Partners Of The Night/Chapter 7

by Leroy Scott

I

Clifford and Mary Regan stood motionless amid the deep hush of the old mansion, gazing steadily at each other, the hand she had given him in seal of their compact closely held in his. Clifford still was thrilled by the confession she had just made, by her offer to help him clear himself and to share with him his long fight against Bradley-- and this time help him "on the square."

Mary withdrew her hand and broke the long silence.

"I don't know all the insides of the affair," she said. "The things I can tell you are really only scraps."

"Any kind of scraps will help," Clifford's lips mechanically returned.

His faculties, instead of being engaged upon the business of what should next be done, were still possessed by the amazing fact that Mary Regan was at last definitely on his side--that at last the fine woman he had always guessed to be concealed beneath her youthful cynicism had definitely revealed herself.

But in another moment his brain cleared to the urgent business that lay before them.

"First, about that $10,000 which Tarleton handed to me and which I handed to Commissioner Thorne and which was found upon Thorne--and which caused Thorne's and my arrest and Bradley's triumph. Bradley never put that up; he's not so free with his own money. Do you know where the ten thousand came from?"

"It was part of a fund raised by a syndicate."

"A syndicate!"

"Headed by that Mr. Philip Morgan. Only the big gamblers and confidence men are in it."

"What was the money raised for?"

"To do exactly what they did--get you and Commissioner Thorne out of the way. Till that was done, they could not operate."

"Then they intend to operate!" Clifford cried eagerly.

"You remember the talk we overheard between Mr. Bradley and Mr. Morgan night before last in that shack out at Pine Crest Manor?"

"Yes. And I remember how I fell for it!"

"You were intended to hear it, and you were intended to fall for it. Their plan then was a fake--a trap to catch you and Mr. Thorne. But what they said was the truth, and their real plan is based upon what they talked over. Never before was there so much easy money in New York, recklessly made in war speculation and being recklessly spent; never before was there such a big chance for the gamblers and confidence men. Their first step was completed when they got rid of you and Mr. Thorne. Now that Mr. Bradley is Acting Commissioner of Police--he really engineered the whole affair-- they are preparing for the next step, and that is to begin business."

"Great God, what a plan!" ejaculated Clifford--and for a moment he again gave grudging admiration to the daring and perverted genius of Bradley. "And that's how Bradley would use the Police Department! Tell me," he asked sharply, "do you know whether everything 's definitely settled between Bradley and Morgan, or this syndicate?"

"As I said, I only know a few scraps, and I'm not absolutely sure even about them. But I think they had definitely arranged only the course against you and Commissioner Thorne. About the second part of their plan I think there are matters left to be settled."

Clifford paced the old drawing-room in tense concentration; for those few moments he forgot that Mary Regan was present. Then he stopped before her abruptly.

"We've got to get Bradley," he said rapidly, doggedly. "There's only one way ever to get him, and really get him. That's the same old way I've been trying all these months, and at which he's always managed to beat me. We've got to get him with the goods on!"

She nodded.

"To do that, we've got to follow Bradley in this next step--and see that, this time, he doesn't beat us. We've got to learn, somehow, what they're going to do."

"It may be easier now, since he thinks he has got rid of you for good."

"You mean he may be less watchful? Perhaps. that's one point in our favor. .... we've got to get on the inside of their plans. And to do that we've got to try first to break through at their weakest spot. Their weakest spot is Tarleton."

Again Mary nodded.

"Tarleton's our first job. Have you any idea how Bradley could get Thorne's old friend, and my friend since we were in college together, to take part in the frame-up against us? "

"Mr. Bradley did it through Clarice Langhorne."

Clifford eyed her keenly, remembering that only a few days before he had seen Mary and Clarice Langhorne in this same room, seemingly the best of friends--and remembering, too, that in the unstable condition of their own friendship he had, not then dared presume to warn her.

"I hope you have not let yourself get tangled up with Clarice Langhorne."

"No. I was with her only because Mr. Bradley required that we should seem to be friends."

"Bradley never does a thing without a reason. That friendship may turn out later to have a part in his plan. We'll have to watch out." Then he added: "Clarice Langhorne is a type that has become too unreal for the stage; she is extinct there. She exists only in real life--and there's an awful lot of her in the big restaurants and hotels of Broadway and Fifth Avenue, and in the apartments of Riverside Drive. there's nothing obvious about Clarice Langhorne--except that she's remarkably handsome, and remarkably well gowned, and remarkably clever in conversation--and all this helps make her about the most expert and successful adventuress I have ever met. I'm glad--mighty glad!--that you weren't taken in by her. And I hope I'm wrong in thinking that perhaps Bradley had some purpose in forcing you to be with her. . . . By the way, do you know whether she has any hold over Tarleton besides his infatuation for her?--and what Bradley's hold over her is?"

"No, I do not."

"That's what I've got to find out. I'm off for a scene with Tarleton--and it's going to be a hard piece of business. I'll report to you." He held out his hand. "Good-by. Working together, I'm sure we're going to win!"

For a moment their hands again clasped. Then an easy, drawling voice sounded through the room's velvet silence.

"Pardon me. I didn't know we had callers."

Startled, they fell apart and turned. Standing just within the doorway of the drawing-room was the distinguished figure of Joseph Russell.

"Oh, it's you, Bob," the old swindler continued pleasantly. "I didn't see who it was at first. Too bad, Bob, the way Bradley slipped it over on you again."

But Mary spoke before Clifford could respond.

"I've just been telling him about my part in it, Uncle Joe."

Russell, who had been advancing toward them, halted.

"Your part?" There was a sudden sharpness in his usually suave voice.

"Yes, how I helped in framing him. And I've promised to help undo what I helped to do--to help him clear himself."

"Oh, you have!"--with the same sharpness. "Has it occurred to you that Bradley might not exactly like it if he learns that you are working with Clifford?"

"I don't care!" she cried defiantly.

"See here, Joe," Clifford put in impulsively, "you know a lot about Bradley, and you know he'd cross you in a second if it served his interest. Won't you come into this, and help us get him?"

"Help you get Bradley!"

Russell stared, amazement in his keen gray eyes. Then with the tone of ironic pleasantry which was a part of the old adventurer's character, he drawled: "Bob, unless you're down in front in about thirty seconds, your carriage will have turned back into mice and a pumpkin. Besides, Mary and I have something to talk over that's a bit private. So good night."

Clifford was puzzled by Russell's manner. But as he went out Mary Regan gave him the look of a firm ally. That was the great thing: Mary Regan was now on his side--fighting!

II

Clifford had left word down in the office that any one calling should be shown right up; so sitting alone in the darkened parlor of the hotel suite he had taken in Clarice Langhorne's name, and which he had so carefully scented with Clarice Langhorne's characteristic heliotrope that Clarice herself seemed present, he waited patiently. He was certain that his telegram sent over Clarice Langhorne's signature would bring Tarleton upon the minute--and while he waited he nervously went over his plan of procedure with his old friend who had betrayed him.

