The Red Book Magazine/Volume 36/Number 5/By the Clock

by Mrs. Wilson Woodrow

 

Again the suave Achison is confronted by his Nemesis, Wallace Ramsey, in the most ingenious story of his career thus far published

BY THE
CLOCK

By

MRS. WILSON WOODROW

RAMSEY looked at his watch, and reassured as to the hour, offered his cigarette-case to the man sitting opposite him at the restaurant table.

“Only eight o'clock,” he said,—“twenty minutes before we need start for the theater. We can drink our coffee comfortably, and not gulp it.”

He motioned to the waiter. “Give me the check.”

Picking up the slip, he glanced over it and laid down a twenty-dollar bill.

Hatton, with whom he was dining, reached over quickly and took the money before the waiter could do so. Holding it under the light of the silk-shaded electric lamp on the table, he scrutinized it carefully.

“That's all right.” He handed it to the astonished waiter; and then to the equally astonished Ramsey he addressed a word of caution.

“Better look sharp, if you have occasion to take any of those in change,” he advised. “New York is being flooded just now with a wonderfully clever counterfeit of the twenty-dollar Federal Reserve note, Series 1920.”

[Illustration: “Achison a hermit, eh? Just where is his retreat?” “Out beyond Paterson..... I'll make a map for you.” ]

“Really?” Ramsey did not question the correctness of the information; for Hatton was, he knew, an important official in the Secret Service Bureau of the Treasury Department at Washington.

“Yes.” A worried frown creased his companion's forehead. “We have been working on the case for the past three weeks, and I may add confidentially”—with a chagrined smile—“we haven't been able to dig up even the ghost of a clue.”

From his pocketbook he took out a specimen of the counterfeit and spread it on the table between them.

“It is a wonderfully accurate piece of engraving, you see,” he pointed out. “The only noticeable discrepancy is a slight blurring of the lines in the portrait of Cleveland here on the face of the bill. Any of us would swear it is the work of old Jimmy Swope; all the earmarks of the old master are on that plate.”

“And why not he?” asked Ramsey.

Hatton shrugged his shoulders. “Swope has been dead and in is grave for over six months.”

“Perhaps some disciple, then, some Elisha who has inherited his mantle?”

“No.” Hatton shook his head. “Swope's old gang is pretty well broken up, and all of them accounted for. Acting on the theory you mention, we did pick up a fellow the other day—never really one of the crowd, but a sort of hanger-on or go-between—in the hope of sweating something out of him. But it hasn't worked.

“About the only suspicious circumstance we have been able to fasten on him is that, although he has no money and apparently no friends, he has retained Heywood Achison as his counsel.”

Ramsey leaned quickly forward. “Achison does not often indulge in philanthropic whims,” he said.

“Hardly.” Hatton laughed significantly. “Still, in a way, there's a plausible explanation for it in this case. He says that White, this little rat we've got, years ago gave him some valuable information in regard to the Conover murder, You don't remember that, maybe, but it was the sensation of its day, and the acquittal of young Dave Conover practically made Achison. So it's not unreasonable that he should now come to White's assistance.”

The Secret Service operative paused to pour himself a second cup of coffee.

“There's another angle, too,” he resumed, “where Achison comes into this affair. In fact, when we first started in, we were very hopeful that he might be able to give us our lead. You see, he defended Swope on his last trial, making it so plain the old man was too ill to conduct any operations or even direct them, that he got him off. We thought at the time it was pure camouflage, but I guess there was something to it after all; anyway it wasn't more than a month later that the old fellow died.

“He made Achison his executor; he had considerable property that he left to be distributed among various charitable institutions; so naturally we thought, when this thing came up, that Achison, having been in his confidence, might be able to throw some light on the situation.”

“A reasonable enough conclusion,” Ramsey said. “But nothing came of it?”

Hatton gave a little gesture of defeat. “Nothing. Achison told us all he knew; but it didn't amount to anything—mostly old stuff. He said that when he took charge of Swope's affairs, he had a very thorough search made for any plates or counterfeiting outfits that might have been in the old man's possession; but not a trace of anything of the kind could be found, and he was satisfied that Swope must either have destroyed or disposed of them.”

“Achison himself is an interesting study, don't you think?” Ramsey observed casually.

“A prince,” declared Hatton with quick enthusiasm, glad apparently to turn from the discussion of his fiasco. “He was just leaving his office the day we called, and nothing would do but that we must let him take us over to Jersey with him and have dinner at his bungalow. Some dinner, too, I'll say; he has a cook that is a wonder. But I enjoyed listening to Achison even more than I liked the food. Why, I believe I could hear him talk all night, and never get tired.”

“Some one told me he was living in the country at present.” Ramsey's tone was carefully off-hand. “Rather an odd move for him, isn't it?”

