CHAPTER XXIII

A MIDNIGHT ERRAND

Donald Morris paced nervously back and forth, back and forth, upon the wide, ground-floor veranda of his sister's house. He could look out along the road up which Clancy had gone, hours before, with Mrs. Rutherford.

As the slow minutes dragged themselves away, his impatience mounted, but he kept himself in hand. Clancy knew his business--of that he was convinced--but what possible connection it could have with Mrs. Rutherford he was at a loss to determine.

The luncheon hour had come and gone, and it was after three o'clock when Donald, eagerly watching, saw Clancy make the turn which brought him into sight, and saw him coming at a run down the sloping road.

"What has happened, Clancy?" Donald cried, impetuously, as they came close. "Where have you been all these hours?"

Peter's face was red with hurry and excitement.

"I--I can't stop to explain," he panted. "I've only just time to make the train. I must be in New York to-night." He caught Donald's arm. "Is there a taxi I can get? The train leaves Tollenville in fifteen minutes. There's only barely time. Oh, Mr. Morris, for the love of God, don't stare at me like that. Tell me how to get a taxi. Quick!"

Peter's excitement communicated itself to Morris. He was bewildered, astonished. He longed intensely to ask the questions for which there was no time, but Peter's insistence was overpowering.

"I'll get a car for you here," he said, swiftly. "Saunders will make the train if it's a possibility. Your bag's still on the porch. Get it, while I----"

He dashed across the lawn and around the corner of the house. In a moment, Peter heard the thin buzz of a starter, followed instantly by the heavy, rhythmic hum as the engine picked up, and in a few seconds more a big car rolled around the corner of the house.

Donald Morris was standing on the running board. He dropped off as the car slowed down, and Peter, bag in hand, jumped into the seat beside the chauffeur.

"Give her gas, Saunders," cried Morris. "You haven't a minute to spare. Good-bye, Clancy! For God's sake write or wire me."

"I'll let you know! I'll let you know the minute----" Peter's voice was drowned by the roar of the engine as the car swung away.

Down the broad road and through the great park gate the big car honked and whirred. Past picturesque artists' cottages and white-painted farmhouses it fled, and then, with slightly slackened pace, it rolled between ugly ranks of mountain boarding houses, down to the busy, noisy little station, where the train stood, panting to be gone.

It was already in motion when Peter leaped upon the step, breathless, without a ticket, but thanking his lucky stars that he was in time.

The train was crowded, and Peter had to wedge himself in beside a fat, jewelled lady, who ate frequently and copiously from greasy paper packages all the way to the junction, but Peter did not even notice the discomfort, so occupied was he with his own thoughts.

They were briefly broken in upon when the conductor demanded a ticket, but after Peter had paid for one, and ascertained that he would have time to send a telegram from the junction, he relapsed again into depths of intricate speculation.

At the junction he sent a telegram to O'Malley:

Made peace with D. M. Returning to-night. May have to leave again at once. Will call up if time.

PETE.

He had considered telegraphing Morris from the same place, but had decided against it.

"I only have a hunch that I know where to look," he thought. "Better not raise hopes till I'm sure. It's a damn shame to keep him in suspense, but I don't see any other way.... No, I'll let it ride as is for the present."

The afternoon waned, the sun went down in a mass of soft clouds, and night came stealing on. The train was badly lighted, but Peter did not mind. He had no wish to read. He had plenty to occupy his mind, and it did not matter to him that the train was not due until after ten o'clock. What he had to do in town would better be done late at night.

"Just so I get there before midnight," thought Peter, glancing, absently, at his watch--"Nine-forty-five--Nine!----Why, we must be----"

He had changed cars at the junction and had been able there to get a window seat. It had become cold and damp after sunset, and he had closed the window. Now he made a shadow, with his hand, upon the glass, and looked out. He could see nothing; not a light or other sign of human habitation, and suddenly he realized that the train was running very slowly.

"I wonder what's up?" he thought, slightly troubled but not yet anxious. "Guess I'll see if I can find out."

He stepped cautiously over the feet of an elderly man who was slumbering noisily in the other half of the seat, made his way down the dull and smoky aisle, and gained the platform. Stepping down one step, he clung to the hand rail and leaned far out.

Fog. Fog everywhere, thick and gray. The lights from the coaches fell on it as on an opaque veil of floating gauze. Peter, cursing inwardly, went forward into the smoking car. Here he found men hanging out of open windows, looking down the track, and exchanging speculations. Just then the conductor came through, a lantern swinging by his side.

"What's up?" said Peter, addressing him anxiously.

"Little foggy," said the conductor, passing rapidly forward.

"Oh, he won't tell you nothing," said a man in the seat near which Peter was standing. "They're always mum as an oyster when there's any trouble. They say there's a wreck ahead."

"Oh, my God!" ejaculated Peter, in a tone which was half profanity, half prayer.

He looked again at his watch. They were due in five minutes now, but were still, obviously, far from their destination.

"The doors will be closed at twelve o'clock," thought Peter, "and if I'm too late----"

Just then the train came to a grinding stop.

Peter hurried to the door and down the steps. He paused on the bottom one and, hanging on to the hand rail, swung out so that he could see down the line.

