  It was the twenty-ninth of June. Elsie Powell had been nearly a week in confinement, under the care and at the mercy of the woman she called Mrs. Pike, but who was in reality the wife of Bass, the valet and general factotum of Fenn Whiting. When Elsie had asked his name he had said Pike, on the spur of the moment, and Pike he had remained to her. Elsie was not at all uncomfortably housed. She had comforts if not luxuries. She was allowed to go in the several rooms of the basement of the house, which were fitted up with more elaborate appointments than most basement floors are. Mrs. Pike, as Elsie knew her, was kind enough to the girl, except when she took it upon herself to advise her. This Elsie invariably resented, and there was war. For Elsie had a temper of her own, and when it was roused it was by no means inconsiderable. There was a door at the foot of the basement stairs. This was always locked. From the time when Elsie had heard that shout the first night of her arrival, that door had never again been opened. Elsie was positive that it had been Kimball’s voice, but the two Pikes denied it, and she thought she might be mistaken. Every afternoon at four o’clock, Fenn Whiting came to talk with Elsie and urge her to marry him. But now, knowing that it was he who had brought her where she was, she vowed she would stay there till she died, rather than marry him! So angry did she become at mere mention of it, that she flew into passionate rage, and looked so wondrously beautiful with flaming cheeks and flashing eyes that Whiting was more infatuated than ever. The days went by somehow. By turns, Elsie stormed, sulked, wept, coaxed and plead with her keeper, the imperturbable Mrs. Pike, but all to no purpose. The woman was adamant. She had been inclined to listen to Elsie’s suggestion of higher pay than they had been promised, but her husband had forbidden her any such ideas. And so the days went by, and Elsie wondered what would finally become of her. And so came the twenty-ninth, the day before her birthday. Elsie resolved to make a final desperate effort with Mrs. Pike. She did, and she had the satisfaction of seeing that the woman was interested at least. “If you’ll let me out,” Elsie begged her, “I’ll see to it that you shall never be blamed or punished in any way for what you have done, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars and I’ll find you a pleasant home somewhere in the country,—which I know you want.” It was the mention of a home in the country that touched the woman most deeply, and for a moment she wavered. But even as she began to speak, Fenn Whiting arrived and the conversation was stopped. “Now, Elsie,” Whiting said, “here’s your last chance to be sensible. I’m nearly at the end of my rope, but so are you. If you’re not married by tomorrow,—that’s your birthday,—you lose all that money. And I tell you plainly,—I swear to you, you shall not leave this house until after your birthday, unless you marry me first. You’ve no chance at all, you see, for nobody knows where you are,—you don’t know, yourself! But here you are and here you stay, unless you agree to my wish. Remember your mother and sister, and remember your sister’s two little kiddies. Will you doom those innocent children to a life of poverty, when you could so easily make them happy and comfortable for life? And I’m not a bad sort, Elsie. I’ll let you have your own way in everything. What I’ve done, I’ve done for love of you. Not the money, you know I don’t care for that, but my devotion to you is unbounded. Come, Elsie, dearest, say yes.” “I say No!” “Think of your mother. The loss of you and the loss of the fortune both, may kill her. Then you would be her murderer!” “Hush!” and Elsie clapped her hands over her ears. “I won’t hush. I want you to see what you’re doing! Yes, you may be the death of your poor invalid mother. You will surely spoil the lives of Gerty and her dear little ones, and what do you gain by it?” “Did you do away with Kimball Webb?” “I most certainly did not. I know nothing of him or his fate; but you must see that he left you willingly,—deserted you, and on the very eve of your wedding.” “I don’t believe it!” but Elsie’s tortured soul could bear no more and she fell in a dead faint. Whiting was a little scared, and he called Mrs. Pike quickly. “Poor lamb,” she said, gathering the unconscious girl in her arms. In the days together she had learned to love Elsie, and she turned on Whiting. “Go, you! How dare you torment the darling so! Away with you, you shall trouble her no more tonight.” Whiting went away, and Mrs. Pike helped the sick girl to bed. “There now, dearie, try to rest and forget your troubles,” she crooned over her, with real affection. “I will,” Elsie whispered to her, “if you’ll help me out. Can’t you let me get away tonight?” “Oh, no, I wish I might,—but I daren’t,—I daren’t!” “Tell me this, then. Isn’t Mr. Webb in this house?” “Hush, hush, now,—don’t say such things.” “But isn’t he?” “I can’t tell you,—I daren’t.” “I am answered!” cried Elsie, triumphantly. “I know he is! Oh, what a refinement of cruelty. Are you a human being, that you countenance such fiendish cruelty? Please,—please, dear, good Mrs. Pike, let me get away! You needn’t do anything. Just let me steal your key when you’re not looking—” “There now, there now, go to sleep, my girl. I can’t do a thing for you and you know it! If I could, I’d have done it long ago.” “I believe you would,” and Elsie sobbed herself into a troubled sleep. The next day was her birthday. She awoke early, and lay, with a leaden heart, but with an alert brain, trying to