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Midnight Passenger

<h2 id="id00849" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VII.</h2> <h5 id="id00850">"THIS MAY BE MY LAST BANK DEPOSIT."</h5> There was an air of supreme content upon the usually impassive face of Arthur Ferris when he hung the receiver of the public telephone up upon its hook, at precisely fifteen minutes past three o'clock, in the office of Taylor's Hotel. The astonished girl gazed admiringly after the young lawyer, when he dropped a two-dollar bill into her hand, saying, "Never mind the change." "It's my lucky day," murmured Ferris, as he sought the telegraph office. The measured words of Accountant Somers were still ringing in his ears: "A very quiet election; no opposition to our ticket. Directors' meeting pro forma. Vice-President Selden cast majority vote for new officers. Reports endorsed. Selden, president; yourself, vice-president; Hugh Worthington, managing director. New officers published to-morrow. Too late for afternoon press. Will go and report to Mr. Wade." The first official act of Vice-President Arthur Ferris had been to order Accountant Somers to send a cheque for one month's extra salary to each of the office force, and then to add, "I shall be in Philadelphia for some days, remember; Lafayette House. Use telegraph business cipher only. I will be too busy to come to the telephone. Shall be at Cramp's yards taking a look with a view to further investments there." No flush of triumph colored Arthur Ferris' pale face as he pondered over his dispatch to Hugh Worthington. He suddenly paused, with his pencil in the air. "By God! I have it! We will soft-soap this fellow. Violence in quarrel is always a clumsy mistake. I need to keep in touch with Clayton; at least, until old Hugh gets his claws upon him. What if the fool resigns and throws all up in a huff? There is no way to lure him out West then. It would not do to have anything happen to him here. And I'll ring in the Auld Lang Syne a bit, also." He smiled artfully as he read over his two telegrams before handing them to the waiting operator. The anaemic girl was sadly disappointed in their tenor. She had scented an intrigue in the presence of the dapper young lawyer with his distinctly clubman air. "Pshaw! only business," she murmured, as she dashed her hand into the cash till for the change of a five-dollar bill. But Arthur Ferris' resolute eyes recalled her to duty, as he impatiently said, "Repeat them both back to me, at Lafayette House, Philadelphia. Take out the extra charge, and please give me a press copy of each." "I'll run over to Philadelphia, drop in at the clubs, have a good time, and then disappear via Pittsburgh 'for New York,'" he said. "It will give time for Randall Clayton to cool off. And, after all, the smooth way is the best way. I can hold him over till Hugh works him 'on the easy pulley.'" He was proud of these two telegrams, as he sat at his carefully-chosen early dinner. He read them over with a secret glee. "He is ours. No one can snatch him from our clutches. The old man can cajole him with Alice's wish that he should join the family party. That'll fetch him. Fool! that he did not make the running while she was at his side. The 'Sister' business is always a rank failure. But he has made me a millionaire for life." Arthur Ferris had no pity for the man whose life secrets he had sapped in those four long years of treason to friendship. He recalled with a secret complacence the steps which had led him, bit by bit, into Hugh Worthington's confidence, through the frank disclosures of Clayton. And so, fortified by the single-hearted man's intimate relations with the Detroit household, Arthur Ferris had taken up every thread as it slipped through Clayton's busy fingers. The knowledge that he would enjoy Randall Clayton's real patrimony; that he had stolen a charming wife from the man who was bound by an unearned gratitude to Worthington, made this hour of triumph a most delicious one. "Old Hugh needed me; he needed a man who would be a safe intermediary with Durham; one who was a Safe Deposit for both senator and millionaire. "Now I hold every trump in life, and Clayton, the dolt, has thrown away his fortune and made mine." Then the thin-lipped lawyer recalled Balzac's remark, "One, in order to succeed, must either cut one's way through life like a sword, or glide through the world quietly like a pestilence." "I'll let Hugh use the sword," he laughed, as he enjoyed his well-warmed Chamberton. "I am beyond all the storms of Fate now. "What more could I desire? On the road to a million, a charming girl wife, one whom I can mould like clay, and Durham and Worthington can easily send me to Congress." He saw the Senate chamber opening to him, through the rosy light of the wooing Burgundy. And again his eye sought the telegrams. "Not a word to alter," and he smiled as he read. "Hugh