“It's on account of those articles he's writing for the Meteor—you know, that stuff about old-time criminals and their methods, and the disclosures that some of them have made to him. He says that when he agreed to undertake the commission, he little realized what he was letting himself in for. It was simply impossible, he found, for him to work on them in town, either at the office or at his apartment; he was constantly being disturbed by people whom he could not well deny, or else being lured into this, that or the other engagement. So, finally, he took to the woods, rented this bungalow, and now spends his evenings in seclusion with a dictaphone, bringing the records to town with him each morning in a suitcase to have them typed.

“No question about his having absolute privacy, I guess,” Hatton concluded dryly. “It's the loneliest spot you could pick within a day's journey of New York.”

“Achison a hermit, eh?” Ramsey laughed. “Some of these days when I'm out motoring, I believe I'll drop in on old Friar Tuck, and make him do the honors of his retreat. Just where is it, Hatton?” Ramsey asked, concealing his eagerness.

“Out beyond Paterson. You take that road— Or, wait a minute; you'd never be able to find it from a description. I'll make a map for you.”

The Secret Service man, who was a methodical sort, took out his pencil, and explaining as he went along, charted the location on the back of the menu card. Ramsey, after studying the diagram a moment or two, folded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“Much of a place, is it?” he inquired, striving to keep his tone free from any hint of cross-examination.

“No, just a cottage. Very charming, though—and no lack of creature comforts, even to a cellar which, judging from the samples we received,”—Hatton grinned reminiscently,—“must be quite up to ante-prohibition standards.”

“Who does for him?” Ramsey asked. “It must be quite a job getting servants in a place like that, to say nothing of looking after them.”

“He has a man and wife, a very dependable couple, I should say. The woman does the cooking—husband a sort of combined butler and gardener. They live over the garage, and the chauffeur lodges with them; Achison reserves the cottage for himself.

“He calls it camping out, and says that now he has got used to it, he has fallen so much in love with the peace and quiet that he is planning to stay on until he has finished a book on some art subject he has had in mind.”

“I see,” Ramsey commented absently. “Well,”—again glancing at his watch—'if you've finished your coffee, suppose we start?”

Hatton had always regarded Wallace Ramsey as a rather reserved and silent person; but this evening at the theater he seemed almost stolidly indifferent to what was beyond question an excellent play. As a matter of fact, although Ramsey's eyes were fixed on the stage, the action which took place there entirely failed to register on his brain. Immediately after the last curtain, he pleaded a press of work to be finished, and bidding Hatton good night, parted from him at the theater door.

But on arriving at the bachelor apartment where he lived, Wallace did not turn to his desk. Instead he slipped on a lounging coat, filled his pipe, and throwing himself into an easy-chair with tobacco and matches close at hand, sat smoking and pondering until the gray dawn stole in at the windows.

[Illustration: “Sorry,” he said, “but this is getting a bit on my nerves. I want it over. A disgusting business, but damn you, you have left me no choice.]

His mind was concentrated on his conversation with Hatton at the dinner-table, and he was striving sedulously to recall each remark the other had made and to fit it in a theory he was evolving. Yet underneath his absorption there was also a sense of ironic amusement at his late companion's expense.

Hatton was considered one of the shrewdest and most experienced men in the entire Secret Service, and yet, while confessing himself at sea in regard to this counterfeiting investigation, he had again and again mentioned the man, so Ramsey was convinced, who stood as the key and solution to the whole puzzle.

It had been on the tip of Wallace's tongue more than once during the course of the disclosures to enlighten Hatton, but he had restrained himself, realizing that to confide his suspicion, or even attempt to give his reasons for them would be only to raise a question of his own sanity, never of the rectitude or high integrity of Heywood Achison.

To Hatton and the world in general, Achison was a famous criminal lawyer whose name was one to conjure with in the courts, a bon vivant and raconteur who was in constant social demand, a connoisseur and collector in many branches of art whose opinions if not always accepted, were at least respected by his- confrères

But the Achison whom Ramsey knew was a very different person. A guardian of the law, he was yet its most daring and resourceful trespasser. A social favorite, he was, behind his bland, impervious mask, a criminal.

For many months these two, Ramsey and Achison, had been playing a cat-and-mouse game, each taking the rôles interchangeably. But thus far every time Ramsey believed he had Achison cornered, the latter by some ingenious twist or quick turn had managed to wriggle free and bound away laughing at his adversary's discomfiture. To date, the contest stood a draw.

