  “Is that a threat?” Elsie turned on Whiting, with sudden rage. “Not unless you choose to take it so.” But the man’s steely grey eyes were commanding rather than imploring, and his thin lips were set in a straight line that bespoke determination. “Don’t make me threaten you, Elsie,—why should it be necessary? I love you and I want you,—but more than that I want your promise to marry me at once to save yourself from persecution and trouble. You were trapped here, you say,—you just referred to some villains who have, I must infer, already annoyed you. Why haven’t you told me of it?” “Why should I? I can’t marry you, Fenn, after all. I know I said I would,—and you know what I said I’d do right afterward. But I can’t do that. Perhaps I’m too much of a coward, to take my own life,—perhaps it would be a cowardly thing to do, anyway. But, I can’t marry you—” “You must, Elsie, you promised me—” “Such promises have been broken before this! A consent to marry is not a marriage contract! Sue me for breach of promise, if you choose,—I refuse to marry you!” Her voice rose at the last to an almost hysterical shriek. She was both nervous and frightened. The knowledge that she had been abducted,—for that was what it seemed to be,—scared her, and though grateful for Whiting’s rescue and his presence, yet she felt a strange fear of him, too. “Let me go,” she said, at last, starting toward the door. “No,” and Fenn strode across the room, locked the door and pocketed the key. “No, you shall not go until I have your promise,—and an unbreakable one this time. In fact, Elsie, I want you to marry me right now and here. I’ll arrange all details,—I have arranged most of them. Just consent, dearest, and then you’ll be mine to love and care for and to protect from those villains you speak of.” “Fenn, are you crazy?” “No, I’m not, but you’ll be, if you keep up this nervous tension you’re living under. Be guided by me, Elsie, darling; marry me out of hand, and we’ll go away to some beautiful, quiet spot, and all care shall be lifted from your dear shoulders.” Elsie looked at him curiously. “Suppose I agree to marry you the day after my birthday,” she said; “will that do?” “Do perfectly, as far as the loss of your fortune is concerned. I’ve told you before I’m no fortune hunter. You must believe it by now. I’d rather marry you at once, for your sake, and for my own. But not for the sake of the inheritance. So, promise me sacredly to marry me the day after your birthday, and I’ll take you home now.” “Oh, no, Fenn, don’t you see, if I marry you, it must be before the thirtieth, to get the money for Mother and Gerty. They’d never forgive me otherwise. And, too, why should I wait? I’d like the money all right,—if only I didn’t have to marry to get it. What an awful will! And yet, it all seemed so lovely when I had Kimball with me!” “It will seem just as lovely when I’m with you. Let me try, dear; give me a chance to make good! I’m not over conceited, but I’m sure I can make you happy. If you choose to marry me in time to get the money, we can do wonderful things! Take wonderful trips, see beautiful places,—but beautiful to me, only because you are with me!” There was a deep thrill in his tones that moved Elsie by its genuine passion and devotion. She looked into his grey eyes,—their steely glint softened now, and read there a great unconquerable love for herself. Should she cast this aside for a chance, an uncertainty? She must get the money for her people,—she had decided on that,—and she felt it her duty to sacrifice herself for them. But, when she tried to say yes to Whiting’s pleas, the word would not come. “I can’t! Oh, Fenn, I can’t!” she moaned. “I love Kimball,—oh, I love him desperately! I can never marry any one else,—I can’t—I can’t do it!” “Hush, Elsie, don’t sob so. Listen, dear; the time for that sort of thing is past. There are only seven days now to your birthday; you can’t wait till the last minute to decide. And if Webb had been coming back he would have been here before this. He will never come back,—I’m sure of it!” “You can’t be sure of it, Fenn; but will you arrange it this way,—you said you would, once. Let the wedding take place the day before my birthday, and if Kim comes home, let him be the bridegroom, and if not, I’ll marry you.” “No! I’ll not do that! You’ve played fast and loose with me long enough! I’ve stood for it because I love you so, and I want you so. But I won’t be that sort of a cat’s-paw! You’ll say right now you’ll marry me, or I’ll drop out of it all, and you can marry anybody you choose to get your precious legacy!” Whiting’s face was distorted by passion and by rage at the idea of being baffled at the last. “I do not think for a minute that Webb would show up, but if he did, I’d not stand having my bride snatched from me at the very altar! No!” “Then, you may drop out!” Elsie’s determination was as great as his own. “I refuse to promise. I’d rather marry Joe Allison, at the last minute, and so