Worthington, "Palace Hotel, Tacoma:— "A quiet election. All arranged. New officers published to-morrow. Telegraph Clayton to meet you at Cheyenne for conference. Have Alice join. Suggest month's vacation. He is irritable and suspicious. Full code telegrams to you at Cheyenne. Will wait here until you have met him and disposed of his case." Ferris had added a key-word, which no one would suspect meant "Imminent danger," and signed an alias known to Hugh Worthington alone. But to Randall Clayton his Judas words of brotherly cordiality were as frank and open as the unsuspecting nature of the defrauded man demanded. The unhappy Clayton was troubled at heart as he opened this yellow paper, livid with its living lie, as he waited aimlessly at his rooms for some tidings from Emil Einstein, whose long absence had astonished him. In the lonely rooms, with his eyes fixed on Irma Gluyas' superb artist proof, Clayton gave himself easily up to Ferris' crafty subterfuge. He had already repented the violent quarrel. "This marriage may be a mere rumor," he mused. "Jack Witherspoon must make his words good when he comes." He had already half determined to frankly meet Hugh Worthington with a demand for a clearing up of the whole mystery of his youthful dependence. The telegram from Jersey City disarmed all his resentment. It was addressed: "Dear Old Boy: Forget hasty words. Am tired with travel; worn out. Remember the old friendship. Stay in our rooms. Will return in three days. You shall choose your way to arrange with Worthington. If you wish to stay on here, I'll telegraph jointly with you. Meet me at dinner Monday night, Century Club." When he had read the last words, "Answer, Lafayette House, Philadelphia," Randall Clayton went out into the early evening and listlessly dispatched the words, "All right. Will stay on as requested," and then he slowly returned to his rooms. On his return he found Emil Einstein awaiting him before his door. Clayton's beating heart told him that the unusual had happened. "Speak! What is it?" cried the half-crazed lover. And the boy then hurriedly told him of his late return to the office, after executing many errands for the absent Ferris. "There was a woman—a lady," hesitated Einstein, "trying to find your office. The elevator man told her that you had gone. She only spoke a little English, and, as I speak German, I tried to keep her"— "She dared not stay!" almost shouted Clayton. "She left word your friend is very ill, and that she cannot leave her. You cannot go there to-night, but the lady may come back to-morrow morning for you if anything happens. She was very much frightened." "And you?"—demanded Clayton, grasping the boy's arm. "Why did you not bring her here?" "She could not stay. She had waited a long time before I came back. And I told her it was a half-holiday to-morrow, the three-days' holiday coming on"— "Would you know her again?" anxiously demanded Clayton. "Certainly," murmured the sordid liar, speaking the truth for once. "Describe her," hastily ordered the excited man. And Master Emil Einstein gave a not too glowing description of the charms of his own mother. "Listen," said the half-demented Clayton. "You must watch all to-morrow morning, down below, upon the sidewalk, and around the entrance. "If that lady comes, just detain her down there, and I will join her at once. Not a word to a living soul. Swear that you'll keep this secret, and I'll make your fortune yet." "I swear on my life," said the startled boy, frightened at the ghastly pallor of Clayton's face. He hastened away, leaving the cashier disturbed at his last disclosure. "I forgot to say that she fears they may move your friend to-night, some place, God knows where: perhaps to some hospital, and then, of course, she couldn't come." Randall Clayton sank into a chair with a smothered groan. For the one haunting fear of his last three months was proving true. Here was the separation from Irma Gluyas, and on the verge of his fortune. "My God! It is terrible," he cried. He waited until the boy had scuttled away. "He must not know. One false step now would ruin all," thought Clayton. "My love for Irma once suspected, and she would be spirited off to Europe or lose her artistic future. If she were cast out, I have nothing to offer yet, nothing but castles in Spain." But the lad, hidden in a dark doorway, was greedily counting the loose bills which Clayton had hastily thrust into his hand. "Paid for not giving away my own mother's secrets," the boy laughed viciously. "The old girl is safe, but what the devil is she up to?" He decided that he would cautiously watch over Clayton, but he feared to report this last entanglement to Fritz Braun, whose gripsack and office luggage he was to remove from the pharmacy. Before Einstein had reached the pharmacy, driven on by a mad unrest, Randall Clayton threw on a loose top coat, slipped a loaded pistol in