Naturally the temptation had been strong this evening to link himself with the powerful forces of the law in his drawn-out duel; and now as he sat considering Achison's subtlety and fertility of expedient, it recurred again. But he shook off the impulse. To what avail? His accusation was unsupported by any valid evidence. Hatton, or any other officer, would be justified in regarding it as the mere vaporings of his personal enmity toward a prominent and picturesque figure. No, he must continue to play alone hand. So, dismissing any idea of seeking a confidant, he settled himself to marshal his facts.

These were, briefly, that Achison had been made the executor and doubtless had enjoyed the full confidence of the notorious counterfeiter Swope; that within the month and long after Swope's death, a flood of new counterfeits had been put out which had been unhesitatingly pronounced equal at least to his handiwork, and carried the inference that certain plates engraved by Swope had been left in safe hands and were now being put to use.

This presupposed a plant where the printing and manufacture of the counterfeit notes could be carried on in security; and it was at least a matter of singular coincidence that Achison, to whom social life was as the breath of his nostrils, should have chosen just at this time to bury himself in “the loneliest spot within a day's journey of New York,” and to spend all his evenings in literary composition.

Of course, there is always the temptation in pursuing a theory to force the facts to fit the conclusion one is seeking; and Ramsey could not deny that a series of brilliant articles was appearing in one of the newspapers under Achison's name, or that he himself had heard a publisher speak of the lawyer's forthcoming book as a real contribution to the literature of painting.

And even more convincing to himself was an assurance that the surveillance which had been exercised over his own movements had recently been lifted. For months past he had known that he was followed by one of Achison's agents wherever he went; but with his adversary's migration to the country, this had apparently ceased. Puzzling! Was it not reasonable to suppose that if Achison had an illicit enterprise on hand, he would increase rather than lessen his safeguards?

Still, going over all the information he possessed, Ramsey could not divest himself of the feeling that these contrary circumstances might be only a part of an elaborate camouflage to cover the real purpose of that secluded bungalow and the solitary evenings spent there.

The suitcase brought back to the office every morning might easily contain, beside the dictaphone records, a bundle of spurious bills for distribution. Perhaps this White, whose defense the lawyer had undertaken upon so flimsy an excuse, was one of the distributing agents.

At any rate, the bungalow, its activities and its personnel seemed to offer so promising a field for investigation that Ramsey, regardless of the danger involved in a single-handed adventure of the sort, saw nothing else for him to do but take it on.

With this conclusion reached, he pulled down the shades to shut out the brightening daylight, and retired to bed. Arising about noon, he first disposed of luncheon, and then sauntering out as if for an ordinary stroll, bent his steps by devious ways.to a garage many blocks distant from the one where he kept his own car, and hired a “flivver” for the afternoon.

For half an hour he drove aimlessly about the city streets until satisfied he had shaken off any attempt to shadow him, and then heading for the Fort Lee ferry, set out for the Jersey hinterland. An hour's driving, with the aid of Hatton's map, brought him to a branch road, steep and newly repaired, which wound up a hill apparently into rugged country. Running the car into a covert of bushes off the side of the road, Ramsey parked it there and started to climb the hill on foot.

A stiff walk of ten minutes or so through the woods and underbrush—for he avoided the road—brought him to the edge of a clearing in which stood the house. It was of simple, bungalow architecture, painted a pale buff, and with a red tiled roof. A wide porch with bright awnings ran the length of it. At the rear, and separated from the cottage by only a few yards was a garage, and beyond that the clearing ceased.

In front there was a stretch of close-clipped lawn, with several sprinklers at work betraying the secret of its vivid emerald; at the side there was a gay garden full of blooming flowers, and back of this a vegetable patch with an old gardener pottering about in it, and at the farther end a row of beehives.

Ramsey, contemplating the reposeful scene from behind a tree, yielded to the spell of its pastoral blamelessness, and for the moment felt himself a quixotic fool. But his belief in Achison's obliquity was too strong to be easily uprooted; and after all, this was exactly the setting, demure, simple, rustically innocent, that a clever rogue would choose for any especially daring scheme outside the law.

A stout, red-faced woman came from the rear of the house, and entering the garden, began to gather parsley. When she had finished, she glanced upward at the sun, and making a megaphone of her hands, called loudly to the gardener as if he were deaf.

“Watson, Wat-son! You'd better quit now and get into your black clothes. You know Mr. Achison wont want to see you loafing about in them overalls. He likes everything ship-shape and ready for him when he gets here.”

The gardener straightened up, and nodding to her, started toward the garage. Plainly the two were man and wife, caretakers of the place, the efficient, satisfied, self-respecting servants of a generous master, and their living quarters, as Hatton had said, were evidently above the garage, for that building had an upper story with a row of screened windows hung with fresh dimity curtains.

