Under Cover

“Me too,” Michael chimed in. “Unless stocks go up, or the Democratic party goes down, I’ll be broke soon. How about a game of pool?”

“I’d love to,” Nora said. “I’ve been dying to learn.”

“That’ll make it a nice interesting game,” Monty commented. He knew he could never make a decent shot until the confounded necklace was miles away.

“Then there’s nothing else to do but dance,” Alice decreed. “Come, Nora.”

“No,” Michael cried, “I’ll play pool or auction or poker, I’ll sit or talk or sing, but I’m hanged if I hesitate and get lost, or maxixe!”

Alice shook her head mournfully. “Ah, Michael,” she said, “if you were only as light-footed as you are light-headed, what a partner you’d make. We are going to dance anyway.”

Ethel hesitated at the doorway. “Aren’t you dancing or playing pool, Mr. Denby?”

“In just a moment,” he said. “First I have a word to say to Monty.”

“I understand,” she returned. “Man’s god – business! Men use that excuse over the very littlest things sometimes.”

“But this is a big thing,” he asserted; “a two hundred thousand dollar proposition, so we’re naturally a bit anxious.”

Monty shook his head gravely. “Mighty anxious, believe me.”

Whatever hope she might have cherished that Taylor was wrong, and this man she liked so much was innocent, faded when she heard the figure two hundred thousand dollars. That was the amount of the necklace’s value, exactly. And she had wondered at Monty’s strained, nervous manner. Now it became very clear that he was Denby’s accomplice, dreading, and perhaps knowing as well as she, that the house was surrounded.

She told herself that the law was just, and those who disobeyed were guilty and should be punished; and that she was an instrument, impersonal, and as such, without blame. But uppermost in her mind was the thought of black treachery, of mean intriguing ways, and the certainty that this night would see the end of her friendship with the man she had sworn to deliver to the ruthless, cruel, insatiable Taylor. It was, as Taylor told her, a question of deciding between two people. She could help, indirectly, to convict a clever smuggler, or she could send her weak, dependent, innocent eighteen-year-old sister to jail. And she had said to Taylor: “I have no choice.”

Denby looked at her a little puzzled. In Paris, a year ago, she had seemed a sweet, natural girl, armed with a certain dignity that would not permit men to become too friendly on short acquaintance. And here it seemed that she was almost trying to flirt with him in a wholly different way. He was not sure that her other manner was not more in keeping with the ideal he had held of her since that first meeting.

“I should be anxious, too,” she said, “if I had all that money at stake. But all the same, don’t be too long. I think I may ask you for that cigarette presently.”

CHAPTER TEN

DENBY stood looking after her. “Bully, bully girl,” he muttered.

“Anything wrong, Steve?” Monty inquired, not catching what he said.

Denby turned to the speaker slowly; his thoughts had been more pleasantly engaged.

“I don’t understand why they haven’t done anything,” he answered. “I’m certain we were followed at the dock. When I went to send those telegrams I saw a man who seemed very much disinterested, but kept near me. I saw him again when we had our second blow-out near Jamaica. It might have been a coincidence, but I’m inclined to think they’ve marked us down.”

“I don’t believe it,” Monty cried. “If they had the least idea about the necklace, they’d have pinched you at the pier, or got you on the road when it was only you and the chauffeur against their men.”

Still Denby seemed dubious. “They let me in too dashed easily,” he complained, “and I can’t help being suspicious.”

“They seemed to suspect me,” Monty reminded him.

“The fellow thought you were laughing at him, that’s all. They’ve no sense of humor,” Denby returned. “What I said to-night was no fiction, Monty. Cartier’s may have tipped the Customs after all.”

“But you paid Harlow a thousand dollars,” Monty declared.

“He wasn’t the only one to know I had bought the pearls, though,” Denby observed thoughtfully. “It looks fishy to me. They may have some new wrinkles in the Customs.”

“That damned R. J.,” Monty said viciously, “I’d like to strangle him.”

“It would make things easier,” Denby allowed.

“All the same,” Monty remarked, “I think we’ve both been too fidgety.”

“Dear old Monty,” his friend said, smiling, “if you knew the game as I do, and had hunted men and been hunted by them as I have, you’d not blame me for being a little uneasy now.”

With apprehension Monty watched him advance swiftly toward the switch on the centre wall by the window. “Get over by that window,” he commanded, and Monty hurriedly obeyed him. Then he turned off the lights, leaving the room only faintly illuminated by the moonlight coming through the French windows.