his pocket, and then, hailing the first empty carriage, dashed down to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was only by taking up his course on the evening of the storm, on foot, that the restless lover could make his way over to the corner where the pretentious newness of the "Valkyrie" building shamed the rich old mansion sheltered under its lee. At the Magdal Pharmacy, Mr. Fritz Braun suspended his last looking over his private desk, just long enough to whisper a few final directions to Emil Einstein. The boy had nothing special to report. But the crafty pharmacist well knew how to reach the softest spot of the young Hebrew's indurated heart. "See here," he said, as he drew the boy into a dark corner. "After all said and done, your mother is the only human being in the world that I trust. For Leah has always been true to me. I'm getting a bit old. I'm going to settle down after I've made this trip. If you watch my interests while I'm away, your mother may have a home for life with me, in charge of my home; and you, you young rascal, I'll push your fortune. So, a shut mouth; look out and don't babble to Lilienthal. He is a chatterer. Timmins, here, is a drunken loafer, and will burn the block up some night, but I need him a little while yet. "I may even give you this place, and set you up with a good pharmacist, if I can find a man over there. Timmins can show him the secret side of the business; then, we can throw this London cockney out, and you'll find Magdal's to be a gold mill. I shall have something else to do, my boy. Now, be off with my traps." "Take them to 192 Layte Street. Ring the front bell three times; you'll find your mother there. Give her the traps, but do not enter the house. She will tell you anything I wish to-morrow; and, so, remember I can make your fortune. Obey your mother; there's one thing about her, she has got some head and heart." The boy hastened away on his quest. Fritz Braun, left alone, stooped and picked up a little piece of paper which had fluttered down on the floor at his feet. He was careful to "leave no black plume as a token." And now there was not a vestige left of his past nefarious traffic. "Timmins can do no harm now," sneeringly laughed Fritz Braun. "For I carry these things in my head, and he must trust to some member of the craft. What blockheads these fat-witted English practitioners are." Braun's hollow laugh echoed from behind the flowing false beard, as he read over the faded prescriptions he had idly picked up. It was a powerful agent of evil—a tool of the deadly thug. "By God! I may need this old friend. How did I come to forget it? It may purchase my safety, or else give some poor devil peace and rest." "My last appearance on any stage," he muttered, as his hands were soon busied with the familiar phials around him. "I'll have a few doses of this 'Sinner's Friend' with me," he muttered. "Who knows where I may not need it. It is the only paralyzer." Seizing a three-ounce flask, he cast aside his blue goggles for a moment as he measured his ingredients. One by one he carefully added them, until the small bottle was filled with a colorless mixture. He read the innocent-looking scrawl a last time, and then burned it at a fluttering gas jet. The words seemed burned in upon his brain. His practiced glance ran over the bottles on the shelves ranged there like soldiers in their silent ranks. His eye gleamed vindictively as he murmured: "First, my old friend chloral hydrate—there you are. Now, your reliable brother, chloroform"—He shook up the growing mixture with a secret pride. "Just the right amount of muriate codine"—There was a pause, as the codine dissolved with the other ingredients. "And now," he gaily murmured, "distilled water," the last element needed to bind these together as a water of death. It is a royal secret of the rogue's pharmacy—the best garment for a flitting soul, tasteless and painless. "Warranted to fit the largest man or the smallest boy," laughed the scoundrel, replacing his goggles, as he fitted a ground-glass stopper tightly to the flask. "I am not particularly anxious to be caught with this on me. It would mean two to five years of 'voluntary assistance' to the State at Sing Sing. But one little well-regulated dose of this soothing charm, and the strongest man drops helpless at my feet." Braun slipped it in an inner pocket, and passed out, with a careless nod to the overjoyed Timmins. "Remember, Lilienthal is your only adviser. Six months from now, I'll put a new life into things here." When Braun had disappeared, Ben Timmins drained a brandy and soda to his eternal discomfiture. "'Ere's 'oping the bloomin' ship founders with the old beggar," growled the Londoner, who had noted Braun sweep away the last thirty dollars in the till. "'E might have left me a few pennies." It was ten o'clock when Randall Clayton, pacing up and down the street, nervously