 
"That fellow is a rat-catcher," said Sprouse. "What are you doing here?" demanded Barnes, staring. He seized the man's arm and inquired eagerly: "Have you got the jewels?" "No; but I will have them before morning," replied Sprouse coolly. He shot a furtive glance around the deserted lobby. "Better not act as though you knew me. That bull is no fool. He doesn't know me, but by this time he knows who you are." "He is trailing Peter Ames." "Ship Peter to-morrow," advised Sprouse promptly. "I had already thought of doing so," said Barnes, surprised by the uncanny promptness of the man in hitting upon the strategy he had worked out for himself after many harassing hours. "He goes to my sister's place to-morrow morning." "Send him by train. He will be easier to follow. There is a train leaving for the south at 9:15." "You were saying that before morning you would—" "Be careful! Don't whisper. People don't whisper to utter strangers. Step over here by the front door. Would you be surprised if I were to tell you that his royal nibs is hiding in this town? Well, he certainly is. He bought a railway ticket for Albany at Hornville the day he beat it, but he got off at the second station,—which happens to be this one." "How can you be sure of all this?" "Simple as falling off a log," said Sprouse, squinting over his shoulder. "The Baroness Hedlund has been here for a week or ten days. The Baron wasn't so far wrong in his suspicions, you see. He lost track of her, that's all. I happened to overhear a conversation at Hart's Tavern between him and his secretary. I have a way of hearing things I'm not supposed to hear, you know. By a curious coincidence I happened to be taking the air late one night just outside his window at the Tavern,—on the roof of the porch, to be accurate. I told Ugo what I'd heard and he nearly broke his neck trying to head her off. O'Dowd and De Soto rushed over to Hornville and telegraphed for her to leave the train at the first convenient place and return to New York. She was on her way up here, you see. She got off at Crowndale and everybody supposed that she had taken the next train home. But she didn't do anything of the kind. She is a silly, obstinate fool and she's crazy about Ugo,—and jealous as fury. She hated to think of him being up here with other women. A day or so later she sent him a letter. No one saw that letter but Ugo, and—your humble servant. "I happened to be the one to go to Spanish Falls for the mail that day. The postmark excited my curiosity. If I told you what I did to that letter before delivering it to Mr. Loeb, you could send me to a federal prison. But that's how I came to know that she had decided to wait in Crowndale until he sent word that the coast was clear. She went to the big sanatorium outside the town and has been there ever since, incognito, taking a cure for something or other. She goes by the name of Mrs. Hasselwein. I popped down here this afternoon and found out that she is still at the sanatorium but expects to leave early to-morrow morning. Her trunks are over at the station now, to be expressed to Buffalo. I made another trip out there this evening and waited. About eight o'clock Mr. Hasselwein strolled up. He sat on the verandah with her for half an hour or so and then left. I followed him. He went to one of the little cottages that belong to the sanatorium. I couldn't get close enough to hear what they said, but I believe he expects to take her away in an automobile early in the morning. It is a seventy mile ride from here to the junction where they catch the train for the west. I'm going up now to make a call on Mr. Hasselwein. Would you like to join me?" Barnes eyed him narrowly. "There is only one reason why I feel that I ought to accompany you," he said. "If you have it in your mind to kill him, I certainly shall do everything in my power to prevent—" "Possess your soul in peace. I'm not going to do anything foolish. Time enough left for that sort of thing. I will get him some day, but not now. By the way, what is the number of your room?" "Twenty-two,—on the next floor." "Good. Go upstairs now and I'll join you in about ten minutes. I will tap three times on your door." "Why should you come to my room, Sprouse? We can say all that is to be said—" "If you will look on the register you will discover that Mr. J. H. Prosser registered here about half an hour ago. He is in room 30. He left a call for five o'clock. Well, Prosser is another name for Ugo." "Here in this hotel? In room 30?" cried Barnes, incredulously. "Sure as you're alive. Left the cottage an hour ago. Came in a jitney or I could have got to him on the way over." Barnes, regardless of consequences, dashed over to inspect the register. Sprouse followed leisurely, shooting anxious glances up the stairs at the end of the lobby. "See!" cried Barnes, excitedly, putting his finger on the name "Miss Jones." "She's in room 32,—next to his. By gad, Sprouse, do you suppose he knows that she is here? Would the dog undertake anything—" "You may be sure he doesn't know she's here, or you either, for that matter. The country's full of Joneses and Barneses. Go on upstairs. Leave everything to me." He