

"Are you a yachtsman?"

"A bit of an amateur, yes; have a cat-boat I play with some. Belong to the Columbia Club."

"Off Grant Park; this boat quarters in the Jackson lagoon. We left there last night. You knew Coolidge?"

"No, never met him; recognized the boat though. Has it been sold?"

"Not yet. It wasn't his anyway; belonged to the estate. I'm one of the trustees; that's how I've got the use of it—see? Ever looked it over?"

West shook his head.

"No, but I wouldn't mind; she's a dandy."

"She sure is; better inside than out to my notion. Come aboard; we've got time enough. Not thinking of buying a yacht, are you?"

"Well, I might, if the price is not too steep. I've got the fever all right; what I lack maybe, is money. It costs a lot to run a yacht."

"Oh, I don't know. We operate this with three men as a crew. That's not so bad. Come along with us, Mark; we'll take a look at the cabin first, and then go forward."

The three men stepped over the low rail, and moved aft across the deck, the leader talking fluently, and pointing out various things of interest. His only object apparently was to arouse in West a desire to purchase. The other man never spoke, and the latter gave no thought to his presence. He had been rarely fortunate so far, and was looking for an opportunity to question his guide on the purpose of their voyage. He would wait until later; until the examination had been completed, perhaps, when they believed him a possible purchaser. Joe opened the cabin door, and West stepped inside, the interior darkened by drawn curtains. The dusk was confusing, and he stood still after the first step, hearing the latch click behind him.



CHAPTER XXII

KIDNAPPED

A hand gripped his shoulder as though in a vise, and swung him around; the muzzle of an automatic confronted him, and behind it the threatening eyes of Joe glared directly into his own.

"Not a move, you damned spy," a voice said coldly. "Now, Mark, frisk the cuss, and be lively about it. Had a gun, hey; I thought so. Give it to me. Now get the cord over there and give him a turn or two. A very good job, old boy; the fellow is safe enough, I should say."

He turned his eyes away, searching the cabin, confident that West was sufficiently secured.

"Come on out, Mary," he said sharply. "Who is this guy, anyhow?"

A woman came forward through the shadows. West had a glimpse of her face, but the features were unfamiliar. A woman of forty, perhaps, still attractive in appearance, with dark hair and bold black eyes that met his own defiantly. He was puzzled, doubtful as to what it all meant. So this was the woman he had seen on board; not Natalie Coolidge at all. There had been a mistake of some kind; but if so, why had these people given him this sort of reception aboard? These thoughts swept his mind in a flash, as the woman peered forward to see his features more clearly. For a moment she said nothing, and Joe broke out impatiently.

"He's the lad, ain't he?" he asked. "We ain't gone an' picked up the wrong guy?"

"No; he's the bird all right. I never lamped him but once before myself. I heard his name then, but forgot it. He's her friend, there ain't no doubt o' that, Joe, and it ain't likely he's hanging around here just for fun, is it? My idea was it would be safer to take him in."

"Sure; what's yer name, young fellow?"

Concealment was useless; they evidently had him correctly spotted; to lie would do no good.

"Matthew West."

"That's the name," the woman exclaimed eagerly. "He is a soldier—a Captain, or something like that. Jim told me about him; he's the same fellow who was snooping about Mike's Place last night, before we pulled out."

"Is that so? How the hell did you get out of there?"

"We had a little trouble," West admitted, "but they let me go."

"Yes, they did! I know better than that; Hobart don't do business that way. I reckon we've played his game all right taking you in. Well, you don't get out of here so easy, let me tell you. How'd you come to get onto us?"

"That's my business."

"Oh, is it? Well, we'll make it ours from now on. There is one thing pretty sure—you were here playing a lone hand. So it don't make much difference what yer idea was. We'll take the bird along with us, Mary; then he'll be out of temptation."

The woman nodded.

"Jim will know what to do with him," she said. "All we got to do is keep him safe."

"I'll attend to that; come on, Mark, let's throw the damn sneak into that left-hand stateroom. He'll stay there all right. Aw, take hold; don't be afraid of hurting the fellow."