“What the devil’s up?” Monty asked excitedly.

“Is there anyone there on the lawn?”

Monty peered anxiously through the glass. “No,” he whispered, and then added: “Yes, there’s a man over there by the big oak. By Jove, there is!”

“What’s he doing?” the other demanded.

“Just standing and looking over this way.”

“He’s detailed to watch the house. Anybody else with him?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Come away, Monty,” Denby called softly, and when his friend was away from observation, he switched on the light again. “Now,” he asked, “do you believe that we were followed?”

“The chills are running down my spine,” Monty confessed. “Gee, Steve, I hope it won’t come to a gun fight.”

“They won’t touch you,” Denby said comfortingly; “they want me.”

“I don’t know,” Monty said doubtfully. “They’ll shoot first, and then ask which is you.”

Denby was unperturbed. “I think we’ve both been too fidgety,” he quoted.

“But why don’t they come in?” Monty asked apprehensively.

“They’re staying out there to keep us prisoners,” he was told.

“Then I hope they’ll stop there,” Monty exclaimed fervently.

“I can’t help thinking,” Denby said, knitting his brows, “that they’ve got someone in here on the inside, working under cover to try to get the necklace. What do you know about the butler, Lambart? Is he a new man?”

“Lord, no,” Monty assured him. “He has been with Michael five years, and worships him. You’d distress Lambart immeasurably if you even hinted he’d ever handed a plate to a smuggler.”

“We’ve got to find out who it is,” Denby said decidedly, “and then, Monty, we’ll have some sport.”

“Then we’ll have some shooting,” Monty returned in disgust. “Where is that confounded necklace anyway? Is Michael carrying it around without knowing it?”

“Still in my pouch,” Denby returned.

As he said this, Miss Cartwright very gently opened a door toward which his back was turned. Terrified at the thought of Taylor’s possible intrusion, she had been spurred to some sort of action, and had sauntered back to the big hall with the hope of overhearing something that would aid her.

“I know they mean business,” she heard Denby say, “and this is going to be a fight, Monty, and a fight to a finish.”

The thought that there might presently be scenes of violence enacted in the hospitable Harrington home, scenes in which she had a definite rôle to play, which might lead even to the death of Denby as it certainly must lead to his disgrace, drove her nearly to hysteria. Taylor had inspired her with a great horror, and at the same time a great respect for his power and courage. She did not see how a man like Steven Denby could win in a contest between himself and the brutal deputy-surveyor. “Oh,” she sighed, “if they were differently placed! If Steven stood for the law and Taylor for crime!”

Everything favored Taylor, it seemed to her. Denby was alone except for Monty’s faltering aid, while the other had his men at hand and, above all, the protection of the law. It was impossible to regard Taylor as anything other than a victor making war on men or women and moved by nothing to pity. What other man than he would have tortured her poor little sister, she wondered.

To a woman used through the exigencies of circumstances to making her living in a business world where competition brought with it rivalries, trickeries and jealousies, the ordeal to be faced would have been almost overwhelming.

But the Cartwrights had lived a sheltered life, the typical happy family life where there is wealth, and none until to-day had ever dared to speak to Ethel as Taylor had done. She was almost frantic with the knowledge that she must play the spy, the eavesdropper, perhaps the Delilah among people who trusted her.

As she was debating what next to do, she heard Monty’s voice as it seemed to her fraught with excitement and eager and quick.

“Will you have a cigarette, Dick?” she heard him call. Instantly Steven Denby wheeled about and faced the door through which she appeared to saunter languidly. Something told her that Monty had discovered her.

“Still talking business?” she said, attempting to appear wholly at ease. “I’ve left my fan somewhere.”

“Girls are always doing that, aren’t they?” Denby said pleasantly. There was no indication from his tone that he suspected she had been listening. “We’ll have to find it, Monty.”

“Sure, Steve, sure,” Monty returned. He was not able to cloak his uneasiness.

“Steve?” the girl queried brightly. “As I came in, I thought I heard you call him ‘Dick.’”

“That was our private signal,” Denby returned promptly, relieving poor Monty of an answer.

“That sounds rather mysterious,” she commented.

“But it’s only commonplace,” Denby assured her. “My favorite parlor trick is making breaks – it always has been since Monty first knew me – and invented a signal to warn me when I’m on thin ice or dangerous ground. ‘Will you have a cigarette, Dick’ is the one he most often uses.”