strolled away as the clerk came shuffling down the steps. As Barnes mounted them, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Sprouse take up a suitcase near the door and return to the desk, evidently for the purpose of engaging a room for the night. Before going to his room, he strode lightly down the hall in the direction of room 30. There was no light in the transom. Stepping close to the door, he listened intently for sounds from within. He started back almost instantly. The occupant was snoring with extreme heartiness. A glance revealed a light in the transom of room 32. As he looked, however, it disappeared. Abashed, he turned and went swiftly away. She was going to bed. He felt like a snooping, despicable "peeping Tom" caught in the act. He had been in his room for twenty minutes before he heard the tapping on his door. He opened it and Sprouse slid into the room. The instant the door closed behind him, he threw open his coat and coolly produced a long, shallow metal box, such as one finds in safety vaults. "With my compliments," he said drily, thrusting the box into Barnes's hands. "You'd better have the Countess check them up and see if they're all there. I am not well enough acquainted with the collection to be positive." Barnes was speechless. He could only stare, open-mouthed, at this amazing man. "Grip 'em tight," went on Sprouse, grinning. "I may relieve you of them if you get too careless. My advice to you is to hide them and keep your lips closed—" "My God, Sprouse, have you been in that man's room since I saw you down—" "I forgot to say that no questions were to be asked," broke in the other. "But I insist upon having everything cleared up. Here am I with a box of jewels stolen from a lodger's room, God knows how, and in danger of being slapped into jail if they catch me with the—" "All you have to do is to keep quiet and look innocent. Stay out of the hall to-night. Don't go near the door of No. 30. Act like a man with brains. I said I would square myself with you and with him, too. Well, I've done both. Maybe you think it is easy to give up this stuff. There is a half million dollars' worth of nice little things in that box, small as it is. I went to a lot of trouble to get 'em, and all I'll receive for my pains is a thank you from Mr. Thomas K. Barnes, New York." "I cannot begin to thank you enough," said Barnes. "See here, you must allow me to reward you in some way commensurate with your—" "Cut that out," said Sprouse darkly. "I'm not so damned virtuous that I have to be rewarded. I like the game. It's the breath of life to me." "The time will surely come when I can do you a good turn, Sprouse, and you will not find me reluctant," said Barnes, lamely. He was completely at a loss in the presence of the master-crook. He felt very small, and stupid, and inadequate,—as one always feels when confronted by genius. Moreover, he was utterly stupefied. "That's different. If I ever need a friendly hand I'll call on you. It's only fair that I should give you a tip, Barnes, just to put you on your guard. I've lived up to my word in this business, and I've done all that I said I would. From now on, I'm a free agent. I want to advise you to put that stuff in a safe place. I'll give you two days' start. After that, if I can get 'em away from you, or whoever may have them, I'm going to do it. They will be fair plunder from then on. Notwithstanding the fact that I put them in your hands to-night,—and so wash my own of them temporarily,—I haven't a single scruple about relieving you of them on some later occasion. I may have to crack you over the head to do it,—so a word to the wise ought to be sufficient. If you don't guard them pretty closely, my friend, you will regain consciousness some day and find you haven't got them any longer. Good night—and good-bye for the present. Stick close to your room till morning and—then beat it with her for New York. I give you two days' start, remember." He switched off the light suddenly. Barnes gasped and prepared to defend himself. Sprouse chuckled. "Don't be nervous. I'm merely getting ready to leave you with your ill-gotten gains. It isn't wise, you see, to peep out of a door with a light in the room behind you. Keep cool. I sha'n't be more than a minute." There was no sound for many seconds, save the deep breathing of the two men. Then, with infinite caution, Sprouse turned the knob and opened the door a half inch or so. He left the room so abruptly that Barnes never quite got over the weird impression that he squeezed through that slender crack, and pulled it after him! Many minutes passed before he turned on the light. The key of the box was tied to the wire grip. With trembling fingers he inserted it in the lock and opened the lid.... "A half-million dollars' worth of nice little things," Sprouse had said! He did not close his eyes that night. Daybreak found him lying in bed, with the box under his pillow, a pistol at hand, and his eyes wide-open. He was in a graver quandary than ever. Now that he had the treasure in his possession, what was he to do with it? He did not dare to leave it in the room, nor was it advisable to carry it about with him. The