eying the darkened front door of 192 Layte Street, saw a lad nimbly dart up the front steps, touch a bell-push, and then vanish in a few moments, as the door closed. Ciayton could only distinguish vaguely the bundles with which the boy had been loaded down. He lingered there in agony, afraid to approach that portal. But, a half-hour later, a portly man, in a light-colored coat, with easy leisure, strolling up the steps, inserted a latch-key, and the baffled lover could only see that the hallway was dark, with one half-turned-up gas jet. Clayton cautiously explored the rear of the house, finding an alleyway suitable for unloading the bulky wares of the "Valkyrie" saloon. A broad flight of steps led down to the cellarway of the "Valkyrie," and a similar one to the basement of the old mansion. "The basement is used for business storage, evidently," mused the puzzled Clayton; but even with his brief experience of the night before, he could tell that the great rear drawing-room and library were the rooms into which he had borne the senseless form of the woman he madly loved. Through a chink of the enamelled white shutters a faint pencil of light shone out in the gloomy darkness. "Good God!" he groaned, "I would give my life to be within that room." For his heart told him that Irma Gluyas lay helpless within there, and he only wandered away at midnight, when a stray policeman suspiciously eyed him lingering in the alley. "Einstein is my only hope," he despairingly cried, as he wandered back to the bridge and sought his lonely rooms. The silky-gray dawn found him still dressed, lying on a chair, with his eyes fixed upon the picture, the first sight of which had been the beginning of his fevered dream. And then, suddenly recalling himself, he put out the flaring lights, bathed his throbbing temples, and went out to seek an early-opening coffee-shop. "I must be myself to-day," he muttered, after the drowsy waiter had forced some breakfast upon him. "For the three-days' holiday begins at noon, and I shall be free then. I must do my bank business alone, and keep Einstein on the watch." By sheer force of habit, he had opened the damp morning—paper thrust upon the swell customer. "Some young fly by night, throwing his money and his life away," mused the experienced Celtic attendant. "Give me the Tenderloin for fools. And there's a new crop every year!" Suddenly Randall Clayton started. There was the confirmation of Jack Witherspoon's prophetic warnings. The words "Important Financial Changes" met his eye, with the announcement of the "cut and dried" election of the Western Trading Company. "So, Mr. Arthur Ferris, you are the new vice-president, and Mr. Hugh Worthington the managing director." He saw how he had been duped. Throwing a few coins on the table, he sped homeward and made a careful toilet. "Jack will be here in three days, now! I will meet them and beat them at their own game. Craft for craft, and I can wait. For Irma's sake!" On his way to the office for the first time he steadied his nerve with the bar-keeper's aid. The blood bounded in his pulses under the unaccustomed stimulant. He was devil-may-care in his manner as he listlessly turned over his morning mail, thrusting his pistol back into the bank portmanteau. The sight of the familiar case recalled to him his dangerous position. "I must play my policy game softly now," he mused. "Whatever happens, I must meet Ferris smoothly; but once that Jack Witherspoon is safely out of town to the West, I'll have him face up old Hugh. It's either life with Irma, or death without her!" Mechanically carrying on his routine, he opened his mail, after exchanging a few careless words with Somers over the "new deal" in the company's management. "I shall get your bank deposits ready early," kindly said old Somers. "I'm glad to see you looking better. I go away at noon for the three-days' holiday. You can keep the bank-book, and we can get the exchange Tuesday at noon. "I will finish my trial balance papers while I'm up at Greenwich. I'm only a stray few cents out." And then Ralph Somers told Clayton of the month's gratuity. "I guess I'll go in for a gay old Fourth!" cheerfully said Clayton, who picked up a telegram just brought in by a boy. His face softened strangely as he read words which waked all the happy memories of his lonely boyhood. Here, at last, vas a message from the woman who had been the "Little Sister" of the few bright years of his shaded life. And her truthful, girlish face rose up before him again, as he read the words which touched his wavering heart. The dispatch was from Hugh Worthington at Tacoma, and the old fox had well chosen the only way to disarm Clayton's watchful suspicions. The words seemed frank enough, and Randall Clayton's fingers trembled with a certain pleasurable thrill as he read. "She still thinks of me, poor Little Sister, after all these years of estrangement. Perhaps