keep a chance for Kim, than to promise you, and have no chance at all!” “Allison! You would, would you? We’ll see about that!” Whiting quite lost control of himself and flew into a veritable frenzy. “You’ll marry me now, and here,—get that?” Elsie was horror-stricken. Fenn’s teeth were set together and his expression was that of a hungry, wild animal. She wasn’t afraid that he could force her to marry him, but she was afraid of what he might say or do if he were further defied. “Fenn,” she said, gently, “Fenn, dear—” “Don’t ‘Fenn, dear’ me unless you mean it! Don’t think you can placate me by soft words that mean nothing! Will you marry me, now?” “I will not,” Elsie’s hauteur was the last straw. “Then, you’ll stay here until you will!” Whiting flung himself into a chair, and looked at her as if he held the whip-hand. “What do you mean?” Elsie said, icily. “These are my rooms. You are locked in here with me, alone. How long must you stay here before you decide it’s wiser to be my wife than—” The look the girl gave him made him quail. “Elsie,” he said, more gently. “Hush! Don’t dare to speak to me again. Let me out!” She flew to the door, but it was locked, the key in Whiting’s pocket, or the spring catch holding it, she didn’t know which. She pounded on the door, with her soft hands, but made little commotion that way. “Useless, my dear,” Whiting said, calmly. “These rooms are on a wing containing but few guests. Nobody will hear you. Pound away, if you like.” This wasn’t true; as a matter of fact, Whiting was very much afraid somebody would hear her, but he deemed this the best way to stop her,—and it was. Elsie believed him and quit pounding. Nor did she scream. An idea had come to her. Whiting had said rooms. Therefore there was more to the suite than the one they were in. Covertly she glanced at the doors, and decided that while one rather narrow one was doubtless a closet, the wide one, the other side of the room, probably opened into an adjoining room, which was likely to give on the hall. At any rate, it was worth trying. Cleverly, she seemed not to be noticing these details, but sat, her handkerchief to her eyes, apparently subdued and dismayed. And, in fact she was both, but not to the point of surrender, as she appeared to Whiting’s anxious watchfulness. Cautiously looking about, with seemingly a vacant stare, she saw many little personal belongings, that convinced her the room was Whiting’s sitting room. Doubtless the next was his bedroom. All the same, she determined to dash through it in an attempt at freedom. If she were quick, and the other hall door not locked, she could get to the hall,—while if she were trapped in the other room, her plight would be no worse than it was at present. She rose and walked disconsolately about,—looked from the windows, stared, unseeing, at a picture on the wall,—and generally appeared to be aimlessly wandering, while she thought matters over. Whiting watched her, but so cannily did Elsie mislead his thoughts, that he didn’t notice she drew nearer and nearer the bedroom door. At last, she was almost against it, her eyes fastened on a small clock which stood on a table at the opposite side of the room. “What time is it?” she said, dully, as if her decision depended on the flight of the hours. The ruse succeeded. He followed the direction of her straining eyes, and looked at the little clock instead of taking out his own watch. Like a flash, Elsie tore open the door, found that it opened into a bedroom, with a hall door, and crossing the room in the fewest possible steps, wrenched open the hall door. It was not locked, and she flew through it and down the corridor toward the elevators, of which there were two side by side. Elsie pushed the bell so violently, that the car came up immediately and she sprang into it, just as Whiting came racing down the hall after her. He rang, a long steady ring, and though Elsie’s prayers persuaded the girl in the car with her not to go up again, the other car shot past them flying upward. And now Elsie achieved a master-stroke. Thinking swiftly, she knew Whiting would make the other car drop without a stop, and would await her on the ground floor. Determined to outwit him, she ordered the girl to stop between floors and change gowns with her. Willing enough, when Elsie offered her all the money in her bag, and also told her she would be aiding a crime if she refused, the little elevator girl slipped out of her uniform, Elsie dropped off her own gown and in two minutes they were transformed, even the cap of the girl in place of Elsie’s pretty hat, and the hat on the other’s head. A little bewildered the girl then ran her car on down, without stop. At the ground floor, acting at Elsie’s orders, the other girl stepped from the car in a furtive, hunted manner, and ran swiftly down a long cross hall,—Whiting, full tilt after her. Elsie, meanwhile, stepped briskly out the front door, sprang into a taxicab and was whirled away. Elsie’s