discovery of the burglary in room 30 would result in a search of the house, from top to bottom. Cold perspiration started out on his brow. The situation was far from being the happy one that he had anticipated. He solved the breakfast problem by calling downstairs for a waiter and ordering coffee and rolls and eggs sent up to his room. Singularly enough the waiter solved the other and more disturbing problem for him. "SOME robbery last night," said that worthy, as he re-appeared with the tray. Barnes was thankful that the waiter was not looking at him when he hurled the bomb, figuratively speaking. He had a moment's time to recover. "What robbery?" he enquired, feigning indifference. "Feller up in one of the cottages at the sanatorium. All beat up, something fierce they say." "Up in—Where?" almost shouted Barnes, starting up. The man explained where the cottages were situated, Barnes listening as one completely bereft of intelligence. "Seems he was to leave by auto early this mornin', and they didn't know anything was wrong till Joe Keep—he's driving a Fierce-Arrow that Mr. Norton has for rent—till Joe'd been settin' out in front for nearly half an hour. The man's wife was waitin' fer him up at the main buildin' and she got so tired waitin' that she sent one of the clerks down to see what was keeping her husband. Well, sir, him and Joe couldn't wake the feller, so they climb in an open winder, an' by gosh, Joe says it was terrible. The feller was layin' on the bed, feet an' hands tied and gagged, and blood from head to foot. He was inconscious, Joe says, an'—my God, how his wife took on! Joe says he couldn't stand it, so he snook out, shakin' like a leaf. He says she's a pippin, too. Never seen a purtier—" "Is—is the man dead?" cried Barnes, aghast. He felt that his face was as white as chalk. "Nope! Seems like it's nothing serious: just beat up, that's all. Terrible cuts on his head and—" "What is his name?" demanded Barnes. "Something like Hackensack." "Have they caught the thief?" "I should say not. The police never ketch anything but drunks in this burg, and they wouldn't ketch them if they could keep from stumblin'." "What time did all this happen?" Barnes was having great difficulty in keeping his coffee from splashing over. "Doc Smith figgers it was long about midnight, judgin' by the way the blood co'gulated." "Did they get away with much?" "Haven't heard. Joe says the stove pipe in the feller's room was knocked down and they's soot all over everything. Looks like they must have been a struggle. Seems as though the burglar,—must ha' been more'n one of 'em, I say,—wasn't satisfied with cracking him over the head. He stuck the point of a knife or something into him,—just a little way, Joe says—in more'n a dozen places. What say?" "I—I didn't say anything." "I thought you did. Well, if I hear anything more I'll let you know." "Anything for a little excitement," said Barnes casually. He listened at the door until he heard the waiter clattering down the stairway, and then went swiftly down the hall to No. 30. Mr. Prosser was sleeping just as soundly and as resoundingly as at midnight! "By gad!" he muttered, half aloud. Everything was as clear as day to him now. Bolting into his own room, he closed the door and stood stock-still for many minutes, trying to picture the scene in the cottage. No stretch of the imagination was required to establish the facts. Sprouse had come to him during the night with Prince Ugo's blood on the hands that bore the treasure. He had surprised and overpowered the pseudo Mr. Hasselwein, and had actually tortured him into revealing the hiding place of the jewels. The significance of the scattered stove pipe was not lost on Barnes; it had not been knocked down in a struggle between the two men. Prince Ugo was not, and never had been, in a position to defend himself against his wily assailant. Barnes's blood ran cold as he went over in his mind the pitiless method employed by Sprouse in subduing his royal victim. And the coolness, the unspeakable bravado of the man in coming direct to him with the booty! His amazingly clever subterfuge in allowing Barnes to think that room No. 30 was the scene of his operations, thereby forcing him to remain inactive through fear of consequences to himself and the Countess if he undertook to investigate! He found a letter in his box when he went downstairs, after stuffing the tin box deep into his pack,—a risky thing to do he realised, but no longer perilous in the light of developments. It was no longer probable that his effects would be subjected to inspection by the police. He walked over to a window to read the letter. Before he slit the envelope he knew that Sprouse was the writer. The message was brief. "After due consideration, I feel that it would be a mistake for you to abandon your present duties at this time. It might be misunderstood. Stick to the company until something better turns up. With this thought in view I withdraw the two days' limit mentioned recently to you, and extend the time to one week. Yours very truly, J. H. Wilson." "Gad, the fellow thinks of everything," said Barnes to himself. "He is positively uncanny." He read between