They roughed him forward, but West made no attempt to resist; his hands were bound, and he was helpless. The woman threw open the narrow door, and he was bundled unceremoniously across the threshold, and thrown heavily to the floor. He struggled partially upright, protesting against being left in that helpless condition, but the red-moustached man only laughed, shutting the door tightly, and locking it. The single port hole was covered by heavy drapery, the stateroom in total darkness. Through the door panels he could hear a voice speaking.

"He's better off that way until we get out of here. You stay here, Mary, till I can attend to him myself. Those fellows ought to have that engine fixed by this time. Mark and I better go up on deck awhile."

"But, Joe, do you think they have caught on to us?" she asked anxiously.

"No, I don't; this guy wouldn't be snooping about alone if they had. He ain't no fly cop, and just happened to be loafin' here—that's my guess. He knew this was the Coolidge Yacht, and that set him to asking questions. That guy don't look to me like he was the kind to be afraid of. All we got to do is hold him here until Jim decides what he's up to. I don't want to hurt him none, unless I have to. Everything else all right, I suppose?"

"Sure; quiet as a mouse; asleep, I guess."

"That's good; well you stay here until I come back. Want a gun?"

She did not answer so as to be heard, but West could distinguish the movement of feet in the outer cabin, and then the closing of a door. Undoubtedly the two men had gone on deck, leaving the woman there alone. His feet were not tied, and he could sit up, although the hands were tightly bound behind him. With eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom, he could discern something of his surroundings. He was in the ordinary stateroom of a small yacht, with barely space in which to move about comfortably. Two bunks were at one side, with a metal stand at their foot for washing purposes. A rug covered the floor, the beds were made, and a stool, screwed to the deck, occupied a position just below the porthole. A few hooks were in evidence on the opposite wall; but no garments dangled from them to tell of previous occupancy. Indeed the place was scrupulously clean, as though unused for some time.

West made his way to the port, pushed aside the curtain with his shoulders and looked out. The smallness of the opening made any hope of escape in that way impossible; nor could he expect to attract the attention of any one ashore. His view was limited to the east and north, a wide expanse of blue water, the only thing in sight being the pleasure boat bound for Lincoln Park, already little more than a black dot in the distance. Convinced of his complete helplessness, he sat down on the stool to consider the situation.

He had been a fool; there was no doubt as to that; the only thing now was how he could best retrieve his folly. He had walked blindly into a trap, suspecting nothing, confidently relying on his own smartness, believing himself unknown. Now he must find his way out. It angered him to realize how easily it had been accomplished; not so much as a blow struck; no opportunity even for him to cry out an alarm—only that dark cabin, and the threatening revolver shoved against his cheek. He wondered where McAdams was; perhaps hunting him even then on the pier; and Sexton, what had he succeeded in discovering out at Fairlawn? That Natalie Coolidge had returned home, no doubt. At least he no longer believed she was with this yachting party—evidently there was but one woman on board. Yet, whether she was there or not, it was clear enough from what he had heard that this sudden voyage of the Seminole had some direct connection with the mystery he was endeavouring to solve. That was why he had been decoyed aboard, and made prisoner—to keep him silent; to get him securely out of the way. Yet this knowledge revealed nothing as to what their real purpose was.

What did they intend doing with him now that he was in their hands? Joe had declared his fate would be left with Hobart. Then it must be that they had a rendezvous arranged somewhere with that arch-conspirator, some hidden spot along the lake shore where they were to meet shortly, and divide the spoils, or make further plans. Hobart unquestionably was the leader of the gang; but who was the woman? She had evidently been in Mike's Place the night before, and had a glimpse of his face. She must have left with that party in the automobile, yet she surely was not the one who had dropped that note begging the police to search this vessel.

What then had become of the other? If she was being held prisoner, it was not at all probable she had been left somewhere ashore; apparently she had reason to know where she was being taken—to the Seminole; otherwise she would never have written as she did. She must have overheard their plans, before she hastily scratched off the note desperately; and yet those plans might have been changed. However, if so, why were these people—accomplices of Hobart no doubt—fleeing in the yacht, seeking to conceal their identity in an effort to disappear? What were they fleeing from? Why were they so fearful of discovery by the police? What would cause them to kidnap him, merely on suspicion that he was a friend of Natalie Coolidge? The very act was proof positive of the desperation of their crime. It could be accounted for on no other theory.