At nine exactly there was a knock. Keeping within the door's shadow, Clifford opened it, and Tarleton stepped into the dark scented room. Clifford closed the door andstepped softly to one side to avoid the discovery of his identity that would come should Tarleton try to lay caressing hands upon him.

"Back so soon?" said Tarleton. "Wasn't the part any good?"

From Tarleton's tone Clifford knew the question was perfunctory, asked by the lips alone. Clifford remained silent, his hope that the unsuspecting Tarleton would let slip words which would give him a clue to this mysterious situation.

"Tell me, Clarice," Tarleton went on, agitatedly, "have you had any word about the necklace? "

Clifford moved slightly, but again said nothing.

"You're still angry because I blamed you? don't be--please! I was out of my head. Can't you see how I felt about it?--I'm hard up, as you know, but I'd have raised the money somehow, and I'd ten times rather have bought you a new necklace just as good than have had you tell Bradley of the theft!"

A necklace--stolen--Bradley told of it! Excitement began to thrill through Clifford, but still he remained silent.

"Really, you ought to understand how I felt about your reporting the theft to Bradley," Tarleton pleaded desperately. "Why, already I have the money for another necklace--even though it is part of the dirty price Bradley paid me for helping frame two friends." He waited a moment. "Why don't you say something, Clarice!" And then at the continued silence: "For God's sake, let's have some light anyhow!" And at the continued darkness: "I'll turn on the light myself!"

At the sound of Tarleton's first footsteps, Clifford turned the key in the door and switched on the light. Tarleton stopped short.

"Bob Clifford!" he breathed.

"Yes, Stanley. Pardon my using Miss Langhorne's name to get you here, but I had to use some trick to manage a talk with you alone."

"But Clarice Langhorne--where is she?"

"She'll be on her way back from Atlantic City just as soon as she learns that that theatrical manager's telegram was a fake. It was pretty poor-- but it was the best thing I could think of to get her out of our way for a few hours."

Tarleton stared at him, his face white and twitching; it was plain that the man was suffering a tearing agony.

"What do you want?" he asked huskily.

"I want to know about that necklace, and its theft, and about Bradley."

"I'll not tell you!"

"Oh, yes, you will! You're going to give me the inside of your share of this business. We're going to have the whole thing out, right here and now!" Clifford advanced upon him, seeking to dominate the shattered man by superior will. "Sit down."

Tarleton retreated a step.

"Sit down!" Clifford sternly ordered.

Tarleton slumped into the chair at which Clifford pointed, and Clifford sat down facing him.

"I'm going to try reason on you first, Tarleton, and if that fails I'll use something you won't like so well. You've played on Thorne and me the rottenest trick that a man can play on a friend--but at the start-off I'm going to say that I know you did it to save yourself from some awful jam you've got into. And I know that your helping frame Thorne and me hasn't got you out of it--that it has only temporarily staved off danger. In reality, you're just where you were before you crossed your two best friends. That's the truth, Tarleton, and you know it!"

The man in the chair did not respond.

"Now you listen, and listen hard, to two points. First, Bradley looks to be on top. He is--but he won't be there long, for this time I'm to get him! You just watch! And when he goes down, how'll he help you? Second point, you know I've never broken a promise in my life and that you can trust me to the very limit of what I say I'll do."

"What's this got to do with the affair?" whispered Tarleton.

"Everything--as far as you are concerned! Now I have a proposition to make to you. You come across with your part in the story, and I'll promise not to use it in any way against you. Further, I'm pretty sure I can get you clear of this tangle you're in with Bradley and Clarice Langhorne. You stand to lose nothing, and to gain everything."

Clifford could see that the shattered man before him was wavering, and he read the consideration that was at the fore of Tarleton's mind.

"You're thinking of Miss Langhorne? You don't want anything to happen to her?"

Tarleton nodded.

"See here, Tarleton, I'm your friend," Clifford said firmly. "But I'm not going to let you ruin my life--and I'm not going to let you ruin your life if I can help it. You and I are going to have a few unvarnished words concerning Miss Langhorne. I didn't talk to you plainly before, for I knew it would do no good; you were so infatuated, you would have called me a liar, and kept right ahead. But we're going to get down to cases now. How much do you know about Clarice Langhorne?"

"She's a musical comedy star."

"Sometimes she is. But do you know her other business?"

"Her other business! "

"Let's approach it from the angle of your personal experience. Shortly after you two became such good friends, she began to refer indirectly to the fact that, owing to the failure of the company she had been with, she did not have a decent thing to wear."

Tarleton's eyes opened. "Yes," he admitted:

"And you gallantly insisted on supplying the need. And finally she consented. And the only things which suited her at all were found in three Fifth Avenue shops which I can name to you. You tried to buy on credit; the three shops were most politely sorry, but they sold only for cash. And you raised the money."

"How did you guess that? " ejaculated Tarleton.

"I didn't guess it. You probably spent ten or twenty thousand in outfitting her. And how much did you ever see of the clothes that you bought?"

Tarleton gave a start, but did not reply.

Clifford answered for him. "Some of the gowns you saw on her only once, and some you never saw her wear at all."

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm getting at Clarice Langhorne's other business. don'tyou begin to see? It's a new business--only a few women are in it yet, and she's the cleverest of the lot. New York summer widowers, like yourself, and rich men from the West are her specialty. I guess you know well enough how she secures their admiration, and then makes known the condition of her wardrobe. The simple inside facts are that Miss Langhorne has a private arrangement with these three shops; that the gowns you bought were privately returned; that your money was divided fifty-fifty between the shops and her. Anything else you gave her, such as money and necklaces, was all her own--pure velvet. Oh, it's a clever game! "

"Good God! I don't believe it!"

"Oh, yes you do," Clifford drove at him grimly, "for it all fits in with your experience. If necessary, I could take you around to the three shops and show you the identical gowns you bought. Besides this game, she has another, not so new, that it is nicer not to talk about--and, further, she works under the protection of Bradley Oh, you need not worry about shielding Miss Langhorne; she's attended to that herself Besides, I'm not after her; I'm after Bradley."

Clifford gripped Tarleton's knee, and drove rapidly on.

"Stanley, you know I'm your friend--the best friend you've got. And I know you wouldn't have done what you did to me, if you hadn't been desperate--and I can see that you're eaten up with shame and remorse. For your own sake, for my sake, come across with the facts! And in the end, it may be for your wife's sake too. Think of your wife!"

"It was thinking of my wife that made me do it!" groaned Tarleton.