spirits rose. She had outwitted Fenn Whiting, and she had escaped from a situation more dangerous than that of the deserted taxicab of a few days before. She went straight back to the hotel where she and the nurse had been staying. Here the desk clerk told her that the nurse had packed up everything and had returned to New York. Elsie was amazed. She trusted the nurse absolutely, but she now began to fear her sincerity. To the poor girl it seemed as if there were nobody in whom she could place confidence. And there was the ever dreadful question of the fortune. Had it not been for her insistent family, she would have given up all thought of the money and would have run away to hide by herself until her birthday had passed. But, she argued, this was not the way to feel. For she must be at home, in case Kimball should somehow miraculously appear. Unable to fathom the meaning of the nurse’s departure, though since she had taken all their luggage, Elsie couldn’t think she was honest, she concluded to go right back to New York herself. She couldn’t hope to escape Fenn Whiting’s presence much longer, for having learned the trick played on him, he would of course come at once to The Turrets. Moreover, Elsie was attracting curious looks, and even disapproving ones by reason of her standing about in the hall, dressed in the uniform of an elevator girl! She wondered what the poor girl was doing, who now wore her clothes. Perhaps she would lose her position! Elsie determined to look after her as soon as she could secure and count on her own safety. And now a new dilemma presented itself. She had no money! All she had carried with her, in her handbag, she had given to the girl in the elevator, thinking she would go back to the hotel where she had her check book. But that was gone with her trunks. Even the unpaid cabman was already clamouring for his fare! “Why did Miss Loring say she left?” she asked the clerk. “She said you had sent her word you had already gone home, and she was to follow at once,” he returned, glancing at her severely. “She packed quickly and caught the first train she could get.” “She paid the bill?” “Yes, in full to the time of her leaving.” “I will ask you then, to pay this cabman, and let me have money enough to get to New York. I will send you a check from there.” But the desk clerk didn’t seem to care for this plan at all. He paid the cabman, who was becoming a nuisance, but he declined to advance money to such an erratic person as the lady before him seemed to be. She had made no explanation of her strange garb, and his manner had so roused her indignation that she kept her own counsel. But she was at her wits’ end. It was after four in the afternoon and a hotel who wouldn’t lend a few dollars, would doubtless object to her re-registering there, with no money, and in most eccentric costume. As she thought it over a man approached and asked if he might be of assistance. It was the man of the gold-filled teeth! Any fear of him she might have felt vanished in a strange sense of seeing an old friend! For so helpless and friendless was the poor child that even this man, presumably one of the “villains,” seemed a godsend! And he was polite and deferential. “Well,” she said, her poise returning, “all things considered, I think I am privileged to ask you for the loan of a few dollars.” “I’ll do better than that,” he said, with a really cordial smile, “I’ll escort you back to New York. I’m going myself, on the four-forty-five. And you need have no fear,” he said, coming nearer. “I’ve no reason to wish you any harm. I’ll deliver you safe and sound at your own home on Park Avenue.” There was something about him that inspired confidence. And Elsie was tired, faint and exhausted. She thought this plan offered her, however it might turn out, a lesser evil than to stay alone at The Turrets, even if this new friend gave her money, for there she was still in the vicinity of Fenn Whiting. Indeed, he was liable to appear at any minute. She made up her mind, quickly. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “Will you lend me enough money to buy some sort of a large cloak or cape, and a hat?” “Yes,” he said, and he looked at her uniform with the queerest glance. But it was not to be wondered at, doubtless he was striving to keep from bursting into laughter. The cocky little cap, above Elsie’s lovely troubled face was a picture! So, the strangely assorted pair took a cab, stopped at a goods emporium and Elsie procured a decent hat and a large full cape, and then they reached the station just in time to take the desired train. In the car he left her to herself, and went away to the smoker. He was most deferential, most polite. “And why shouldn’t he be?” Elsie asked herself. “I’ve paid him,—or his gang fifty thousand dollars,—surely they owe me something! I’ve a mind to ask him something about Kim,—he seems so nice.” But thoughts of Coley Coe kept her silent on any save the most casual subjects. She