CHAPTER XI

THE PILE OF BRICKS

“Oh, Larry--I mean Mr. Dexter--do you know her?” asked Molly Mason, when she was out of earshot from the couple she and her escort had just passed.

“Yes, she is Miss Grace Potter,” replied the young reporter. “But you spoke as though you knew her yourself.”

“Oh, no, I don’t know her, of course. She and I don’t move in exactly the same society circle,” spoke Miss Mason, with a frank laugh. “But I’ve often seen her in our store--you notice that I say _our_ store,” she added, still laughing. “But all we girls always say that. It makes it sound as though we had some interest in it.”

“And so Miss Potter comes there?” asked Larry.

“Yes, and the girls all like her, because she is so kind, and considerate. She never makes a fuss, even though she is a millionaire’s daughter. You know her father is very rich,” she added, for Larry’s benefit.

“Oh, yes, I know,” he said. “I have good reason to,” and he told something about his hunt after the missing millionaire, as I have set it down in the book before this one, called “Larry Dexter’s Great Search.”

“Then you must know her quite well,” went on Miss Mason.

“I do,” replied Larry, and he fancied there was just a note of jealousy in his companion’s voice. “I met her quite often some time ago, and she was very kind to me, though I was only a reporter, and she a millionaire’s daughter.”

“That’s what the girls in the store say of her,” spoke Miss Mason. “You’d never know she had all the money she wanted to spend, to judge by her manner. Some of the very rich people make it hard for working girls,” she went on. “They seem to think we have no feelings. But Miss Potter is very different. I wish there were more like her.”

“Did you notice who was with her?” asked Larry.

“Not particularly. I saw that it was a young man, not bad-looking. He was--why, of course!” suddenly exclaimed Miss Mason. “I know now what you mean! I was wondering why his face was so familiar. He was the one who jostled me in the subway train that day; wasn’t he?” and she leaned eagerly toward Larry.

“The very same,” he answered quietly.

“I wonder what he was doing with Miss Potter,” went on Larry’s companion. “I can’t say much about his manners. But perhaps he acts differently toward millionaires’ daughters than he does toward working girls.”

“I don’t doubt it,” remarked our hero grimly. He, too, was wondering what had brought Miss Potter and Witherby together. And, though Larry tried not to let himself be conscious of it, he was aware of a distinct pang of jealousy.

“It must be because Mr. Potter banks at the Consolidated and Witherby works there,” reasoned Larry to himself. “Though how a bank clerk, on a comparatively small salary, can afford to go around with a millionaire’s daughter, is beyond me. But I guess it’s none of my business.”

“It’s queer we should meet that man again,” went on Miss Mason, referring to Witherby. “I have often looked for him in the subway, but I’ve never seen him since that morning.”

“I have met him several times,” spoke Larry. “He is employed in the Consolidated Bank.”

“Where the million-dollar robbery took place?”

“Yes, the same bank.”

“And do you suspect him? Oh, Mr. Dexter, maybe he had something to do with it!” exclaimed the girl impulsively.

“Oh, I guess not,” laughed Tom. “He doesn’t seem to have been in a position where he could have changed the bags, though of course it’s possible. I’m beginning to think that the million dollars vanished up the chimney, like smoke, and that the money and the thief will never be found.”

“Oh, you mustn’t give up so soon,” urged Miss Mason.

“I’m not, but I’m just beginning to lose hope.”

She and Larry walked on for some little distance farther, and then the young reporter took Miss Mason home, remaining to pay a brief call on her mother.

“Well, I’m going to do something to-morrow,” said Larry to himself, as he started for his own home.

And that something was nothing more or less than to visit the vicinity of the house where Witherby lived, and look about it for a tell-tale pile of bricks.

Up to this point Larry had only made his search around the houses, or boarding-places, of those clerks who lived in New York city proper. He intended to gradually extend his field, as some of the employees lived out of town. This was the case with Witherby, whose home was in Hackenford, New Jersey.

“I’ll go out to Hackenford to-morrow,” decided Larry. “I might as well settle this thing one way or the other as soon as possible. Though I don’t understand why, if he lives in Hackenford; he took the subway downtown to New York. Though he might have stayed in the city over-night I guess there’s nothing suspicious in that.”

Early the next morning Larry went to the office of the _Leader_. He had a “tip” on a story he wanted to turn in, and he wanted to talk with Mr. Emberg, and explain where he was going.

“Well, keep right on with the case,” the city editor urged him.

“I’m afraid it’s going to fall flat,” remarked Larry. “I can’t seem to land anything. Do you think it’s worth while spending more money on it?”

“I certainly do!” was the quick reply. “We’ll get a big story out of it some day. Don’t give up, Larry! We haven’t lost confidence in you.”

“But I’m not grinding out much copy.”

“No, but you will. Go on out to Hackenford, and see what turns up.”

So Larry took a train for the New Jersey town.

He had no difficulty in locating the place where Witherby lived. It was a small boarding-house, as was evidenced by the sign telling of furnished rooms to let.

“Now to see if there are any of the million-dollar bricks around here,” said Larry softly, as, with the boarding-house as a starting point, he set out.

He went up and down many streets looking for new structures. He found several, not far from the place where Witherby lived, but at none of them had the bricks in question been used.

Finally Larry found himself in a street directly back of the one on which the boarding-house was located. And, greatly to the surprise of the young reporter, there was a new building going up in the rear of the place where Witherby lived.

“Now to see if any of the million-dollar bricks are used here,” mused Larry, as he approached the structure. “If there are, which the chances are against, it would have been an easy thing for him to have skipped over the back fence some night, gotten the bricks, and jumped back again without any one seeing him.”

As he neared the building, he looked about for a sight of the bricks in question, but saw none. Knowing from past experiences, however, that there might be bricks in the cellar, or piled on the floor in one of the rooms, he walked up the improvised steps, and entered. Carpenters and masons were busy on all sides, but they paid no attention to him. Larry strolled through to the kitchen of the house.

And there, on the floor in front of the range, was a pile of enameled bricks--the same sort that had replaced the million dollars in the valise!

“By Jove!” cried Larry. “I’ve found what I’ve been looking for! I’ve found the pile of bricks that are near a house where a bank clerk lives!”

For a moment his heart beat so fast that it seemed as if it would choke him. And then, though he realized that his clew might mean much, he knew that there was still much to be done, to clinch the robbery on Witherby.

“He may be as innocent as I am,” thought Larry. “I’ve got to go slow. It wouldn’t be fair to print a story to the effect that he lives near some of the million-dollar bricks, until I’ve gotten more proof.”

He looked out of the window of the unfinished kitchen. In full view was the rear of the house where the suspected bank clerk lived, and, as Larry gazed out, he saw a sight which startled him.

Standing at a window of one of the rear rooms of the boarding-house was a man, a man whose face Larry could see was smooth-shaven. But, even as Larry watched he saw the man fit on his lower jaw a big, black, false beard. Then he looked in the glass as if to note the effect. Larry saw the whole scene plainly.

“By Jove!” whispered the young reporter to himself. “I believe I’m on the trail at last! There is the man with the black beard, and here are the bricks that are like those in the valise! What’s my next move? The trail is getting hot!”