And then, suddenly, the man had broken down; and, prefaced with self-recrimination, the story came out: a sordid tale, that to another might have sounded like melodrama--but that Clifford, knowing the great city from the inside, knew to be just ordinary realism of one phase of New York life. Tarleton, in company with Clarice Langhorne, had been in the confidential relaxed mood begotten by the second bottle of champagne; on his person he had a ruby necklace, his wedding present to his wife, which he had intended leaving at Tiffany's that day to be repaired, but had forgotten all about; this necklace he had exhibited to Clarice, she had taken it in her hands to examine it more closely, she had neglected to return it, and it had slipped his mind. The next day he had remembered, and had called upon her and asked for the necklace. She had appeared surprised at his request, and had said he had presented the necklace to her. He had replied that he had not intended doing so, but if she would give him the necklace, later, when he could get the money, he would present her with one of equal value. He had told her of the peculiar significance of the necklace to himself and of the domestic disaster that would overtake him when his wife learned the jewels were gone and who possessed them. Whereupon Clarice had confessed that the necklace had been stolen--and she had privately reported the theft to Bradley. He had been appalled.

"A few days later," continued the broken Tarleton, "Bradley sent for me. This was just before I offered to help you get evidence against him. He said he had located the stolen necklace, could make arrests and restitution. This, however, he said he knew would make public how and to whom I had given my wedding gift to my wife, would create a great scandal, would ruin me--would doubtless cause my wife to divorce me. To do this was his duty, he said, and he would have to perform it--unless I would do exactly as he ordered. If I obeyed, he would later on manage to have the necklace restored to me so that no one would be the wiser. I was frantic--I seemed to have no choice--so I agreed to go through with the part he had assigned me in his scheme. You know the rest. But, God--you don't know the despair I'm in, how I hate myself!"

Clifford gazed at the shattered man. He caught his breath, amazed by the powerful but indirect leverage by which Bradley had toppled Thorne and him to destruction. He had known how, Bradley could twist crooks to obedience--but here was the best example he had yet seen of how that cunning genius used his police powers to force a man of position, seemingly beyond his reach, to do his exact bidding.

"Tell me, Stanley," Clifford said, "did Bradley make a formal record of the theft?"

"No. He said he'd keep it quiet, so that later on he could restore the necklace without making a scandal."

"Did you get any hint from Bradley as to who now has the necklace?"

"No."

Clifford thought for a moment.

"Stanley, you've played a rotten part, and you're in a rotten fix. But don't worry too much; you don't see it, but, from the very beginning, you've been the victim of an amazingly clever scheme--its purpose, from the outset, to get Thorne and me. You do exactly what I tell you, and there's a chance that I may get you clear of this mess."

"Bob--you're too damned white to me!" choked Tarleton. "What shall I do?"

"Disappear at once and keep under cover so that Bradley or Miss Langhorne can't connect with you. But keep me informed where I can find you any. hour." Tarleton burst into cries of gratitude, but Clifford interrupted with: "Save your thanks till you're through with this--I've no time for them now. I've got to get out and hustle."

With that he hurried from the heliotrope-scented parlor; and five minutes later he entered the Knickerbocker bar. There, as he had half hoped, stood that smartly-tailored young gentleman Slant-Face Regan, ex-pickpocket, and the cleverest performer in his line that Clifford had ever known--sipping his usual glass stein of buttermilk. Clifford drew the ex-pickpocket over into one of the stalls upholstered in leather.

"Slant-Face, will you do something for me?"

"You've gone the limit for me, Clifford, and I'll go the limit for you. what's doing?"

Rapidly Clifford sketched the story Tarleton had just told him.

Slant-Face's mouth tilted deep at its left corner in its wry sardonic smile. "Your friend Tarleton has certainly been played to a fare-ye-well for a sucker by the Langhorne dame. Where do you want me to fit in?"

"I want you to locate the necklace."

Slant-Face gazed at him steadily. "With a search warrant, I suppose?"

Clifford returned the steady gaze. "I believe you get me?"

"Just locate it--that's all?" queried, Slant-Face.

"I believe you get me," repeated Clifford.

"I believe I do," returned Slant-Face--and with the slow critical manner of a connoisseur of rare wines the ex-pickpocket sipped his glass stein of buttermilk.

III

With Tarleton's revelation, Clifford now believed he understood all the details, and the compelling motives, of the great plot that had sent him down to his ruin. There was work ahead--big work-- but no longer did he have to work in darkness. And then, too, he reasoned that Bradley's complete triumph might induce over-confidence; and that through over-confidence the Acting Commissioner might grow less cautious or make some slip.

Of the two men involved in the great conspiracy, Clifford had decided that to watch Morgan offered him the easier and more promising chance. All that night he shadowed the reputed head of the syndicate of gamblers and confidence men, seeking for a clue to the further necessary meeting between Morgan and Bradley--and wondering all the while what might be his next word from Mary Regan. He tailed Morgan till that magnate of the night sought his apartment at 4 A.M, and learned not a thing.

Clifford did not get to his own quarters until the next morning. Just inside the door, where it had been slipped during the night, lay an envelope. He had seen the writing only twice before, but instantly he knew it. What news, or what plan, did Mary Regan have to communicate? Eagerly he tore open the envelope and read:

After all I find that I cannot help you. Please do not try to see me.

MARY REGAN.

He stared at the sheet of paper, then sank into a chair. What had brought about this latest change in this puzzling young woman, just after she apparently had come definitely to his side? Had she swung back to her old ideas?

Disobeying the injunction of her last sentence, Clifford tried to get the old house near Washington Square upon the telephone, but after long ringing Central told him that the number did not answer. During the morning, while shadowing Morgan's apartment house, waiting for the great gambler to appear, he tried repeatedly to get her on the telephone, always with the same result. And then, in a noon edition of an evening paper he read that she had been arrested, charged with the theft of two rings belonging to Clarice Langhorne; that the rings had been found in her bedroom; that she had been released on bail.

Instinctively, he knew that here again the long arm of Bradley had reached swiftly and suddenly out. Once more he tried to telephone her at the house near Washington Square, and again Central said the number did not answer. What could have happened?--what was behind all this?

But whatever else might happen, he had to stick to his case, for he realized that his long struggle had entered upon its grimmest phase, that this was probably his last chance. Toward one o'clock Morgan made his appearance; and Clifford continued his shadowing. Morgan's demeanor, though cool and composed, as should be that of a master gambler, betrayed a nervous expectancy that to Clifford was corroborative of all Mary had told him, and that kept him keyed to sharpest watchfulness. Something might begin to happen almost any moment.

Toward four o'clock, while Morgan was sipping a ginger ale high-ball in the café of the Knickerbocker, Clifford saw a waiter speak to him, saw Morgan go out and enter a telephone booth. A minute later he saw him emerge, glance at his watch, and go forth with what was haste for Morgan to the carriage starter. Clifford could not hear what he said; and he wondered why Morgan stood waiting for several minutes, with an impatience he sought to conceal. Then a powerful limousine--the same car that Clifford had followed to Coney Island half a dozen nights before--appeared at the curb, Morgan quickly entered it, and the car made toward Fifth Avenue.

All alert, Clifford was stepping toward the starter to order a car in which to follow, when a hand fell upon his arm. Turning quickly, he saw Slant-Face Regan.

"Sorry, Slant-Face--no time to talk now"--and he tried to go on. But Slant-Face's grip held him. "Only'll keep you for five seconds. Been looking for you for two hours. Got the Langhorne dame covered--and think there'll be something doing."