only the greed of gold lies behind the whole thing. He seized a telegraph blank and studied over his reply. "What shall I wire to him?" the puzzled man vainly demanded. He tried to mark out the false and true between the words of father and daughter. It all seemed fair enough in a way, according to their different natures. "Tacoma, July 2, 1897. "Come at once to Cheyenne. Am leaving here to join you. Alice wishes to see you particularly before she sails for Japan. Take a month's leave. Turn your cash business over to Secretary Edson. You can go back to Pacific Coast with me after seeing our ranches. If you don't like assignment out West, you can go back to New York. Telegraph me to Cheyenne date of your arrival, and also answer Alice. Palace Hotel, Tacoma. Don't fail. Imperative." Randall Clayton was left without lights to guide. "By Heavens!" he cried. "Jack has surely been deceived as to the marriage. I must answer Hugh. I dare not leave Alice without an answer. And Jack only three days away!" After a half-hour's study he sprang from his chair. "Eureka!" he muttered. "There's Doctor Billy Atwater, the only man I know of Jack Witherspoon's college fraternity, and of my own Chapter here. I can have him meet Jack at the steamer and give him a sealed letter to follow me on to Cheyenne. I can telegraph Jack at Detroit. Arthur Ferris will be busied here." "Ringing a bell, he sent a boy up town to his stable to order a carriage to wait for him at the corner of Fourteenth Street and University Place. When I go to the bank I can drive up and be sure to catch him at his office. He may be going off for a three-days' holiday, also. I must not miss him." Then he resolutely traced his telegram accepting Hugh Worthington's offer, and penned a few lines to "Miss Alice." "What a sham our modern plutocratic life is," bitterly murmured Clayton. "Is it really Miss or Mrs.? Where does the truth lie? I'll stake my life that Alice has not deceived me!" The hoodwinked Clayton never knew of the fierce secret battle at Tacoma, in which Arthur Ferris had flatly refused to come East and make the great quiet coup de finance until Worthington had agreed to a private ceremony before his departure. "Give what reasons you wish to Alice; you can even take her over to Japan and back as Miss Worthington; but I will be made safe, or I'll not turn the cards for you." "Very good, then," growled old Worthington, to whom Senator Durham's friendship was the one factor of success. "You put Durham into our partnership; I my daughter; but she remains Alice Worthington, and does not leave my side until you have brought Durham into line on the Inter-State Commerce. Then I've got my senatorial partner, and you your wife." "Yes, and I am only sure of my life position when the marriage has taken place," placidly replied Ferris. "I care not for any publicity, but I know you will deal fairly with your daughter's husband. Then we can trust each other, for we must!" It had been even so, and Arthur Ferris left his girl wife, still a stranger to him, in the care of the father who demanded the New York deal with the senatorial ally as the price of the strangely deferred honeymoon joys. The girl bride, with a tranquil heart, awaited the return of Ferris for the Japanese voyage which was to be a married lovers' wandering in fairyland. She had taken the dross of Ferris' heart for minted gold, led on by a father's lure. Clayton's words were laconic, but his faith went with them. To the millionaire he telegraphed: "Will start for Cheyenne Monday. Must go to Bay Ridge to see Edson. Will telegraph arrival from Omaha." But to Miss Alice Worthington, Palace Hotel, Tacoma, he dispatched: "I am coming West, but only to see you, after many years. Your wish is my law. You are still my 'Little Sister,' and I am, as of old, your <h5 id="id00957">"BROTHER HUGH."</h5> These telegrams copied in his manifold book, into which he had carelessly thrust Hugh's dispatch, he picked up a letter in Arthur Ferris' well-known hand-writing. It seemed to be a few frank words following his telegram, and was dated from Jersey City. Randall Clayton's brow grew grave as he followed these seemingly candid lines: "We parted in anger, old chum and comrade. I cannot tell you all that I hear in gossip as a lawyer or as Worthington's special agent. You should try and yield to Hugh's whims. He is old, and has vast plans afoot. I can now safely explain his recent changes. I simply staid away from the annual election to prevent jealousy among our old employees. Hugh means as well by you as he does by me. He is now the master of the Trading Company. Meet him, if he sends for you, or writes you, in a yielding spirit. I tell you this because, in my absence, he has had reports of your changed life. The Fidelity Company fear that you are either speculating or gambling. They have reported your altered behavior. Now, all this can be cleared up. If