felt, during the ride to New York, as if she ought to plan some way of trailing the gold-toothed man after he left her. But how could she do it? Vague thoughts of telegraphing from the moving train,—of having policemen meet her at the station,—all sorts of plans went through her mind, but none were practicable. So she determined to talk more with the man and find out anything she might, that way, and then do the best she could to get Coe quickly, as soon as she was safely at home. For she dreaded any further abduction or trapping,—and she longed only to be at home once more and safe from impending danger. As they neared the big station the gold-tooth man returned. “Sure,” he replied to her request, “I’ll tell you my name. It’s Pike. Richard Pike. And now, miss, you’re bound for home?” “Yes, as soon as I can get there. Please leave me at the platform, I can get a taxi myself.” “Desert you at the last post? No indeed, ma’am. Don’t be afraid,—I’m not going to carry you off!” He laughed good-naturedly, and again Elsie’s fears were drowned in a sense of his honest intention to treat her with courtesy. So they walked to the taxicab, and after she got into one he followed. So amazed was she at this, that she made a protest. “Oh, it’s right on my way,” he said, “so why pay two fares?” The ride was not long, but when the cab stopped, it was not at Elsie’s home. It was at a house, a fine-looking brownstone house, that had the appearance of being closed for the summer. The windows were boarded up, the front door likewise, and all was silent and still. “Where’s this?” Elsie asked, refusing to get out. “Hush!” and Pike put his finger to his lip. “The taxi driver is a bad one! Get out, miss, quick!” Scared at his serious tone, and secret manner, Elsie got out, through sheer force of the other’s will, and in a moment the fare was paid and the cab had disappeared down the street. “Now, miss,” and the hitherto kind voice had a hard note in it, “you’ll stop in here for a minute on your way home. Don’t refuse, now, it wouldn’t be healthy!” The cold little ring of an automatic pressed against Elsie’s temple, and with a glance at Pike’s face, she knew in an instant she was trapped again! Almost without volition, for this new terror seemed to deprive her of her senses, Elsie stumbled along, through the gate the man opened, and which led to the area entrance. Through the basement door, they entered the house, and in the doorway, Elsie was met by a woman, a decent, middle-aged body, who took the fainting girl to her breast. “There now,” she said, in the kindest tones, “there now, miss, brace up. It’s faint you are, dearie. Sit there, now, and let me fix you up.” She bustled about and gave Elsie a glass of warm milk, then taking off her shoes and her wraps, she laid her down on a wide couch in the front one of the basement rooms. “Sakes alive! what’s she got on a uniform for?” “I don’t know,” Pike returned, but he winked at the woman to make her refrain from further queries. Elsie was exhausted, but not to the point of going to sleep. After a second glass of milk and some bread and fruit, she was quite herself again, and, buoyed up by excitement and anger was ready for combat. “What does it all mean?” she asked the woman, thinking it wiser not to show her indignation at first. “Don’t ask me, miss, I don’t know,” the woman returned. “That’s right, miss,” Pike broke in; “my wife don’t know anything about it all,—and neither do I. We’re paid tools,—that’s all we are. Now, there’s the matter in a nutshell. We’re paid to look after you good and proper. We’ll do it, too, and if you let us, we’ll be kind and gentle with you. But if you force us to it, we may have to use stronger means. I’d be sorry to lay a hand on you, miss, and I hope to goodness you won’t make it necessary,—but I’ll say straight out, you’ve got to obey our orders.” “I’ve no objection, so long as you’re merely taking care of me, as you say,” Elsie returned, coolly. She felt a conviction that her best plan with these people was to placate them all in all possible ways. It could do no good to combat them, and might do great harm. “Who pays you?” she asked, so casually, she hoped for an answer. “We’re forbidden to tell,” Pike said, simply. “And, you must see, miss, questions will not get you anywhere, for we’re paid to keep our mouths shut, so it stands to reason we’re going to do it.” “Of course,” Elsie agreed. “But suppose I pay you better, far better than your present paymaster?” The woman looked up quickly, her small black eyes shining with cupidity, but Pike said in a voice that rang with truth: “I wouldn’t dare, miss. I wouldn’t dare even listen to you!” “Oh,” she said, “you’re afraid of him—” and she whispered,—“the master mind!” “You said it!” Pike exclaimed. “Nobody dares stand up against him!” And at that moment a shout rang through the house. The two Pikes turned white and fairly trembled with terror, but Elsie cried out, “That’s the voice of Kimball Webb!” |
|