"Good. But--"

"And my sister asked me to get word to you to meet her--"

Clifford stopped tugging. "What's that?"

"Very important, she said. Be there at four"--slipping a bit of cardboard into Clifford's hand--"and wait for her. Just show the card."

Slant-Face sauntered away. Surreptitiously Clifford looked at the card. Upon it, in engraved lettering, was "MME. HÉLÈNE. ROBES AND GOWNS. --Fifth Avenue." And in handwriting were the initials "M. R."

Clifford glanced quickly eastward. The gray car containing Morgan was just swinging northward into Fifth Avenue upon its suspicious errand. He glanced at his watch--five minutes to four; then he stepped quickly out upon the sidewalk and ordered a taxi.

"Where to, sir?" asked the starter.

"Hélène's," said Clifford, and added the number. He had had to choose, and the great chance that lay in following Morgan had to be lost.

IV

At five minutes past four he was in Hélène's, that treasure house of French gowns--and Madame Hélène herself, erect, coiffured perfectly to the uttermost hair, with a youthful complexion which she dared not imperil by smiling (it was gossipped among the very knowing ones that Madame Hélène had begun life as an Illinois school teacher) was looking at the card Clifford had tendered her. She appeared to understand, for she asked no questions; the truly fashionable modistes of New York are accustomed to having their establishments used as rendezvous for extremely private and delicate little tête-à-têtes--and they are mistresses of the art of discretion.

"This way, please," was all she said; and showed him back to a door, which she opened, then closed behind him.

Clifford found himself in a small room, the chairs and woodwork all that soft gray which was then the mode, the walls paneled with great mirrors. He judged himself to be in that sanctum sanctorum of a modiste's establishment, a fitting-parlor. He waited for half an hour, consumed with impatience and wonderment. Then Madame Hélène appeared, a gown upon her arm. Behind her was Mary Regan. Hélène laid the gown carefully across the back of a gray chair, then withdrew.

Mary spoke the instant they were alone. Her voice was low pitched, tense with controlled excitement.

"This is the only safe way I could think of meeting you."

"Safe?" he exclaimed, in bewildered surprise.

"So no one would know we had met," she explained rapidly. "I'm being watched--followed wherever I go. A man is in front now, waiting for me to come out. But I have come to buy this gown, and when I leave, this gown in a box will be put into my car. And the man will follow me again. You must wait for some time until after I have gone before you leave. that'll make it safe--I hope."

"I see the plan. But who is following you?"

"Mr. Bradley's men."

"But why?"

"They're not sure of me. I'll explain just why after I have told you something else."

"Does your being here," Clifford interrupted eagerly, "mean that you're going to help me after all?"

"On just one condition."

"And that?"

"Whatever you may do, you must promise to protect Uncle Joe--not to get him entangled."

Clifford stared.

"Entangle Joe Russell! How can I?"

"I mustn't say another word until you have promised."

"I don't know what you're driving at--but I promise."

"Thank you!" Her relief was great; but she did not pause--went right on in the same tense rapid voice. "Now I can help you in every way--and tell you everything."

"First tell me about your arrest--and why you sent me that note."

"I sent the note because Uncle Joe ordered me not to help you."

"Ordered you! Why?"

"When you left us last night Uncle Joe was very angry at me for having told you what I had, and for having offered to help you. I said I had a right to help you if I wanted to. He said I had not. I demanded to know why. We had hot words, Uncle and I. And then he told me a thing I had not had the, slightest suspicion of before. The real head of the syndicate that is working with Mr. Bradley is Uncle Joe."

"What! Joe Russell!" cried Clifford, dumfounded. "But Philip Morgan?"

"He has only been a blind all the while. They wanted you and Thorne to suspect him and follow the wrong scent, so you'd overlook the real person."

"So Morgan, too, was just a plant!" Clifford gazed at her silently, while he comprehended this new phase of Bradley's vast scheme.

"Well, it was clever--mighty clever!" And grimly: "Though I wouldn't have thought Joe Russell would have gone into partnership with Bradley--and have planned from the beginning to frame me. I've tried to treat Joe white."

"That's what I said to him last night"--a swift flush colored her face--"though don't forget that I tried to do the same thing to you."

Clifford ignored her last remark. "What answer did your uncle give you?"

"He said he liked you better than he did Bradley, but that this was business and that love didn't count in business. He said that he could do big business with Bradley, and that he couldn't do anything at all with you or Mr. Thorne. Therefore, what he'd done had been the only way for him."

Clifford recognized this as the authentic Russell philosophy.

"And then he demanded if I was going to side against him--do things that would lead to his arrest. He's been the same as a father to me for the last ten years; it seemed I couldn't work against him, so finally I sent that note. Later I got to thinking, and I decided I could help you if I would n't have to betray my uncle--if you would promise that you'd keep him clear in whatever action you took. But before I could get you word again, I was arrested."

"Of course Bradley was behind your arrest."

"Of course."

"I can see, now, why Bradley ordered you to be friends with Clarice Langhorne. It was to give him the chance to do just this."

"Yes. He had me watched, and he learned that I had seen you. My prompt arrest was Mr. Bradley's way of warning me. I've been given to understand that if I keep in line, it will develop that my arrest was a blunder based on a mistake for which Clarice Langhorne will apologize."

"And if you don't keep in line?"

"But he's sure I will--and so is Uncle Joe."

"But if you don't--and Bradley comes out on top--he's got you where he'll show you up to the public as a far worse person than we privately know Clarice Langhorne to be. Bradley never forgets."

"I know. that's my risk." She shrugged her shoulders. "But the most important thing I haven't yet told you."

"Yes?"

"A meeting between Mr. Bradley and Uncle Joe--remember, you promised to handle this so Uncle Joe would go free--will take place to-night."

"To-night! Where?"

"At that Sultan's Garden out at Coney Island. You remember--where I took you the other evening."

"I remember. Tell me," he asked sharply, "is this meeting the meeting?"

"Yes."

"And will it be in public?"

"Yes. Their belief is exactly what you heard Bradley say out at Pine Crest Manor--that they might possibly be seen if they tried to meet in secret and be suspected--but that if they met openly in a great public place, seemingly by chance, no one would suspect anything. That was their safest plan."

"And it's their cleverest plan, too. Though Bradley has become so addicted to the exercise of his deep cunning that he practises cunning for the sheer pleasure that adroit scheming gives him--he's sometimes cunning when he doesn't have to be. . .. This is our big chance! we've got to break through to-night--somehow!"

Clifford thought rapidly. "Could we do it through Joe Russell?"

"How?"

"I could go to him privately--put the case up to him strongly to join in with us--to go through the affair exactly as planned, and at the right moment we'll grab Bradley. If Russell helps that will let him out."

Mary shook her head. "If you put it up to him, he'll deny everything and will warn Bradley."

"And our great chance would be gone. No, that way won't do." Again Clifford thought rapidly. "Listen. Suppose we let them go right ahead as they intend--and then we'll force upon your uncle a big crisis, unexpectedly, where he'll be compelled to act either against you or for you?--and where, if he's with you, he'll see he has a chance to clear himself?"