Ahead of the engine a red lantern bobbed along beside the track, close to the ground. Still farther ahead another red light, apparently suspended in mid air, winked through the mist. He could hear raised voices in the smoking car behind him, and several men came out on the platform, talking excitedly. Minutes passed and then, to Peter's infinite satisfaction, in a breath, the light against the foggy sky changed from red to green.

"Thank God," said Peter, as, with the successive jerk of couplings, the train moved slowly ahead.

Peter regained his seat in an anxious frame of mind. He had reached a point in his intricate problem where his impatient spirit could brook no further delay. The train did not again come to a complete standstill, but its progress through the fog was agonizingly slow. Many times he looked at his watch, many times he shaded the glass of the window to peer outside. The fog had changed to heavy mist, and it became more and more difficult to form any idea as to where they were.

And then, when it seemed as if time had ceased, and that a lost train was wandering wearily through the fogs of the ages, a big arc light flashed through the window--another, and another. Lighted windows were all about. The train roared and rumbled into a cut, and Peter, with a sigh of relief, realized that he was near his journey's end.

He was the first person to alight from the train when it clanked and hissed into the station. He stood on the forward deck of the ferry boat, and impatiently watched the slowly nearing lights of the great, dim city, wherein all his hopes were centred. He was the first passenger to reach the rough block pavement of its streets, and in a moment he was whirling through them as fast as, and perhaps faster than, the traffic laws permit.

He dismissed his cab at a dark corner of Washington Square, and once more, a little before midnight, in a dripping mist, Peter crept along the south side of Waverly Place.

His soft whistle, twice repeated, brought the faithful Rawlins from the shelter of a doorway.

"Is it yourself, back again so soon, Mr. Clancy?" he asked, superfluously. "And have you come to tell me that I can go home and to bed this cheerful night, please God?"

Peter ignored the question.

"I'm in a hurry, Rawlins," he said, quickly. "Is the coast clear? I want to go up to the apartment again."

"You can chase yourself right along then," said Rawlins, promptly. "I seen the dago go out half an hour ago, and he hasn't come back yet. If you hustle----"

Peter did not wait to hear more. He slipped across through the mist and up the worn brown steps. He found the vestibule door open. The inner door was closed but not locked. He was in time.

Softly, soundlessly, he ascended the dim stairs, one flight, two flights, three. Again he inserted his duplicate key in the lock, as he had two nights before--only two nights, but what a difference there was in the feeling with which he listened to the soft click of the lock as the bolt threw back. Then it had been a forlorn hope. Now----

He closed the door softly, and went without hesitation into the living room, in the front, setting down his handbag just inside the door. Again he pulled down the shades at the three big windows, but this time there was no uncertainty in the movements which followed.

Flashlight in hand, he went quickly over to the desk and turned on the small electric lamp. Then, slipping the flash into his pocket, he immediately crossed the room and took down with care the pile of magazines which were in the corner of the top book-shelf.

He carried them over to the desk, and in the light of the candle lamp went through them, one by one. The pages passed swiftly through his fingers with a soft, fluttering noise which sounded loud in the stillness, but Peter did not hear it, so intent was he upon his odd quest.

He looked like a student, as he sat there at midnight, with bent head, poring over the pile of magazines, but he read nothing. His swift fingers turned the pages, one by one, without pause, until he came to a place where an article had been cut away. Then he stopped, drew out a little leather book from his pocket, and made an entry--the name and date of the magazine and the number of the page. He did this with each magazine in turn, working methodically down through the pile until all were finished.

"I may be a damfool," he said to himself, with a tired sigh as he rose from his cramped position, and lifting the mass of magazines, replaced them on the shelf. "If I am, I am. That's all. But it's a bet, a good bet, Pete. Even that wise old Mrs. Rutherford thought so--and we're not passing any of 'em up.... Now, let's see. There's one thing more--may not be any use, but it's better to get the whole dope now I'm on the spot. It was the _Planet_. I remember that, and the date was--no, I'm not exactly sure--the twenty-fourth, or the twenty-fifth--and I've no idea what page. Better make sure----"

Peter never knew exactly why he turned out the light in the living room then. Some habitual instinct of caution, perhaps. At any rate, he did turn it out, and guided his steps by his flashlight only as he made his way down the long, narrow hall to the storeroom.

Here he proceeded again, swiftly, unhesitatingly. He lit the gas, and dropped to his knees beside the big trunk. There was a faint jingle as he selected a key from the big bunch which he took from his pocket and inserted it in the lock, a click as the bolt was released. There was not a sound when he carefully raised the lid and folded back the garments on top, until he came to a bundle wrapped in newspaper.

This he lifted out and looked again at the wrapping. "The _Planet_, May twenty-fifth--and the page--the fourth page," he muttered. "This, probably, has nothing to do with the case. There'd be likely to be a notice of the closing of 'Dark Roads' that she'd have wanted to keep--but, anyway, now I've got the whole bag of tricks--and that's all I can do to-night, thank Heaven. Gee, but I'm tired!" He pushed his hand up through his hair, tilting his hat, which he had not removed, to an acute angle, and again he said, with feeling, "Thank Heaven, I'm through!"

Then he replaced the package and closed and locked the trunk. He had just turned the key, and was still upon his knees, when his whole body suddenly stiffened. With a spring, he was upon his feet, and with one swift, soundless motion, he had turned out the light. Then he waited, every muscle tense, listening.

In the solid darkness, far away at the other end of the hall, he heard the unmistakable sound of a key cautiously turned in a lock.