“But why ‘Dick?’” she asked.

“That’s the signal,” Denby explained. “If he said ‘Steve,’ I shouldn’t notice it, so he always says ‘Dick,’ don’t you, Monty?”

“Always, Steve,” Monty answered quickly.

“Then you were about to make a break when I came in?” she hinted.

“I’m afraid I was,” Denby admitted.

“What was it? Won’t you tell me?”

“If I did,” he said, “it would indeed be a break.”

“Discreet man,” she laughed; “I believe you were talking about me.”

He did not answer for a moment but looked at her keenly. It hurt him to think that this girl, of all others, might be fencing with him to gain some knowledge of his secret. But he had lived a life in which danger was a constant element, and women ere this had sought to baffle him and betray.

He was cautious in his answer.

“You are imaginative,” he said, “even about your fan. There doesn’t seem to be a trace of it, and I don’t think I remember your having one.”

“Perhaps I didn’t bring it down,” she admitted, “and it may be in my room after all. May I have that promised cigarette to cheer me on my way?”

“Surely,” he replied. Very eagerly she watched him take the pouch from his pocket and roll a cigarette.

Her action seemed to set Monty on edge. Suppose Denby by any chance dropped the pouch and the jewels fell out. It seemed to him that she was drawing nearer. Suppose she was the one who had been chosen to “work inside” and snatched it from him?

“Miss Cartwright,” he said, and noted that she seemed startled at his voice, “can’t I get your fan for you?”

“No, thanks,” she returned, “you’d have to rummage, and that’s a privilege I reserve only for myself.”

“Here you are,” Denby broke in, handing her the slim white cigarette.

She took it from him with a smile and moistened the edge of the paper as she had seen men do often enough. “You are an expert,” she said admiringly.

He said no word but lighted a match and held it for her. She drew a breath of tobacco and half concealed a cough. It was plain to see that she was making a struggle to enjoy it, and plainer for the men to note that she failed.

“What deliciously mild tobacco you smoke,” she cried. Suddenly she stretched out her hand for the pouch. “Do let me see.”

But Denby did not pass it to her. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“I don’t think a look at it would help you much,” he said slowly. “The name is, in case you ever want to get any, ‘without fire.’”

“What an odd name,” she cried. “Without fire?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You see, no smoke without fire.” Without any appearance of haste he put the pouch back in his pocket.

“You don’t believe in that old phrase?”

“Not a bit,” he told her. “Do you?”

She turned to ascend the stairs to her room.

“No. Do make another break sometime, won’t you – Dick?”

“I most probably shall,” he retorted, “unless Monty warns me – or you.”

She turned back – she was now on the first turn of the staircase. “I’ll never do that. I’d rather like to see you put your foot in it – you seem so very sure of yourself – Steve.” She laughed lightly as she disappeared.

Monty gripped his friend’s arm tightly. “Who is that girl?”

“Why, Ethel Cartwright,” he rejoined, “a close friend of our hostess. Why ask me?”

“Yes, yes,” Monty said impatiently, “but what do you know about her?”

“Nothing except that she’s a corker.”

“You met her in Paris, didn’t you?” Monty was persistent.

“Yes,” his friend admitted.

“What was she doing there?”

Denby frowned. “What on earth are you driving at?”

“She was behind that door listening to us or trying to.”

“So you thought that, too?” Denby cried quickly.

“Then you do suspect her of being the one they’ve got to work on the inside?” Monty retorted triumphantly.

“It can’t be possible,” Denby exclaimed, fighting to retain his faith in her. “You’re dead wrong, old man. I won’t believe it for a moment.”

“Say, Steve,” Monty cried, a light breaking in on him, “you’re sweet on her.”

“It isn’t possible, it isn’t even probable,” said Denby, taking no notice of his suggestion.

“But the same idea occurred to you as did to me,” Monty persisted.

“I know,” Denby admitted reluctantly. “I began to be suspicious when she wanted to get hold of the pouch. You saw how mighty interested she was in it?”

“That’s what startled me so,” Monty told him. “But how could she know?”

“They’ve had a tip,” Denby said, with an air of certainty, “and if she’s one of ’em, she knows where the necklace was. Wouldn’t it be just my rotten luck to have that girl, of all girls I’ve ever known, mixed up in this?”