"Just what do you mean?"

"I don't know yet--definitely," Clifford cried excitedly. "I just feel that the plan is there. I'll have to think it out while I'm doing other things, for there are half a dozen matters that must be seen to before we can act. . . I wish you'd go out to the Sultan's Garden with me--but I suppose that would be too risky." "Uncle Joe is taking me with him; you know, to make the affair look just like an ordinary pleasure trip."

"Better still!"

"But I can't seem to have any part in whatever you do."

"You've already had the biggest kind of a part!" cried Clifford.

She took the hand he offered--flushed--then said, "I must be leaving; remember, you are to wait here half an hour to make sure that the people following me do not suspect that we have had a meeting."

The next moment she had gone, Madame Hélène and the gown with her. For half an hour Clifford sat staring at himself in the mirrored walls of the fitting-parlor, planning feverishly. Then he left--had a conference with Thorne, who in turn arranged to see the District Attorney immediately--got messages to Tarleton and Slant-Face Regan--and at eight o'clock, all done that could be done in advance, he was hanging to a strap in an elevated train that was carrying its share of 400,000 wilted seekers of pleasure down to Coney Island.

V

It was ten, and for an hour Clifford had been sitting in the Sultan's Garden, that flimsy pleasure hall of ornate stucco and blue and gilt paint. There were rows and rows and still more rows of tables--and tubbed palms imported from the tropical wilds of Long Island, arranged in files and clumps and squares that gave a degree of detachment to such guests as desired privacy--and a fountain in the midst, in which plaster nymphs disported and tossed on high great fans of spray for colored lights to play upon--and an orchestra of negroes in Turkish garb, whose oriental music was the rag-time beloved by Coney Island. "The Meeting Place of the World" the proprietors of the Sultan's Garden flamboyantly called it; and certainly the world was here to-night--at least a sweltering thousand of it.

Clifford, apart, merely one of the thousand, kept close watch upon the separate strategic elements involved in the plan he had worked out for the evening. At a table beside the green-margined pool of the fountain sat Mary and Joe Russell, Russell with the manner of idling away a few mildly pleasant hours. Here and there were newspaper men, smoking and sipping beer--for Clffford, knowing as well as Bradley the value of publicity, had arranged with discreet reporter friends to be present. And close at hand, unremarkable in this great assembly of all sorts and kinds, sat four detectives from the District Attorney's office; these four detectives, Thorne had sent word, were instructed to obey Clifford's orders.

While he waited for Bradley to appear--was Bradley really coming?--Clifford lived at the rate of a year a minute. The supreme moment wad close at hand. But was Mary correctly informed as to to-night's meeting? Would his plan, base as it was so largely upon conjectures and upon proper inter-action of so many uncertain elements, work out when put to the test? Would Russell react as he had counted during the crisis he intended to force upon him? And how would the money be passed?--if money was to be passed? Subconsciously, Clifford counted over and over what was at stake upon this night's play. There was the success or failure of all of Thorne's careful plans for a better Police Department--his own promise to clear Tarleton--his extrication from the disgrace in which he now stood--his dreams for a career. Yes--and this he realized weighed with him most of all--his relationship to Mary Regan. And if there had been one slightest error in his calculation, if he should make one slip in what he was about to do, Bradley would be more secure in his triumph, and he would fall deeper in disgrace than ever ....

Of a sudden his heart gave a leap: Bradley had entered. And in Bradley's mouth, as always, was a big cigar., But instead of making toward the fountain, the Acting Commissioner lowered his powerful figure at a table where sat two political friends, and did not even glance in Russell's direction. Clifford's doubts swept back upon him and possessed him for an hour while Bradley chatted with the politicians. After all, had Mary been wrong? He caught glances of smiling disbelief directed at him from the reporters and from those professional cynics, the detectives from the District Attorney's office.

Several times his eyes shifted cautiously to Mary. He guessed from the strain in her face, perceptible to him, that suspense and doubt were also tearing at her. But not once did she give him a glance that might have betrayed their alliance. At eleven Bradley rose, said good-by to his friends and started to leave. His course took him past the fountain, and seemingly for the first time he saw Joe Russell. Russell spoke to him, and Bradley, after a word, sat down at the table. Thus far, everything seemed to be working exactly as Mary had foretold. Clifford, beneath his suspense, had to admire the deep cunning of Bradley's boldness. There he sat, in plain view of a thousand persons! And hardly a one suspected him. Russell, as far as this public knew him, was supposed to be "all through" as a practitioner of his profession and to have settled down to years of peace--for which impression Clifford was in a measure responsible, through his defeat of several of Russell's recent enterprises. And it was a part of the policy of Bradley--that is, the Bradley who had been carefully built up for the public to look at and believe in--to command. great professional criminals to come to his office at Headquarters, or to stop them wherever chance might bring about a meeting, and tell them bluntly that it would not be safe for them to try to do business in New York. This direct method, New York believed, was largely responsible for Bradley's success.

No, hardly a one here suspected!

Clifford was not near enough to overhear the talk; but he could see that it was informal--of that chatty character which in real life takes place between police officials and retired criminals of the higher order; and he could see that most of the talking was being done by Russell. While Russell spoke Bradley puffed away at his half-smoked cigar. No matter how great the excitement, Bradley rarely took his cigar from his mouth, but rolled it about between his lips and smoked it right through to a stub.

Clifford, watching the pair, again wondered by what device the money would be passed with this great public looking on. He had admired the cleverness of the plan Bradley had proposed to Phil Morgan that dark night in the shack at Pine Crest Manor--to hand Bradley a seeming cigar, which in reality should be one of those hollow toy affairs, the money within it. But that device had, he knew, been invented solely for his ears, and he reasoned that it would not now be used.

And then, just as he had reached this conclusion, Clifford had the first of the many surprises that were to come to him that night. Bradley dropped his stub into the ash-tray, opened his leather cigar case as if for a fresh cigar, and found it empty. Russell, seeing the need, held out a gold-banded long thick black cigar. Bradley accepted it, fingered it a moment as if in doubt, shook his head, put it into his cigar case, and with seeming carelessness left the case lying upon the table.

After all, the cigai was the plan! Clifford could hardly hold himself back from instant action; but he knew, to have a perfect case, he should wait until Bradley put the cigar in his pocket. A better plan than that of the cigar could not have been devised! For Bradley, had he reasoned at all, would have reasoned that Clifford, even if Clifford should be following and should witness the scene, would never by any chance imagine that Bradley would use the very device which he knew Clifford knew he had worked out solely to lead Clifford astray.

Yes, the money was in the cigar!

And just then Clifford had his second great surprise. Bradley, apparently reconsidering, took the cigar from his case, put it in his mouth, deliberately lighted it, and began slowly to puff away.