the lines, and saw there a distinct warning. It had not occurred to him that his plan to leave for New York that day with Miss Cameron might be attended by disastrous results. On reflection, he found the prospect far from disagreeable. A week or so with the Rushcroft company was rather attractive under the circumstances. The idea appealed to him. But the jewels? What of them? He could not go gallivanting about the country with a half million dollars' worth of precious stones in his possession. A king's ransom strapped on his back! He would not be able to sleep a wink. Indeed, he could see himself wasting away to a mere shadow through worry and dread. Precious stones? They would develop into millstones, he thought, with an inward groan. He questioned the advisability of informing Miss Cameron that the crown jewels were in his possession. Her anxiety would be far greater than his own. There was nothing to be gained by telling her in any case; so he decided to bear the burden alone. The play was not to open in Crowndale until Tuesday night, three full days off. He revelled in the thought of sitting "out front" in the empty little theatre, watching the rehearsals. At such times he was confident that his thoughts would not be solely of the jewels. He would at least have surcease during these periods of forgetfulness. He spent the early part of the forenoon in wandering nervously about the hotel,—upstairs and down. The jewels were locked in his pack upstairs. He went up to his room half a dozen times and almost instantly walked down again, after satisfying himself that the pack had not been rifled. Exasperation filled his soul. Ten o'clock came and still no sign of the lazy actors. Rehearsal at eleven, and not one of them out of bed. Peter came to the hotel soon after ten. He had forgotten Peter and his decision to send him down to the Berkshires that day, and was sharply reminded of the necessity for doing so by the appearance of the man who had registered just before midnight. This individual strolled casually into the lobby a few seconds behind Peter. He acted at once and with decision. The stranger took a seat in the window not far away. Barnes, in a brisk and business-like tone, informed Peter that he was to leave on the one o'clock train for the south, and to go direct to his sister's place near Stockbridge. He was to leave the automobile in Crowndale for the present. "Here is the money for your railroad fare," he announced in conclusion. "I have telegraphed Mrs. Courtney's man that you will arrive this evening. He will start you in on your duties to-morrow. I understand they are short-handed on the place. And now let me impress upon you, Peter, the importance of holding yourself ready to report when needed. You know what I mean. Remember, I have guaranteed that you will appear." The stranger drank in every word that passed between the two men. When the one o'clock train pulled out of Crowndale, it carried Peter Ames in one of the forward coaches, and a late guest of the Grand Palace Hotel in the next car behind. Barnes took the time to assure himself of these facts, and smiled faintly as he drove away from the railway station after the departure of the train. Miss Cameron, her veil lowered, sat beside him in the "hack." For the next three days and nights rehearsals were in full swing, with scarcely a moment's let-up. The Rushcroft company was increased by the arrival of three new members and several pieces of baggage. The dingy barn of a theatre was the scene of ceaseless industry, both peaceful and otherwise. The actors quarrelled and fumed and all but fought over their grievances. Only the presence of the "backer" and the extremely pretty and cultured "friend of the family" in "front" prevented sanguinary encounters among the male contenders for the centre of the stage. The usually placid Mr. Dillingford was transformed into a snarling beast every time one of his "lines" was cut out by the relentless Rushcroft, and there were times when Mr. Bacon loudly accused his fiancee of "crabbing" his part. Everybody called everybody else a "hog," and God was asked a hundred times a day to bear witness to as many atrocities. Each day the bewildered, distressed young woman who sat with Barnes in the dim "parquet," whispered in his ear: "Can they ever be friendly again?" And every night at supper she rejoiced to find them all on the best of terms, calling each other "dearie," and "old chap," and "honey," and declaring that no such company had ever been gotten together in the history of the stage! Such words as "slob," "fat-head," "boob" or "you poor nut" never found their way outside the sacred precincts of the theatre. Mr. Rushcroft magnanimously offered to coach "Miss Jones" in the part he was going to write in for her just as soon as he could get around to it. "No use writing a part for her, Mr. Barnes, until I get through beating the parts we already have into the heads of these poor fools up here. I've got trouble enough on my hands." And so the time crept by, up to the night of the performance. Miss Cameron remained in ignorance of the close proximity of the jewels, and the police of Crowndale remained in even