West paced the narrow space, his brain whirling, as he attempted to reason the affair out, his own helplessness becoming more and more apparent. What could he do? There was but one answer—absolutely nothing as he was then situated. He could only wait for some movement on the part of the others; his fate was out of his own hands; he had been a fool, and must pay the price. The cords about his wrists chafed and hurt with each movement. The metal wash-stand gave him an inspiration; its upper strip was thin, and somewhat jagged along the edge; possibly it might be utilized to sever the strands. It was better to try the experiment than remain thus helplessly bound. With hands free he could at least defend himself.

He made the effort, doubtfully at first, but hope came as the sharp edge began to tear at the rope. It was slow work, awkward, requiring all the strength of his arms, yet he felt sure of progress. He could feel the strands yield little by little, and redoubled his efforts. It hurt, the rope lacerating his wrists, and occasionally the jagged steel cut into the flesh cruelly, but the thought of freedom outweighed the pain, and he persevered manfully. At last, exercising all his muscle, the last frayed strand snapped. His wrists were bleeding, and the hands numb, but the severed cord lay on the floor and he again had the free use of his arms. The sudden freedom brought new hope and courage. He listened at the door, testing the knob cautiously. There was no yielding, and for the moment no sound reached him from without. The woman was doubtless there on guard, and any effort he might make to break down the door would only bring the whole gang upon him. Unarmed, he could not hope to fight them all. As he stood there, hesitating, unable to determine what to attempt, he became aware of a throbbing under foot, increasing in intensity. West knew instantly what it meant—they were testing out the engine; if all worked well, the boat would cast off.

He sprang back to the port and stared out, eagerly hoping that, as they swept out into the lake, he might find some opportunity to communicate with some one on the pier. Perhaps by this time Mac would have arrived, and be watching their departure, unable to intervene, as he had no warrant for arrest, or any definite knowledge that the yacht was being used for a criminal purpose. He had not long to wait. Hurrying steps echoed along the deck; a voice shouted out some order, and the end of a loosened rope dropped splashing into the water astern; the boat trembled to the pulsations of the engine, and West realized that it was at first slowly, then more swiftly, slipping away into the broad water. Already he could perceive the white wake astern, and, an instant later, as the turn to the right widened, he had a glimpse of the pier, already separated from him by a broad expanse of trembling water. Above the noise his voice would scarcely reach that distance. A crowd of people stood there watching, clinging along the edge of the promenade—McAdams was not among them. It would be useless to strive to attract their attention; not one among them would comprehend; even if they did, not one of them could help. He still stood there, gazing back at the fast receding pier, gradually becoming blurred in the distance, but hopelessly. He knew now he must face his fate alone.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE FATE OF A PRISONER

The Seminole headed straight out into the lake, its course evidently a little to the north of east. The steady throb of the engine exhibited no lack of power, the snowy wake behind telling of rapid progress. There was a distinct swell to the water, increasing as they advanced, but not enough to seriously retard speed, the sharp bow of the yacht cutting through the waves like the blade of a knife, the broken water churning along the sides. West clung to his perch, peering out through the open port, watching the fast disappearing shore line in the giant curve from the Municipal Pier northward to Lincoln Park. In spite of the brightness overhead, there must have been fog in the air, for that distant view quickly became obscure and then as suddenly vanished altogether. There remained no sign of land in sight; only the seemingly limitless expanse of blue water, not so much as a trail of smoke breaking the encircling rim of the sky.

Except for the occasional tread of feet on the deck above, and the faint call of a voice giving orders, the yacht seemed deserted, moving unguided across the waste of waters. No sound of movement or speech reached West's ears from the cabin, and he settled down into moody forgetfulness, still staring dully out through the open port. What was to be, would be, but there was nothing for him to do but wait for those who held him prisoner, to act. He was still seated there, listless, incapable even of further thought, when the door was suddenly unlocked. He had barely time to arise to his feet, when the man with the red moustache stepped within, facing him, as he pushed tightly shut the door behind. The fellow's eyes saw the severed rope on the floor, and he smiled, kicking the strands aside contemptuously.

"Smart enough for that, were you?" he asked. "Well, I would have taken them off myself, if I had thought about it. How did you manage? Oh, I see; rather a bright trick, old man. Feeling pretty fit, are you?"

West did not answer at once; this fellow had come with an object in mind, and his only desire was to baffle him. It was to be a contest of wits, and helpless as the prisoner was physically, he had no intention of playing into the other's hands.