What, then, in God's name, was the plan? Bewildered, Clifford watched the trio at the table, looking for any slightest move which would give him a clue. He noted that the strain in Mary Regan's face had increased, and he knew it partly was from the inactivity which she had said would have to be her rôle that night. And his eyes, swiftly roving for an instant, noted that Slant-Face and Tarleton were now among the crowd.

Presently Bradley, with a careless move of an elbow, knocked his empty cigar case from the table--on the. side between the table and the border of shrubs which encircled the fountain's pool. Russell recovered the case, and after holding it a barely perceptible instant beneath the cloth, returned it to Bradley. Bradley slipped the case into his pocket and rose to go.

There was no doubt now how the money had been passed and where it now was. That instant beneath the table was time aplenty for Joe Russell's magician's hands to slip the money into the cigar case. Clifford sprang forward, and blocked Bradley's way before he had yet taken a step from the table.

"Hold on, Bradley!" he said sharply, exultantly--and the newspaper men, knowing that the story had "broken," pressed forward from their tables, and the four detectives were instantly at his back.

Bradley's square face looked over Clifford with contemptuous surprise. "Oh, you, Clifford," he remarked--and his big black cigar never left its place in one corner of his prehensile mouth. "And what might the boy detective be wanting?"

"I want you, Bradley. Carey"--to the leader of the District Attorney's men--"just put the cuffs on Bradley!"

"What's that?" half roared Bradley, falling back a pace, his heavy shoulders squaring. The turbaned orchestra had broken off its syncopated music, and all the Sultan's Garden was gaping at this suddenly interpolated number in the evening's entertainment.

"Sorry, Chief," apologized Carey, "but it's the D. A.'s orders."

"Don't try to put those things on me, or you'll, be hunting new jobs!" growled Bradley. "Are you being bossed by this boob, Clifford? "

"They are," Clifford answered for them.

"Well, what's the bum steer you're working on this time?"

"This time, Bradley, I've got you with the goods on. Hand over your cigar case."

"Not to you--damn you!"

"Get him, boys!" Clifford sprang upon Bradley, and the four detectives closed in the same moment. There was a brief struggle, then the Acting Commissioner of Police stood before a thousand pairs of eyes, handcuffs on. His face was black with rage, but his big cigar was still clenched in his teeth.

"I'll get you for this, Clifford!" he snarled.

"Search him, Carey," Clifford ordered. "it's his cigar case we want."

"Can't help it, Chief," apologized Carey, and from Bradley's inside coat pocket he drew forth the black leather case that Clifford had seen so adroitly manipulated by Bradley and Joe Russell.

The ultimate moment had come.

"Open it," commanded Clifford.

Carey drew the two halves apart, then held them out to Clifford for examination. But Clifford had already seen, and his exultation had changed to dazed sickness. The cigar case was empty.

"What's the matter, Clifford?" queried Bradley. "Stomach?"

Clifford did not answer.

"Perhaps the lobster you ate was too ripe," Bradley solicitously taunted.

There was a spare chance that some switch had been made that his eyes had not caught.

"Go through him, boys," Clifford said desperately.

"Sure, go as far as you like," Bradley invited.

The detectives went through his clothes. They found nothing that was not obviously Bradley's own. Clifford had a glimpse of Mary's face; it was very pale, and taut with poignant dismay; and Clifford, sickened as he was, had a flash of what was passing in her mind. She had made an error--she was responsible for drawing Clifford into the supreme humiliation of his career--and he had every seeming cause to think that, despite her promise, she had not been on the square.

"And now," Bradley's voice broke in upon the quiet, "I suppose you coppers would like to take off this jewelry."

Clifford nodded.

"Sorry, Chief--not my fault--orders, you know," Carey tried to square himself as he removed the handcuffs.

Bradley, rubbing his big wrists, glowered at Clifford with triumphant contempt.

"You poor boob, you!" came crunchingly from between his slightly parted lips. "There's a lot I could do to you, but I guess you've finished off yourself, and finished yourself off for good. Just read what these newspaper boys have to say about you to-morrow morning--and I guess you'll have plenty to think of during that long vacation you're going to take in Sing Sing. Now get out of my way, you damned half-brained boob!"

Clifford was stepping back, with a sense of plunging dizzily down a black abysm that had no bottom--when Mary Regan came excitedly to her feet.

"Look!" she cried.

Bradley wheeled about, but too late to catch her gesture; and he turned his menacing face back upon Clifford. But Clifford had seen. Mary's shaking hand had pointed for an instant at Bradley's mouth--the mouth in which still was clenched the big cigar with the gold band Russell lad given him and which he had so composedly lighted. What Clifford noted sent a wild new life leaping through him. For Bradley, against his invariable habit of smoking a cigar straight through from tip to stub, had smoked no more than half an inch of this--the ash had fallen away--and the cigar was dead! "Get out of my way!" repeated Bradley, and made to start forward, cigar tight in his grim lips.

The cigar was dead! Clifford took a quick step and his right hand shot out toward Bradley's face. Taken unaware, Bradley threw up his guard too late. But he received no terrific blow as he had expected; he was not even touched. Merely the big black cigar had been snatched from his mouth.

The next instant pandemonium was in the Sultan's Garden. With a wild low animal-like growl Bradley had sprung upon Clifford. His right hand closed upon Clifford's throat and his left gripped the wrist of the hand that clutched the cigar--and the pair went sprawling to the floor between the tables, dishes crashing down about them, Clifford the under man. Overpowered though he was for an instant, with the strongest hand in the Department throttling him, Clifford was exultant: that swift terrific assault told him that he had guessed right!

For one moment the primitive man in Clifford desired nothing more than to fight it out with Bradley, brute against brute. He wrenched his right hand free and drove a terrific short jab flush against Bradley's chin. The grip upon his throat closed more viciously; he felt Bradley's left hand fumbling with devilish intent for the balls of his eyes. He drove his fist again into Bradley's chin.

And then that part of it was suddenly over--it had lasted no more than a surprised second or two--and the two men, enclosed in the arms of the four detectives, were on their feet, panting, disheveled--and about them were pressed the reporters and Tarleton and Slant-Face Regan and Thorne and excited chattering guests.

"I'll stand without hitching, boys," Clifford gasped to the two detectives who had seized him. "Here, Carey, keep this piece of evidence for the District Attorney. But first, open it and show what you find."

Clifford held out, badly crumpled by his palm, the big gold-banded cigar. With the crowd gaping at him, Carey removed the tattered wrapper. There, in the heart of the cigar, its filler, was a tight little roll of bills.

"Count it," Clifford ordered.

Carey fingered through the tobacco-tinted bills. "Fifteen thousand," he announced.

"Well, Bradley," Clifford said grimly, "I guess this will be the end of your rope."

Bradley did not reply. He glared at Clifford with murderous malignancy.

"Shall we pinch Russell, too?" asked Carey.

"You bet you do!" Bradley snapped out.

Clifford caught a sharp expression in the face of old Joe Russell; and caught the look of appeal which Mary threw him, and he remembered his promise to her; and what he next said was framed largely for a quick effect upon Russell.