“Old man,” Monty said solemnly, “you are in love with her.”

Denby looked toward the stairway by which he had seen her go.

“I know I am,” he groaned.

“Oughtn’t we to find out whether she’s the one who’s after you or not?” Monty suggested with sound good sense.

“No, we oughtn’t,” Denby returned. “I won’t insult her by trying to trap her.”

“Flub-dub,” Monty scoffed. “I suspect her, and it’s only fair to her to clear her of that suspicion. If she’s all right, I shall be darn glad of it. If she isn’t, wouldn’t you rather know?”

For the first time since he had met his old school friend in Paris, Monty saw him depressed and anxious. “I don’t want to have to fight her,” he explained.

“I understand that,” Monty went on relentlessly, “but you can’t quit now – you’ve got to go through with it, not only for your own sake, but in fairness to the Harringtons. It would be a pretty raw deal to give them to have an exposé like that here just because of your refusal to have her tested.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Denby sighed.

“Of course I am,” Monty exclaimed.

“Very well,” his friend said, “understand I’m only doing this to prove how absolutely wrong you are.”

He would not admit even yet that she was plotting to betray him. Those memories of Paris were dearer to him than he had allowed himself to believe. Monty looked at him commiseratingly. He had never before seen Steven in trouble, and he judged his wound to be deeper than it seemed.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure, I know, and I’ll be as glad as you to find after all it’s Lambart or one of the other servants. What shall we do?”

Denby pointed to the door from which Miss Cartwright had come. “Go in there,” he commanded, “and keep the rest of the people from coming back here.”

Monty’s face fell. “How can I do that?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh, recite, make faces, imitate Irving in ‘The Bells,’ do anything but threaten to sing, but keep ’em there as you love me.”

Obediently Monty made for the door but stopped for a moment before passing through it.

“And say, old man,” he said a little hurriedly, nervous as most men are when they deal with sentiment, “don’t take it too hard. Just remember what happened to Samson and Antony and Adam.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHEN Monty had gone, Denby took out the pouch and placed it conspicuously on the floor so that anyone descending the stairs must inevitably catch sight of it. Then, as though thinking better of it, he picked it up and placed it on one of the small tables on which was an electric shaded lamp. After looking about him for a hiding-place from which he could command a view of it and yet remain undiscovered, he decided upon a door at the left of the hall.

He had waited there only a few seconds when Ethel Cartwright’s steps were heard descending.

“Oh, Mr. Denby,” she called, “you were right, the fan was in my room after all.” Then, as she became conscious that the room was empty, she paused and looked about her closely. Presently her eyes fell on the precious pouch so carelessly left. For a moment the excitement bereft her of ability to move. Here, only a few yards from her, was what would earn her sister’s safety and her release from Taylor’s power.

But she was no fool and collecting her thoughts wondered how it was possible so precious a thing could be left open to view. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps in the big hall behind one of its many doors or portières she was even now being watched. Denby had looked at her in a stern, odd manner, wholly different from his former way and Mr. Vaughan, of whom she had heard often enough as a pleasant, amiable fellow, had stared at her searchingly and harshly. An instinct of danger came to her aid and she glanced over to the door behind her which was slightly ajar. She remembered certainly that it was closed when she had gone upstairs for her supposititious fan.

As calmly as she could she walked to the wall and touched the bell that would summon a servant. In a few seconds Lambart entered.

“Please find Mr. Denby,” she said, “and say that I am here.”

Before he could turn to go, she affected to discover the leathern pouch.

“Oh, Lambart,” she exclaimed, “here’s Mr. Denby’s tobacco; he must have forgotten it.”

The man took up the pouch, assuming from her manner that she desired him to carry it to the owner. “No, I’ll take it,” she said, and reached for it. Lambart only saw what was to him an inexcusably clumsy gesture which dislodged it from his hand and sent it to the floor, in such a manner that it opened and the tobacco tumbled out. But the girl’s gesture was cleverer than he knew for in that brief moment she had satisfied herself it was empty.

“Oh, Lambart,” she said reprovingly, “how careless of you! Have you spilt it all?”

Lambart examined its interior with a butler’s gravity.

“I’m afraid I have, miss,” he admitted.

“I think Mr. Denby went into the library,” she said, knowing that the door behind which someone – probably he – was hiding, led to that room.