"I might be, if I knew what all this meant," he said at last. "Haven't you got hold of the wrong party?"

The man laughed, standing where he blocked all passage.

"I might have been convinced that I had an hour ago," he answered coldly. "But since then I find I've made rather a good bet. I have the honour of addressing Captain West, I believe?"

"You have the name correct; there is no reason why I should deny that. Unfortunately, I do not know with whom I am conversing."

"Quite easily remedied. I am Joe Hogan, commonly called 'Red' Hogan. The moniker means nothing to you."

"I never heard it before."

"I thought not, which merely proves you are not a 'fly-cop,' only a measly busy-body sticking your nose into some one else's business. Well, we know how to take care of your kind, and this is likely to prove the last case you'll dabble in for a while, my man."

"What does that mean—a threat?"

"Never mind what it means; it is a straight tip. Now listen, West—Captain West I believe is the proper term of address—and you will understand better. When I got you in here I had no real knowledge as to who you were. I merely took a chance on what Mary had to say, and she twigged you at once. She's smart, that woman; never forgets a face. She sure did a good job this time. But after you were locked in safe, and nobody knew what had happened, and you certainly handled easily enough, I slipped ashore into the restaurant and called up Jim Hobart on the wire. Did he give me your pedigree? He did. Jim was about the happiest guy in the town when he learned we had you bottled. Raised hell last night, didn't you? All right, my friend, you are going to pay the piper today. What got you into this muss, anyhow? You are no relation to the Coolidge girl, are you?"

"None whatever; merely a friend."

"Friend, hey! Well, she's a good looker; so this friendship stuff is easily accounted for. Friend, hell!" he laughed. "You must have it bad to put on all these stunts for sweet friendship's sake. You wouldn't even quit when she told you to."

"I believed she was compelled to say what she did to me," replied West quietly. "That she was in Hobart's power, afraid of her life. There was no other explanation of her strange action possible."

"Is that so?"

"I am willing to listen to such an explanation, Hogan, and if satisfied she really wishes me to keep out of the affair, I will."

"And if not?"

"Then I am going to fight in her cause to the very end of things. You cannot frighten me; your only chance to influence my action is to make things clear. I confess I have been fighting in the dark, not even comprehending your purpose. I do know that the main stake your gang is after is the Coolidge fortune; that, in order to get hold of it, you are obliged to keep control over Miss Natalie. But I can conceive no reason why she should assist in the conspiracy. She certainly cannot be benefited by having her own fortune stolen. This is what puzzles me, but it hasn't changed my loyalty to her. I still believe in her, and feel that she is simply a victim of circumstances beyond her control. Am I frank enough?"

"Sure; it all means you intend to remain a blunder-headed fool defending a girl who does not desire any defence—a Don Quixote tilting at wind-mills. That is your choice, is it?"

"Unless you care to explain clearly just how Miss Natalie's interests are being protected."

"Which I am not at liberty to do at present. She is satisfied, and has practically told you so, according to Jim Hobart. If you will not accept her word, there is no use of my saying anything about the matter. Besides, West, frankly I don't give a damn what you think. We've got you safe enough, where you can't do anything, even if you want to—so, why worry? Twenty-four hours more will finish our little job, and, until that time is up, you'll remain right here; after that we don't care where in hell you go, or what you do—the game will have been played."

The man's tone, and air of confidence was impressive; beyond doubt he felt that the cards were all in his hands. West drew in his breath sharply.

"Apparently you are right," he said quietly. "May I ask a question or two?"

"Fire away; I'll answer as I please."

"Who is the woman on board?"

"Mary, you mean? Hobart's wife."

"She came from the place on Wray Street last night in an auto?"

"Yes; I brought her along myself."

"Alone?"

"There were two of us, Mark and I—why? what are you driving at?"

"Just putting some broken threads together. Then Natalie Coolidge is not on this yacht?"

"I should say not. What would we be doing with her out here?"

"Where is she then?"

"Oh, I begin to see what brought you aboard so easily, West. You thought we had the lady kidnapped, and was sailing off with her. Some stunt that. What put the idea in your head?"

West hesitated a moment, but decided a truthful answer would do no harm.