While Ramsey stood studying the scene and seeking to impress its various features on his mind, he heard the throb of a motor ascending the hill, and in a few moments Achison's big gray car came into view and swept up to the porch. The lawyer got out, a suitcase in his hand, a bundle of newspapers under his arm, and entered the house. The chauffeur drove on into the garage, and after an interval appeared at one of the upper windows.

There was nothing more to be learned from a survey of the exterior of the house, and feeling it useless to run any further chance of detection, Ramsey turned and slipped away through the woods. He was tempted, now that he was here, to linger in the neighborhood, and later when it had become dark, attempt an exploration of the interior; but that, he realized, had better wait until Achison was spending an evening in town. He must simply be on the alert and bide his time.

HIS opportunity, however, came sooner than he could have hoped. The very next day Mrs. Bailey Fenwashe telephoned him to ask if he would not dine with her husband and herself informally the following evening.

“That pretty Wayne girl is coming,” she added, “also Mrs. Ames and Mr. Achison. They are sure to keep it from being deadly. Do come.”

At the mention of Achison's name Ramsey hurriedly choked back the acceptance which was on his lips. His heart gave a sudden leap of exultation. He found it hard to throw into his voice the proper note of regret.

He was more than sorry, he explained to Mrs. Fenwashe, by he was already tied up with an engagement for the evening which he could not possibly break.

At once he began to lay his plans carefully for the adventure ahead. Again he discussed with himself the advisability of taking Hatton into his confidence, and again decided against it. He would play the cards as they lay, and trust to luck to pull him through.

The next afternoon saw him motoring off in quite a different direction from that in which lay Achison's retreat; but as the sun lowered, he changed his course, and following a wide circuit, came back to town and crossed the river into Jersey. The night was moonless, with a dense fog; this he regarded with extreme satisfaction.

Nine o'clock found him at the intersection of the branch road which led up to the bungalow; and leaving his car as before, he made the climb up through the trees. The fog was lighter in the hills, he discovered, but it still persisted, and as he reached the edge of the clearing, the house blurred gray and unsubstantial before him in the drifting mists. The only light showing was in an upper chamber of the garage. There he saw the cook and butler moving about and evidently preparing for bed.

He waited until this window also went dark: then carefully skirting the clearing, and keeping always in the shadow, he approached the house stealthily through the flower garden. He was on the alert for the presence of a sentinel, or at least the bark of a watchdog. This latter contingency he had prepared for by fitting his revolver with a silencer But to his surprise, his progress was unchallenged and uninterrupted.

Reaching the house at last, he stepped softly onto the porch and crept close along the wall, seeking some means of entry. The first two windows were closed and locked, but the third was up a few inches from the bottom as if for the purpose of admitting air

He bent his ear to the opening and listened intently; there was not a sound within. Cautiously he swept his flash-lamp over the interior. What he saw was a small, square hall, empty except for the rug upon the floor and a couple of straight-backed chairs.

He knew that he might be walking into a trap, but he had not gone this far to turn back now. So raising the sash, he flung one leg over the sill and stepped inside. Pistol in hand, he waited a breathless moment; but reassured by the absolute silence, he again ventured to use his flash-lamp.

Guided by its ray, he swung wider a half-open door at the right and entered a large living-room which in every detail gave indication of Achison's occupancy—a charming room furnished in a light, summery fashion with bright chintzes and many wicker chairs A piano stood open. There were cool water-colors on the walls, and many books. In the center of the room was a large table, and beside it, with a chair conveniently placed, stood the dictaphone all ready for use. The air was full of the fragrance of fresh roses.

As Ramsey came through the door, a gray Persian cat uncurled itself and jumping down from its cushion, yawned and stretched and sidled toward him purring, obviously glad of some human companionship. He devoutly thanked his lucky stars that Achison preferred cats to dogs.

With the Persian at his heels, Ramsey made a brief inspection of Achison's bedroom and bath, and then passed through a butler's pantry into the kitchen. The latter was large and thoroughly equipped; Achison was sure to demand a generous kitchen.

There were four doors here, the one through which Ramsey had just entered, one leading outside, and two others. One of these, he reasoned, must lead to the cellar; and the cellar was naturally the part of the house on which his suspicions focused.

[Illustration: He knew that he might be walking into a trap, but he had not gone this far to turn back now. ]

Noiselessly he turned the handle of the door nearest him; behind it was a shallow pantry filled with cooking utensils. The other was unquestionably the door to the cellar.

He opened it softly and silently, ready for any emergency; but not a sound, not the suspicion of a movement, came from the darkness below. There floated up to him merely the mingled odors of fruit and vegetables, hams, bacon, pine boxes, and that earthy smell which even the best ventilated and concreted cellars give forth.