denser ignorance as to the whereabouts of the man who robbed Mr. Hasselwein of all his spare cash and an excellent gold watch. Hasselwein's story was brief but dramatic. He was recovering rapidly from his experience and the local newspaper, on Tuesday, announced that he would be strong enough to accompany his wife when she left the "city" toward the end of the week. (Considerable space was employed by the reporter in "writing up" the wonderful devotion of Mrs. Hasselwein, who, despite the fact that she was quite an invalid, conducted herself with rare fortitude, seldom leaving her husband's room in the hospital.) According to the injured man, his assailant was a huge, powerful individual, wearing a mask and armed to the teeth. He came in through an open window and attacked him while he was asleep in bed. Notwithstanding the stunning blow he received while prostrate, Mr. Hasselwein struggled to his feet and engaged the miscreant—(while the word was used at least twenty times in the newspaper account, I promise to use it but once)—in a desperate conflict. Loss of blood weakened him and he soon fell exhausted upon the bed. To make the story even shorter than Prince Ugo made it, not a word was said about the jewels, and that, after all, is the only feature of the case in which we are interested. Barnes smiled grimly over Ugo's failure to mention the jewels, and the misleading description of the thief. He was thankful, however, and relieved to learn that the one man who might recognise Miss Cameron was not likely to leave the hospital short of a week's time. No time was lost by the Countess in getting word to her compatriots in New York. Barnes posted a dozen letters for her; each contained the tidings of her safety and the assurance that she would soon follow in person. Those three days and nights were full of joy and enchantment for Barnes. True, he did not sleep very well,—indeed, scarcely at all,—but it certainly was not a hardship to lie awake and think of her throughout the whole of each blessed night. He recalled and secretly dilated upon every sign of decreasing reserve on her part. He shamed himself more than once for deploring the fact that her ankle was mending with uncommon rapidity, and that in a few days she would be quite able to walk without support. And he actually debased himself by wishing that the Rushcroft company might find it imperative to go on rehearsing for weeks in that dim, enchanted temple. It was not a "barn of a place" to him. It was paradise. He sat for hours in one of the most uncomfortable seats he had ever known, devouring with hungry eyes the shadowy, interested face so close to his own,—and never tired. And then came a time at last when conversation became difficult between them; when there were long silences fraught with sweet peril, exceeding shyness, and a singular form of deafness that defied even the roars of the players and yet permitted them to hear, with amazing clearness, the faintest of heart-beats. On the afternoon of the dress rehearsal, he led her, after an hour of almost insupportable repression, to the rear of the auditorium, in the region made gloomy by the shelving gallery overhead. Dropping into the seat beside her, he blurted out, almost in anguish: "I can't stand it any longer. I cannot be near you without—why, I—I—well, it is more than I can struggle against, that's all. You've either got to send me away altogether or—or—let me love you without restraint. I tell you, I can't go on as I am now. I must speak, I must tell you all that has been in my heart for days. I love you—I love you! You know I love you, don't you? You know I worship you. Don't be frightened. I just had to tell you to-day. I could not have held it back another hour. I should have gone mad if I had tried to keep it up any longer." He waited breathlessly for her to speak. She sat silent and rigid, looking straight before her. "Is it hopeless?" he went on at last, huskily. "Must I ask your forgiveness for my presumption and—and go away from you?" She turned to him and laid her hand upon his arm. "Am I not like other women? Have you forgotten that you once said that I was not different? Why should I forgive you for loving me? Doesn't every woman want to be loved? No, no, my friend! Wait! A moment ago I was so weak and trembly that I thought I—Oh, I was afraid for myself. Now I am quite calm and sensible. See how well I have myself in hand? I do not tremble, I am strong. We may now discuss ourselves calmly, sensibly. A moment ago—Ah, then it was different! I was being drawn into—Oh! What are you doing?" "I too am strong," he whispered. "I am sure of my ground now, and I am not afraid." He had clasped the hand that rested on his sleeve and, as he pressed it to his heart, his other arm stole over her shoulders and drew her close to his triumphant body. For an instant she resisted, and then relaxed into complete submission. Her head sank upon his shoulder. "Oh!" she sighed, and there was wonder, joy—even perplexity, in the tremulous sign of capitulation. "Oh," came softly from her parted lips again at the end of the first long, passionate kiss.
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