"No, Carey doesn't pinch Russell, Bradley. Russell and Miss Regan, and her brother here, have been on the inside of this--that's where I got the tip on what was doing to-night. We've all been working together. And Russell gets that money back after it has served as evidence against you--and he returns it to the people he got it from, and they'll know he hasn't crossed them, for they'll know your big game, Bradley, couldn't be put over, and that Russell played it safe at the finish to protect them."

Bradley turned his black glower upon Russell.

"Is this so?"

For a moment Russell toyed imperturbably with his cigar. But Clifford knew the master swindler was thinking with lightning swiftness. Would Russell see the chance he-had adroitly offered him? Or would he make denial, and take his chance with Bradley? Russell carefully knocked the ash from his cigar.

"What Clifford says is straight, Bradley; I've been stringing with him all the while."

"Damn you, Russell! " Bradley snarled, leaning forward, his great muscles knotted with vengeful desire. Then he straightened up, and eyed the circle which enclosed him defiantly. "Well, anyhow, Clifford, you and Thorne will get your bit as grafters just the same!"

"We'll see at the trial. Miss Regan and Tarleton have confessed to their parts."

"What's that?" Bradley snapped at Mary.

"It was a conspiracy, planned by you," she answered clearly. "You told me exactly what to do and forced me to do it."

"And you?" Bradley demanded of Tarleton. Tarleton was white, but he did not flinch.

"It was the same way with me."

"You! I'll get you!" snarled Bradley. "That story about you breaks to-morrow and you at least will be finished!"

Slant-Face, who had slipped to Clifford's side, let the faintest whisper come through the drooping left corner of his mouth.

"In your coat-pocket--this side."

Clifford's right hand obeyed the suggestion and closed on a cluster of small hard objects; when they had got there he had no idea. His mind was now working so rapidly that conclusions were reached without the intermediation of conscious thought processes.

"Evidently you refer to a necklace Mr. Tarleton was interested in. Mr. Tarleton has discovered that he made a mistake. It was not stolen. It was merely lost. He has found it and given it to me for safe keeping. Here it is," and he drew out the missing necklace.

As Bradley glanced at it, the rage that had flashed out now and again the last few minutes, surged toward a climax of primordial savagery. For the briefest moment his little eyes flashed and his great chest heaved as with the intent to rend his way through this multitude. But the next moment the grim self mastery that had characterized his long career from his patrolman days to the dizzy heights of a few minutes ago, again possessed him. He drew up his coat sleeves and composedly thrust out his bared wrists. Handcuffs snapped upon them.

"Any of you boys got an extra smoke?" he queried.

One was produced.

"Stick it in my face and light it." This was done; he took two slow puffs, then turned on Clifford. "I'll bet you ten to one, Clifford, any amount you like, that I beat the case!" And without waiting for an answer: "Come on, boys--I'm sleepy, and let's be getting over to that bridal suite you've got reserved for me in the Tombs."

And with a detective before him, one behind him, and one at either arm, the great man that might: have been strode through the crowd--puffing his cigar, shoulders erect, his square face coolly meeting every gaze . . .

VI

Five minutes later, just behind the machine which contained Bradley and the detectives, Thorne's touring car was droning along Ocean Parkway through the warm night, its objective point the office of the District Attorney. Thorne was at the wheel, beside him Mary Regan; and in the roomy tonneau were Clifford, Tarleton, Joe Russell, Slant-Face, and Slant-Face's wife--she that months ago had been the light-minded Jennie Malone whom Slant-Face, in his adroitly kindled jealous rage, had once thought that he had killed.

Slant-Face leaned toward Clifford.

"The necklace was never stolen from the Langhorne dame," he whispered.

"I was sure it hadn't been," replied Clifford, his mind on other matters.

"She was trying to work the same old game," Slant-Face continued. "I framed it so that she got wind her flat might be searched, and she carried the necklace with her to keep it safe. The rest was easy. I'll get another hint to her, and she'll drop quick to the idea that this town isn't the proper health resort for her. Your friend here needn't worry about her again."

"Thank you!" Tarleton breathed huskily.

"Thank Clifford." After which Slant-Face sank back beside his wife and lapsed into the silence that was his habit.

"Bob," remarked Joe Russell in his drawling voice, "I suppose I ought to be much obliged to you for pulling me through this jam--but you've certainly put me in bad with the boys in my own line. Turning against a head copper, that'll queer me all around. Nobody has any use for a squealer. Nobody'll trust me or work with me. I'm done for. I'll never be able to turn another trick."

"Why should you turn another trick? Why shouldn't you cut out all the old stuff and go straight, Joe?"

"Me!"

"Yes. It's about time for you to retire anyhow. you're at least sixty."

"If my soul were to divorce my mortal parts this minute," drawled Joe, "the figure the mason would write on my tombstone would be sixty-five. But what'll I do, Bob? I can't loaf."

"Didn't I hear that you had ambitions about chicken farming?"

"Chickens," mused Russell. "Ah, yes-- chickens. Pine Crest Manor. Pine Crest Poultry Farm--sounds classy, doesn't it? And eggs at seventy-five cents a dozen--after all, that's they biggest confidence game going. Which do you advise, Bob--Wyandottes or Plymouth Rocks? "

"Toss for it."

"Wyandottes, Plymouth Rocks?" murmured Joe Russell to himself. "Wyandottes, Plymouth Rocks?" .. .

Russell continued his whispered meditation, but Clifford no longer heard him; in fact he had only half heard what Russell and Slant-Face had been saying. His gaze and thoughts had been upon Mary, just ahead of him at Thorne's side. Much he had done; but nonetheless his mind went ahead to that which was still unsettled and unrevealed. He wondered what would be Mary Regan's attitude toward him--finally. And he wondered, too, what was the relationship between Mary and Thorne. ... And these wonderments continued to be his major mental activities while they raced along amid the closely packed herd of cars that the late hour was driving back to the city; and, later, still continued to be while Bradley was being put into the Tombs, wherein he had brought his thousands; and, yet later, during the long hours up on the top floor of the Criminal Courts Building, while reporters were rattling questions at him and while members of the party were being examined by the District Attorney with whom Thorne had arranged for a course of action as prompt as the formalities of the law would permit. ...

Toward four o'clock Slant-Face silently handed Clifford a bunch of ink-wet morning papers. Triumph could not be more complete than the papers recorded in their great spread stories of the previous evening's affair. And for Clifford triumph and vindication did not end with what had happened at the Sultan's Garden. For Louis Gordon, Bradley's instrument in that matter of long since which had brought about Clifford's original disgrace and his discharge from the Police Department, had seen in what direction lay safety and without losing an hour had hastened up here to the District Attorney's office and made full confession.

...

"How does it feel to be a hero?" a voice beside him interrupted. Clifford turned; the speaker was Thorne. "I want a bit of a private talk with you, Clifford," he said, and slipping his arm through Clifford's, he led him along the dim paved gallery whose four sides enclosed the great inner court now silent and inhabited only by awesome shadows but by day crowded and buzzing with friends of prisoners being tried, or waiting to be tried, within the score of court rooms.