Coming down a step or two, he sent his searchlight flashing here and there over its assembled stores. It was as comfortably virtuous as the remainder of the house—no place in it for concealment, nothing which could point to it in any way as the headquarters of a gang of counterfeiters. There was no need of further exploration; it was obviously and innocently what it appeared, the well-stocked cellar of a prosperous householder.

RAMSEY felt all the chagrin of the man who has proudly backed an unfounded hypothesis, only to ride it to a fall. He had arrogantly forced his way into another man's house, confident of justifying himself by the results; and the only results were that he stood convicted to himself as a sneaking fool. His one desire now was to get away as quickly as possible and without detection; so discarding the caution he had hitherto exercised, he turned back hurriedly into the living-room.

As he entered it, the lights suddenly flashed up, and he found himself staring at Achison, who barred his way, a leveled revolver in his hand.

“Drop that pistol, and hold up your hands!” the lawyer ordered sharply. Then as Ramsey obeyed: “Now sit down here.” He struck the back of the armless chair which stood beside the dictaphone.

As Ramsey complied, the other quickly slipped a noose of rope over his shoulders from behind, pinning his arms at his sides, and binding him fast to the chair.

“There,” he said, when he had knotted two additional cords about his captive, laying aside his weapon to do so; “I imagine you are secure.”

The color had risen to his face, doubtless from his exertions, but there was no umbrage in the smile he bestowed as he drew forward a large easy-chair and settled himself in it. His manner was merely that of one who anticipates an interesting conversation; yet Ramsey felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.

“And now,” Achison's voice was suavely inquiring, “perhaps you will explain your uninvited presence in my house? You have never fooled me, Ramsey.” There was a satiric twinkle in his eye. “I have always suspected your true character, and at last, to use the vernacular, I have the goods on you. You are what the newspapers call a society Raffles.

“I should have been quite within my rights,” he went on blandly, “if I had shot you as a burglar the moment you swung your leg over my windowsill; but”—with an unctuous gurgle of laughter—“I am temperamentally as curious as a maiden aunt. And besides, I am inclined, I fear, to procrastination, to putting off an unpleasant duty until the last moment.”

His meaning was unmistakable, Ramsey's heart sank. He was absolutely in Achison's power, and Achison held too long a score against him to withhold his hand now that the advantage was so completely his.

“I have never from our first encounter made the mistake of underrating you,” Achison observed with rather a grand air of concession. “You are really a very able fellow, and you have tracked me like a bloodhound.

“Well,”—with a slight shrug of the shoulders,—“that's all over. But I always knew that sooner or later I should outplay you. It was only a question of time. Why, from the first day you drove out here and sneaked up through the trees, you have been watched. I was certain that you would come back again at the first opportunity; so when Mrs. Fenwashe asked me to dinner tonight, I artlessly expressed a hope that you also would be present.” He rubbed his hands, chuckling over his successful ruse. “When I telephoned her this afternoon that a sudden attack of lumbago would keep me at home, she moaned that she would have to fill in both of our places. Then I knew, of course, that I might certainly expect you, and made my preparations accordingly.”

Achison settled himself more easily in his chair.

“Well, since the night is young, and I'm in a procrastinating humor,—although I always meet my obligations in the long run,—suppose you tell me just what was the purpose of this theatrical exploit. You pose as an edition-de-luxe Sherlock Holmes, I believe; what crime had you cooked up against me now? Murder, arson, abduction—what?”

“Counterfeiting,” said Ramsey curtly.

ACHISON'S eyelids fluttered slightly. His benign, good-humored expression, an habitual mask, altered subtly and became ruthless and menacing.

“Ah?” There was at least no change in the suavity of his tones. “I begin to comprehend. This—er—obsession dates, of course, from the night you dined with that fellow Hatton. And so”—with tolerant, patronizing amusement—“you expected to find the outfit going full blast in my cellar. They are always in cellars, are they not? And then you were planning to drive back to town with your information, and it would be all over with Achison?

“Ramsey,”—with a shake of the head,—“you are cursed with the great fault of youth—impetuosity. With your gifts you might have gone far. Instead, you merely—vanish.”

Ramsey, who had recovered in a measure from the first shock of his defeat, gave a short laugh.

“Don't be silly, Achison. You don't dream, do you, that I set out on this expedition without leaving in reliable hands a very clear account of my reasons for undertaking it, as well as a comprehensive statement covering our various encounters in the past? It is hardly likely, then, that my disappearance under the circumstances would fail to arouse considerable question and investigation.”

“Oh, model of prudent forethought!” Achison surveyed him with mock admiration. “No, dear lad; I never doubted that you would do just that thing. But”—with a careless wave of the hand—“what does it all amount to? You may have written reams of waste paper concerning me, but sifted down, what is it? Conjecture and suspicion. There is nothing that I cannot explain, for the very good reason that you never had actually anything on me. Your statement would merely prove that your paranoiac brain had fastened its brooding suspicions upon a prominent person.