you have any little private side to your life, confide in me. I can square all with Hugh. He only wished to get you out West to break off any possible entanglement. You are not in Wall Street, are you? It is a seething hell. Now, forgive, forget; meet me frankly at the Century for dinner, and I may be able to make your fortune and save your friendship. Burn this; don't answer, even by wire, as I shall be swinging around by Pittsburg. Wade is your only critic. He wants the place for his nephew, Tom. We can't blame him. Blood is thicker than water, after all; but we'll beat him at his own game. Rely on me till death." "This man is either a true friend or else the damnedest villain alive," muttered Clayton, as he tore the letter into a thousand fragments. "In two weeks I will know all. The game is made; once that Jack Witherspoon faces my quondam guardian, I will soon know whether I am to be prince or pauper." It only lacked a quarter of eleven when the silver-haired Somers called Randall Clayton into his wire-screened den, and opened the door of the high-walled private compartment with its ground-glass sides. "Here's your deposit, an unusually large one, Mr. Clayton," murmured Somers, awed by the concrete wealth lying before him. "You can run over the cheques. The money I will give you an invoice tag for a clean one hundred and fifty thousand. The cheques go nearly a hundred more. "Here's the list and tag total; they are all endorsed. "Just have the whole put on our book as cash and cheque deposit. I must be off! By the way, should you not take a man with you to-day?" "I have a carriage below," quietly said Clayton, "so I'm all right. No one will know what's in my bag. I will drive back and put the book in my own safe. It may be late when I do, as there'll be a hundred heavy depositors at the Astor to-day. No one wants to keep funds locked up three days." Sweeping the bundled bills into the portmanteau, and then locking up the great wallet of cheques, Randall Clayton absently shook hands with the fidgety old accountant, now eager for his leave. "Must catch my train. Take care of yourself," was Somers' hearty adieu, as he vanished with his ten-year-old umbrella in hand. Clayton walked across the hall, with the concealed fortune locked in the travelling bag, and then remembered his pistol thrown into his desk drawer. He had just slipped it in his pocket when Emil Einstein glided into the room. "Come down," he eagerly whispered, "She's there,—and—there's some bad news, I fear." Never waiting for the elevator, Clayton grasped his hat, hastily donning his top-coat, and snatching the bag, cried, "Lock up my desk and keep my keys till I come back. Don't leave; remember!" Everything but Irma Gluyas faded from the excited lover's mind as he saw the portly form of Madam Raffoni lingering in the darkened hallway of the ground-floor entrance. There were tears in the woman's eyes as she sobbed, "She is dying! Kommen sie schnell!" The golden daylight turned to darkness before Clayton's eyes, as he reeled and staggered. Then, a mental flash of hope allured him. "Where?" he hoarsely cried. The woman's jargon made plain that the beautiful singer still lay in the darkened rooms whither his loving arms had borne her. "The carriage, yes; my God, we must hurry!" was Clayton's first returning thought; and then, motioning to the woman to follow, the cashier darted along Fourteenth Street. He was already within the vehicle when Leah Einstein timidly entered. "To the Fulton Ferry. Hurry!" called out the excited Clayton, as the burly policeman drove away a knot of "extra"-peddling urchins. "I can easily reach the bank by two o'clock; they never shut the side doors till three," murmured Clayton, as his eyes rested upon the Russia-leather portmanteau. He instinctively gripped his revolver. It was all right. And then, with a sinking heart, he essayed to gain some connected story of the Magyar songbird's grave peril. But, the woman sobbing there was all too overcome for a connected story. There was only death in the air—there was the open grave yawning for the woman he loved, and the brightness had gone out of Randall Clayton's life forever when, with white lips, he asked himself, "Will we be in time? Irma! My God! Irma, my own darling!" He had only time to dismiss the carriage and drag Madame Raffoni on the ferry-boat when the chains barred out a score of the rushing crowd. Twenty minutes later, his heart beating a funeral knell, Randall Clayton, portmanteau in hand, passed within the portals of the old brownstone mansion. As the woman softly closed the door, which she had opened with a pass-key, she laid her finger on her lip. Then Clayton, on tip-toe, stole softly after her into the darkened chamber where a white-robed form lay motionless on the great canopied bed. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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