"I had the Mayor on the wire awhile ago," Thorne began. "we're to have a conference in the morning."

"He's going to reinstate you," remarked Clifford. "All the papers have said that your reinstatement was assured."

"I guess that's right. But I want to present to the Mayor part of a definite program. And most important of all, I want to tell him that I have secured as Bradley's successor as Chief of the Detective Bureau, Mr. Robert Clifford."

Clifford flushed. "That's a greater honor than I expected. I can't express my thanks. But I can't accept."

"Can't accept!" cried Thorne. "Why, I've been counting on you! Great Heavens, man--what's the matter?"

"I don't want it."

"Don't want it! . . . Oh, I see--you're afraid of making all the officers in the Department sore at you. But this isn't a case of my jumping a lieutenant over the heads of captains and inspectors. As you know, this job is not a police officer's, but a private citizen's job. you're out of the Department now, you're just a private citizen, and you're the best man for the place. there's no earthly reason why you shouldn't be appointed. And excuse me, Clifford--but by God, I'm going to appoint you!"

Clifford shook his head.

"You don't get my point. The job you offer is a big job--but it's an office job, a routine job. I don't want to be tied to a desk. I want to be free. I want to mix actively among people, keep on doing what I've been doing. That's where I can do most good, and that's what interests me most."

Thorne gazed at him steadily for a moment. "That's final, Clifford?"

"That's final."

Thorne sighed. "Here's where I lose the man I wanted most. But I don't blame you so much; administrative work doesn't bring you very close to life."

He eyed Clifford quizzically, then softly remarked: "But there's another reason--yes?"

Clifford met his gaze steadily. "Yes," he said.

Clifford feared that Thorne might follow this line. He didn't want him to; for it led to regions that seemed too private even for himself to venture to examine. But Thorne drew out his watch.

"Hello, I must be getting back to the District Attorney. I've got to be with him for some time. If it's not too much bother, Clifford, you might take Joe Russell, Miss Regan, et al., home in my car."

He was starting away, when Clifford spoke up. "One moment, Commissioner. I'd like you to answer a question."

"Fire away."

"If you don't mind--why did you first assign me to look after Miss Regan?"

"Hello, I see you've been entertaining a mystery here," smiled Thorne quizzically.

"Was she in reality my own child?--in reality an heiress kidnapped in her early years?--in reality the daughter of some socially prominent family, with a daring kleptomaniac strain? Romance!--mystery!--chuck full of it!"

Clifford answered smile with smile. "My mind wasn't following such lines. But I couldn't help wondering."

"It's really very simple," Thorne continued, soberly. "She's just who she is. I had information which led me to believe that she was, essentially, a fine square girl. I believed that with intelligent police handling she' would be brought around to be what it was in her nature to be. I knew you had ideas similar to mine, so I assigned her case to you. That's all the mystery there has been to the affair. It has just been a test of my theories--also of your theories. And I believe the experiment has succeeded."

"I believe it has," said Clifford.

"Well--luck with you, Clifford, in whatever you may do! And who knows?--in some way we may work together in the future."

"I hope we do!" echoed Clifford.

The two men clasped hands for a long moment.

Thorne's touring car drew up before the old mansion near Washington Square, and its occupants stepped out.

Joe Russell broke the silence with: "They'll be Plymouth Rocks, Bob--and I'm going to christen my head rooster after you. Hope you don't mind being its godfather. Good-night."

The old man went up the stoop. Slant-Face gripped Clifford's hand silently, and followed; and his wife, née Jennie Malone, seized Clifford's fingers, uttered a few incoherent grateful words and hurried devotedly up the steps after her husband. She was becoming very domestic, this one-time wild flower of the streets, Clifford had learned.

Mary lingered a moment, as he had hoped. "I want to thank you, too," she said. "we're moving out of here to-morrow. I don't know when I'll see you again. So this is good-by."

"Good-by?" The word stupefied him; mechanically he took the hand she offered. Then in a degree he recovered. "Would you mind walking in Washington Square--for a few minutes?"

She assented, and silently they turned southward. They crossed into the Square and found a bench near to that uprearing hulk of ironmongery upon which the Italian population hang their adoration--Garibaldi's statue--and here they sat speechless for a space, while above them began the drab miracle of a faintly breaking dawn. Telling a woman that he loves her is the most difficult task that a man's man ever drives himself, or is driven, to undertake. But after a time Clifford got through with it. A moment later he had been refused.

"Is it because you don't care for me?" he asked huskily.

"I was not thinking about what I cared for. I was thinking about you."

"About me?"

"You are just now a public character. You are a police official on his way up. don'tyou see what a newspaper sensation it would make if a rising police official should marry me?--being what I have been? don'tyou understand?"

Clifford understood. And connected with the point she was making was his second, and unexplained, reason for refusing Thorne's offer.

"You mean you do not want to interfere with my career?"

She nodded. "And you know I should, if I married you."

"Listen, Mary. I am only a private citizen, and I shall never be anything else. I shall never have any kind of a career that you would hinder."

Her dark steady eyes gazed at him searchingly. Into his own gaze, and into his words, he strove to put all his power of conviction.

"And as for what you may have done in the past, I want you to forget it just as though it were a bad dream from which you have awakened. Try to regard it just as though it had been done by some other person--as indeed it all truly was. The real Mary Regan, the Mary Regan as she is now, sitting here beside me, possesses the best human qualities of any woman I know! "

The steady dark eyes held searchingly upon him; and in them was a meditative, wondering quality, as if her eyes were also turned inward, searching herself. But she did not speak.

"But that isn't why I love you," Clifford continued. "I love you because I can't help myself. . . . Mary--please!--do you love me?"

A soft flush mounted into her cheeks, but her eyes did not waver. She nodded.

"Then--"

But she checked his eager attempt to take her into his arms. "That doesn't mean I'll marry you."

"Then what does it mean?" exclaimed Clifford.

A look of decison, a new decision, had come into the dark lovely face.

"Before we can talk definitely about such things--I want to go off somewhere, alone, and think over what you have said about me. If I am really that different person, I want to get acquainted with myself. I seem so strange to myself, it all seems so strange. I hope you are right--but I must be sure--very sure--and so I am going away."

Her look told Clifford there was no debating this point, that her decision was unchangeable.

"But when you come back?" he cried eagerly.

"A lot may happen before that," she answered gravely. "A lot to you, and a lot to me."

"But when you come back?" he insisted.

A tear-film glossed her eyes, her mouth twitched--and Clifford had his first vision of the great lode of tenderness that had lain unmined in the deeps of her soul.

"When I come back," she breathed quaveringly, "if you still think the same way about my being that sort of person--and if I find it's really true--"

But his strong arms closed about her. "Mary!"

"Don't!" she gasped. "Remember, a lot may hap--"

His kiss blotted out her warning. And forgetting for the moment all uncertainties, and all events which might lie within that future which she doubted, her lips clung tightly to his, and her arms crept about his neck, and she wept. . . .

THE END