“As to the letter you left, expressing your purpose and intention of coming here tonight, that plays directly into my hand. It shows that you planned to enter my house as a thief in the night.

“Listen, my boy.” His broad smile was cynically bland. “How does it work out? I was about to retire. I heard stealthy sounds and emerged from my bedroom to investigate. Two shots were fired at me in the dark; your pistol will show that. I fired in return, heard a groan and a fall, switched on the lights, and discovered to my horror that the intruder was you.”

“So that's it!” Ramsey muttered. He managed to keep his voice steady, but there was a queer choking feeling in his throat.

“That's it,” confirmed Achison. “But its not all.”

Invariably dramatic, he rose from his chair and thrust back the heavy, gray hair from across his brow, he looked down at Ramsey, bound and helpless, with an arrogant, malicious [look] playing over his face.

“The really ludicrous part of it, Ramsey, is that your suspicions as to complicity in the counterfeiting were correct; your theory in perfect according to the facts. But unfortunately for you, you let precipitancy run away with you. Had you observed the excellent old (illegible text) 'Festina lente,' and made haste slowly, you would probably have discovered that the outfit you sought is not here, but a mile away—to be exact, the last house in the village down the road; you passed it unwittingly each time you came out here.

“It is a cheerful cottage owned by a highly respectable couple who have taken two men lodgers, obviously of the commuter class. These two men and the husband go to town every morning, presumably to work but really to sleep, and return each evening on the five-forty. Even while we sit here talking, they are industriously turning out from old Jimmy Swope's plates the notes which have so puzzled our friends in the Secret Service.

“You see,” he concluded with a little bow, “I feel quite safe in imparting information to you.”

Involuntarily Ramsey's head sank forward on his chest.

IN the brief silence that ensued there floated to their ears from without the panting of an automobile climbing up the hill. Ramsey raised his head sharply, but Achison listened to the approaching sound with unconcern.

“Don't base any false hopes on that,” he said. “I have been expecting it. Merely a messenger from the Meteor for some special matter that I promised to get out for them this evening. You will excuse me, wont you, while I add a few concluding paragraphs? The signal that you were starting up the hill interrupted me, for I had not expected your arrival quite so soon.

As he spoke, he drew the dictaphone toward him, and starting the motor into operation, began dictating easily, fluently into the mouthpiece.

Before he had finished, though, the automobile pulled up in front of the house, and there came a resounding peal at the doorbell. Achison rose to answer it.

“I shall not take the trouble to gag you,” he said.

“I know this fellow, and he is as deaf as a post. Call for help if you want to; it will only be a waste of breath.”

Ramsey did not doubt that he spoke the truth. Nevertheless he immediately set up a vociferous racket, but not much with any hope of attracting the attention of the messenger as to cover up an expedient which had leaped to his brain the instant Achison started for the door.

Bound though he was to the chair, he still had legs free and while he shouted and called, he quickly thrust out one foot, and hooking it about the standard of the dictaphone, drew the instrument on its wheeled base toward him.

The record which Achison had been using was still in place; all that was needed to set the apparatus going was a touch of his foot upon the lever down the bottom of the standard.

“Help! Murder!” he shouted at the top of his voice for Achison's benefit.

Then, wriggling sideways so as to bring his lips down to the mouthpiece, he dictated in lower tone a rapid message to the typist who would transcribe the record.

“Am a prisoner at Achison's bungalow. Counterfeiters working at last house in village a mile away. Get word at once to Hatton of Secret Service to round them up, and then come and get me. Wallace Ramsey.”

Shutting off the power with another touch to the lever, he yelled again for help, and pushed the dictaphone back to where it had stood before.

He had just time to draw in his leg when Achison came back into the room. Without speaking, the lawyer seated himself and drew the dictaphone toward him, to complete his unfinished article.

Ramsey's heart was beating wildly. Would Achison reverse the record, in order to refresh his mind on what he had been dictating when interrupted?

Bending down, he hurriedly dictated a few closing sentences to the article, slipped the record from the machine, and bundling it up, took it out to the waiting messenger.

When he returned, he commented ironically upon Ramsey's futile vocal efforts.

“It would have done you no good in any event,” he said. “If by any chance the man had heard you, I would simply have explained that one of my servants was subject to nightmare.

“And now!” He paused and significantly eyed the two revolvers he had laid upon the table. “It's a nasty business, Ramsey. Don't imagine that I am weakening in the least, but—well, I need a drink.”

He stopped on his way to the side-board and gazed hesitantly at his prisoner.

“I'd offer you one too; you're a ghastly sight. But I don't see just how to manage it. Wait a minute, though. Perhaps, if I slip the rope up a little above your elbow, you'll be able to handle a glass and a cigarette.”