"I knew an automobile had driven out of the alley back of Mike's Place; and that a woman was in it. When I got away a little later, I picked up a message—a note which had been dropped. It was written in a woman's hand but unsigned—"

"The little cat! She dropped it?"

"It seems so. You forgot yourself that time. So she was with you, was she?"

"I don't know what you mean. I told you who were with me. Go on; what did the note say?"

"It was only a request for the police to search the Seminole at once."

"Oh, that's the way the wind blows. But you preferred to tackle the job yourself. I am certainly obliged to you, West."

"You have no reason to be. I took that note to the police, and they are on the case. They are combing the city right now for Hobart, and if they get him, this bubble of yours is likely to be pricked."

"Hell, they won't get him. There isn't a fly-cop in Chicago who could locate Jim in a week, and as for Natalie, believe me she is quite able to take care of herself."

"But where is she?"

"At home, of course, if you must know—'Fairlawn,' isn't that the name of the place? We left her there on our way to Jackson Park."

"Then the girl was with you?"

"Spilled the beans, didn't I? That comes from talking too much. However, there is no harm done. Sure she left with us, but we dropped her out at Fairlawn. It was her machine we were riding in. Say, you've questioned me about enough, so let up. Listen now—you will stay in this stateroom until we get ready to let you out. Don't try any funny business either, for if you do, you are going to get hurt. There is a guard outside in the cabin, and we are not afraid to shoot out here on the lake. Nobody knows where you are, West; so if you want to live, keep quiet—that's my advice."

He started back, one hand on the knob of the door, but West stopped him.

"Do you mind telling me where we are bound?" he questioned.

Hogan smiled, but the smile was not altogether a pleasant one.

"You will have to wait, and find that out for yourself, Captain. My orders are not to talk."

"From Hobart?"

"Sure; Jim is engineering this deal, and whatever he says goes, for he's the guy who has his hands on the dough—see?"

He slipped out, closing and locking the door behind him. West, more thoroughly confused than ever over the situation in which he found himself, paced the brief length of the narrow stateroom, and then paused to stare moodily out of the port. His eyes rested on the same wide expanse of water, no longer brightened by the glow of the sun. A mass of clouds veiled the sky, while a floating bank of fog obscured the horizon, limiting the scope of his vision. Everything appeared grey and desolate, and the restless surge of waves were crested with foam. It was hard to judge just where the sun was, yet he had an impression the vessel had veered to the north, and was proceeding straight up the lake, already well out of sight from either shore.

He had learned little of the slightest value; merely that Natalie had been of the party leaving in the automobile the night before. She, undoubtedly, had been the one who had dropped the note. Then, in spite of all they said about her, in spite of what she had told him, she was actually a prisoner, desperately begging for assistance to escape. As to the other things Hogan had told him, the probability was they were mostly lies. West did not believe the girl had returned to 'Fairlawn,' the story did not sound natural. If she had written that note, these fellows would never trust her alone, where she could communicate with friends. They might venture to send her in to talk with him, knowing her every word was overheard, but surely they would never be reckless enough to leave her free to act as she pleased. That was unthinkable. Besides why should they have taken this yacht, and sailed it out secretly in the night unless she was hidden away aboard? The only conceivable object would be to thus keep her safely beyond sight and hearing. And that would be a reason why Hobart's wife should also be on board—to look after the girl. The longer he thought it all over, the more thoroughly was he convinced they were both prisoners on the same vessel. Yet what could he do? There was no answer forthcoming; no possibility of breaking forth from that room was apparent; he was unarmed, helpless. If he did succeed in breaking through the door, he would only encounter an armed guard, and pit himself against five or six men, criminals probably, who would count his death a small matter compared to their own safety. He sank down, with head in his hands, totally unnerved—it was his fate to attempt nothing; only to wait on fortune.

Mark brought in food, merely opening the door slightly, and sliding the tray in on the floor. No words were exchanged, nor was the tray removed until just at twilight, when the fellow appeared again on a similar mission. It became dark, but no light was furnished. Outside the clouds had thickened, and a heavy swell was tossing the vessel about rather roughly. Seemingly the engine was merely endeavouring to maintain head-way, with no port in immediate prospect; they were steering aimlessly into the promise of a stormy night. No sound reached him from the cabin, and finally, worn out mentally and physically, West flung himself on the lower bunk, and lay there motionless, staring up into the intense darkness.