Hearing her, Denby knew he must not be discovered and retreated through the empty library into a small smoking-room into which Lambart did not penetrate. The man returned to Miss Cartwright, his errand unaccomplished. “Mr. Denby is not there,” he said.

“Then I will give him the pouch when I see him,” she said, “and, Lambart, you need not tell him I am here.”

As soon as he was gone, she ran to the window, her face no longer strained but almost joyous, and when she was assured that none watched her, lowered the curtain as a signal.

Taylor must have been close at hand, so promptly did he respond to her summons.

“Well, have you got him?” he cried sharply as he entered. “Where is he – where’s the necklace?”

“You were wrong,” she said triumphantly, “there is no necklace. I knew I was right.”

“You’re crazy,” he retorted brutally.

“You said it was in the tobacco-pouch,” she reminded him, “and I’ve searched and it isn’t there at all.”

“You’re trying to protect him,” Taylor snarled. “You’re stuck on him, but you can’t lie to me and get away with it.”

“No, no, no,” she protested. “Look, here’s the very pouch, and there’s no necklace in it.”

“How did you get hold of it?” he snapped.

It was a moment of bitter failure for the deputy-surveyor. The sign for which he had waited patiently, and eagerly, too, despite his impassive face, was, after all, nothing but a token of disappointment. He had hoped, now that events had given him a hold over Miss Cartwright, to find her well-fitted for a sort of work that would have been peculiarly useful to his service. But her ready credulity in another man’s honesty proved one of two things. Either that she lacked the intuitive knowledge to be a useful tool or else that she was deliberately trying to deceive him. But none had seen Daniel Taylor show that he realized himself in danger of being beaten.

“He left it lying on the table,” she assured him eagerly.

Taylor’s sneer was not pleasant to see.

“Oh, he left it on the table, did he?” he scoffed. “Well, of course there’s no necklace in it then. Don’t you see you’ve let him suspect you, and he’s just trying to bluff you.”

“It isn’t that,” she asserted. “He hasn’t got it, I tell you.”

“I know he has,” the implacable Taylor retorted, “and you’ve got to find out this very night where it is. You’ll probably have to search his room.”

She shrank back at the very thought of it. “I couldn’t,” she cried. “Oh, I couldn’t!”

“Yes you could, and you will,” he said, in his truculent tone. “And if you land him, use the same signal, pull down the shade in his room. We’ll be watching, and I’ve found a way to get there from the balcony.”

“I can’t,” the girl cried in desperation. “I’ve done what you asked. I won’t try to trap an innocent man.”

He looked at her threateningly. “Oh, you won’t, eh? Well, you will. I’ve been pretty nice to you, but I’m sick of it. You’ll go through for me, and you’ll go through right. I’ve had your sister followed – see here, look at this – ” He showed her the fake warrant Duncan had prepared at his bidding. “This is a warrant for her arrest, and unless you land that necklace to-night, she’ll be in the Tombs in the morning.”

“Not that, not that?” she begged, covering her face with her hands.

“It’s up to you,” he retorted, a smile of satisfaction lighting up his face. He could see that he would be able to hold Amy’s warrant over her head whenever he chose. She was beaten.

“But what can I do?” she said piteously. “What can I do?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said less harshly, “you’re a good-looking girl; well, make use of your good looks – get around him, jolly him, get him stuck on you. Make him take you into his confidence. He’ll fall for it. The wisest guys are easy when you know the way.”

“Very well,” she said, brightening. It seemed to her that no better way could be devised than to convince Taylor he was wrong. “I will get around him; I will get his confidence. I’ll prove it to you, and I’ll save him.”

“But you don’t have to give him your confidence, remember,” Taylor warned her. “Don’t give him the least tip-off, understand. If you can get him out in the garden, I’ll take a chance he has the necklace on him. We’ll nail him there. And don’t forget,” he added significantly, “that I’ve got a little document here with your sister’s name on it. There’s somebody coming,” he whispered, and silently let himself out into the garden.

It was Denby who came in. “Hello,” he said, “not dancing, then?”

“Hello,” she said, in answer to his greeting. “I don’t like dancing in August.”

“I’m fortunate to find you alone,” he said. “You can’t imagine how delightful it is to see you again.”

Her manner was particularly charming, he thought, and it gave him a pang when a suspicion of its cause passed over his mind. There had been other women who had sought to wheedle from him secrets that other men desired to know, but they were other women – and this was Ethel Cartwright.