“Thanks,” returned Wallace, satirically.

HIS head had cleared, and his heart stopped thumping. He had his chance now—a thousand-to-one shot, but still a chance. Time! His life depended on that, and he must play for it with every artifice his wits could devise. His brain was working fast and with that lucidity which only comes in the moment of stress.

He dared not yet play his trump card, the message he had dictated on the record. For that he must wait at least an hour. If he disclosed it sooner, Achison would simply telephone in to the newspaper and on some plausible excuse keep the records from being transcribed.

No—an hour he must have, at the very least. He must get Achison so absorbed in conversation that he would not note the passage of time. But what topic would hold him?

As Wallace asked the question, the answer came. There is but one subject that will hold a man when all others fail—himself. And Ramsey's spirits rose as he remembered that he possessed the great and rare gift of being a good listener. It was really the secret of his rather wide popularity.

Here was the string, Ramsey felt, on which he must play. But would be evoke the response? That was the question.

“I am going to say something that may surprise you.” Wallace sipped his Scotch and soda reflectively. “Odd, isn't it; but if anyone had told me that my adventures would terminate in this way, I should have been overwhelmed with horror. Yet now that the worst has happened, that I am actually in my last ditch, my only sentiment is one of intense curiosity in regard to you. I've studied you rather carefully, you see, and—”

“I'm sure you have,” chuckled Achison.

“And yet,” Ramsey went on, “you remain to me an unsolvable enigma. Again and again I have asked myself, why you, holding so much and winning so easily by a sort of divine right the things men struggle and fight for, should deliberately choose the crooked road of danger with its tremendous odds of detection and disgrace.”

Achison gave a slight shrug of the shoulders, but made no answer. His expression was inscrutable as he lighted another cigarette and surveyed his captive through the smoke.

RAMSEY tacked and opened fire from another angle. He wondered if perhaps he had managed either by words or manner to give some intimation of his purpose.

“Just what is your philosophy of life, anyway?” he asked. “We all have a philosophy, whether we are conscious of it or not, and we live by it, too.”

Smile-wrinkles showed about Achison's eyes. The answer that rose to his mind was so apt that he could not resist giving it voice.

“I can define my philosophy easily,” he said, “and it is singularly appropriate to the present occasion:

 

I thank with brief thanksgiving,
Whatever gods there be,
That no life lives forever,
That dead men rise up never,
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

 

He recited the lines beautifully in his rich, full voice; and having gone so far, could not resist the temptation to go farther.

“Most men, who had gleaned the facts about me that you have,” he said slowly, “would insist that in my nature there runs a strain of abnormality; but I do not so analyze myself. I am, you must agree, gifted beyond my fellows. All persons of unusual powers are complex. Every strong nature is made up of a number of personalities. These, I take it, are more distinct and differentiated in me than in most men.”

He was leaning back in his chair now, talking as if thinking aloud and absorbedly. He would go on thus for a time. If he flagged, he must be spurred by artful questions or driven by argument to further exposition. Some way, any way, he must be kept going. Time was passing, and Ramsey only asked an hour. God keep his brain nimble! He was staking his life on his ability to hold the other man's attention that long.

“For instance,” Achison was proceeding, “there is that side of me which delights in my profession, in supplementing my knowledge of the law with tricks of oratory or courtroom ingenuity. Quite distinct from that, is the personality of the connoisseur, of the man who is forever haunted by his vision of beauty, and who must surround himself with lovely and precious things. And then Ramsey, there is the personality which you have tracked so relentlessly, the one that demands the excitement of a big gamble. The mere playing for money has never appealed to me. The stakes must be higher, the hazards greater.”

He paused. The habitual bonhomie, even the intellectuality, had vanished from his face. It was sharpened, cunning, ruthless. The contorted smile upon his lips was gloating and evilly triumphant. Then, like a shadow, it passed, but not wholly.

“A breathless game, and well played,” Achison applauded himself. “And you, Ramsey, added to the zest of it by interjecting an element of real danger. I enjoyed that for a time, but you gave me too close a run for my money.”

Ramsey did not propose to let him stop with this, as he seemed inclined.

“You have answered me,” he said, “but not completely. Have you ever paused to think—surely a man of your mental equipment must have done so many times—that your gain can never be commensurate with the risk. You stand to lose life, liberty and reputation, all that makes living really worth while. You must also have considered the percentages against you in the game.”

“Of course.” Achison nodded shortly, then paused, drawing his eyebrows together. “Still, one can always learn, even from the ant one crushes under foot. Perhaps we are not thinking of the same percentages. To just which do you refer?”

“Well,”—Ramsey took his time in lighting a fresh cigarette,—“one is that of the human element. Every man who has ever tried to play a gambling system knows that although it will work out faultlessly on paper, it rarely does so in fact. The human element enters, and the player allows his hopes and fears, or the advice of others, to sway his judgment.

“Then there is the element of the unexpected. In making a plan, you may take into account every possible contingency; but in spite of all your precautions, the unexpected will enter by some unseen door.

“Still another! I cannot put it very clearly into words, but you will perhaps grasp my meaning. By the action of some obscure and little-understood law, when one instrument of retribution fails, another takes its place. You get rid of nothing when you dispose of me, Achison; for in another shape, you will still have to meet and cope with what I have stood for in my relation to you.”

Achison stirred uneasily. He had a slight sensation of chill; the lights in the room seemed suddenly dimmer. It was as if a shadow fell across his spirit. He shook off the suggestion impatiently.

“I have as yet no premonition that my star fails me. I think it will give me due warning.”

He got up, and lifted Ramsey's revolver from the table.

“It has a silencer? That's good, considering that I will have to discharge two cartridges.”

“Not yet.” Ramsey at last ventured to glance openly at the clock. An hour and a quarter had gone by, but he wanted to be on the safe side. “Give me fifteen minutes more. I have a fancy to die on the stroke of the clock.”

Achison frowned.

“Sorry,” he said, “but this is getting a bit on my nerves. I want it over. A disgusting business, but damn it, you have left me no choice.”

REVOLVER in hand, he stepped over behind Ramsey and began fumbling with the cords which bound him to the chair.

“When I free you, get up,” he ordered. “Unless you want to be shot sitting and from behind.”

“No!” Ramsey spoke with sudden sharpness. “You are not going to shoot me, Achison. You can't do it. Although you and I have been sitting alone in the room all this time, yet there has been a witness. Your clever scheme is known in all its details.”

Achison started, then gave a short derisive laugh.

“You're crazy.”

“I am not crazy. Like every other criminal, you overlooked a detail.” Ramsey's voice rang out solemn and convincing. “The record from your dictaphone which you sent to the newspaper contained also a message dictated by me, while you were out of the room. By this time it has been transcribed, and men are on their way here to my rescue.”

Achison swung around in front of Ramsey and loomed above him, his hands digging deep into Wallace's shoulders, his eyes bulging, his teeth bared.

“You liar!”

As if in confirmation the shriek of an automobile siren shrilled up to them from the foot of the hill. A hurrying car was starting the ascent.

Achison turned and snatched up the pistol which he had flung back upon the table.

“You first, then I!” he said thickly. And then he stopped.

“By God, there is a way out!” he cried. “Listen, Ramsey. Listen. If I give you your life, will you hold your tongue? Even if you speak, they can't fasten anything on me. Suppose they have that crowd down in the village, those men will never give me away—never. They know that I can send any or all of them to the chair.

“If you don't agree,”—Achison's face was close to his—“I'll swear that you were one of them, that I discovered it, captured you, and forced you at the point of a pistol to send that message through the dictaphone. You released yourself, fired two shots at me, and I had to kill you in self-defense. I'll be believed; you'll be dead and damned by the public opinion that I can create.”

The car could be heard topping the crest of the hill. Achison lifted the revolver and pointed it steadily.

Ramsey ground his teeth. Achison still held the winning hand.

“I agree,” the younger man muttered.

THE car stopped outside. There was a clatter of footsteps on the porch, an imperative ring at the bell. Achison hurried out, and flung open the door.

“Ah, Hatton!” he cried exultantly. “Here at last, eh? Did you get those fellows in the village? Good! Now come in and see what I have to show you.”

Ushering them into the living-room, he pointed to the bound figure of Ramsey.

“My little ruse!” he explained. “This young firebrand happened to call on me tonight, and in our conversation I let fall the information I had gained concerning the operation of a counterfeiting mill in the village, and which I was planning to turn in tomorrow. Nothing would do for him, though, but that we should round up the place ourselves at once, and so get all the glory. When I refused, he was going to start on the enterprise single-handed; so I had to slip a rope over his shoulders when he wasn't looking, and make a prisoner of him. To carry out the joke, I gave him the opportunity to send that dictaphone message. I tell you, for the last two hours, I've been having the time of my life.” He laughed uproariously. “Isn't that so, Ramsey.”

“I've nothing to say.” Ramsey shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, never mind.” Achison cut his bonds with a knife. “You're free now, at any rate.

“Sit down, boys,”"—he turned genially to the officers—“and I'll ring up the cook and have her get us hot coffee and something to eat. Steak, sausages, waffles—how does that sound? And while we're waiting, I'll give you all the details. I talk, you know. Ramsey's too modest. He acts.”