think of some plan of escape. She was sure if she could break her prison doors, she could get help and rescue Kimball Webb, who, she felt certain, was confined in the upper part of the same house. Desperate, she rose early, and looked about. Her tiny bedroom, though clean and airy, was protected by the iron barred windows so often seen in basements, and the one door was locked at night by Mrs. Pike. There was no chance, and yet she would not give up. She wrote on a bit of paper, her home address, and wrote beneath it, “Take this paper to the house, and tell them the number of this house, and they will give you ten dollars.” This paper she folded small and secreted in her waist. She had a last, a forlorn hope, but she meant to try it. She manoeuvred very carefully to be about when the milk man came, and with what was almost sleight of hand she did manage to tuck the paper into his big red hand almost under the very nose of Mrs. Pike. The man gave her a sharp glance and closed his fingers on the paper, going off without a word. “What you doing up so early?” asked Mrs. Pike, and Elsie said, “I couldn’t sleep so I got up.” Then she quickly changed the subject and managed to divert the woman by her chatter. The milkman, not at all averse to getting an extra ten dollars, concluded to get to the address so strangely given to him, as soon as he had finished his morning rounds. It never occurred to his limited imagination that he could do otherwise than continue his daily routine. So it was nearly noon when he arrived at the Powell home. The wooden-faced doorman advised the caller to go round to the tradesman’s entrance, and the milkman expressed his entire willingness to do so. “But,” he said, “these people are going to be mighty glad to see me! I bring them a message from a young girl—” “What!” for the doorman knew the principal facts of the tragedy in one apartment of the big house. “Here, you, go right up. Take that elevator!” And so it happened that the uncouth and unkempt person went up in the shining and luxurious elevator, and was eagerly shown by the elevator man to the Powell door. “I want to see the head of the house,” he announced, as he stepped inside the hall. “I’ll do,” said Coley Coe, on the alert for anything new or strange. “Well, sir, here’s a note.” Coe read the few scribbled words, recognized Elsie’s writing and gave a low, but very triumphant shout. “Oh, Gerty, Mrs. Powell, Joe,—everybody,—listen here!” Coe capered round like a happy child, he grasped Gerty round the shoulders, he grabbed Mrs. Powell’s hand, he shook his queer forelock until he looked like a shaggy dog, and then he read out the words on the paper. “Do I get my ten?” asked the milkman, stolidly. “You do!” shouted Coe. “You get twenty,—and here it is!” Murmuring his astonished thanks, the man disappeared. “Hold on!” Coe yelled, “wait a minute, you! Where’s this house? Where’d you get this paper?” The man told him the number, a fairly high number, on Madison Avenue. “Good gracious, in a classy section! Whose house is it, my man?” “It’s Mr. James Van Winkle’s house, but it’s closed for the summer,—the folks are away.” “Closed!” “Yes, but there’s a coupla caretakers there, and they keep things going. And, between you and me, sir, I think there’s something wrong.” “If this young lady’s there, it’s something very wrong.” “She is, sir, and to my way of thinking, she’s kept there against her will.” “You bet she is! But she won’t be there long! Thank you, my man,—here’s another five. It’s worth it. Now, good morning!” The milkman left and Coe made ready to depart also. “You’d better come with me, Joe,” he said; “and I think I’ll be on the safe side and take a brace of policemen. I’m looking for trouble. Hold on,—I want a word alone with Mrs. Powell,—just a minute.” And then, Coe was ready and he and Allison went off. “I’ll let you know as soon as possible, Gerty,” Coe called back, and the two hurried on. It took a little time to gather up two policemen and get over to the Madison Avenue house, but they arrived before two o’clock. The house was boarded up after the manner of houses vacated for the summer, and repeated pulls at the bell brought no response. “Nothing doing,” opined a policeman. “Guess you people were stung.” “I guess we weren’t!” declared Coe. “Break in. I’ll take all responsibility.” “Try the basement door,” suggested Allison; “that’s where the milkman would see the caretakers, you know.” Down they trooped and recommenced their knocking there. “I’m scared they’ll escape at the back,” warned Coe. “One of you chaps scoot around there.” By this time, though there was no response to their summons, they heard faint sounds of a commotion inside the house. And at last a girl’s shriek rose high, though muffled at once by interception of some sort. “That’s Elsie!” whispered Coe, not so much from recognition of the voice as from an intuition of the facts. At sound of the shriek, the policeman burst in the door, and they rushed in. Nobody was in sight, but they went on to the rear room, and found there Elsie and Fenn Whiting. The two caretakers had managed to hide themselves, but small attention was paid to that. It was quite evident from the girl’s trembling, nerve-racked condition that Whiting had been frightening her with some terrible threat, and his brutal, rage-drawn countenance corroborated this. “Drop that lady’s arm,” the brawny bluecoat ordered, and Whiting turned in startled surprise and fury. “What do you want here?” he bluffed. “This is my house,—get out!” “Not so fast, Whiting,” said Coley Coe, as Elsie flew to Joe Allison’s protecting arms. “Arrest him,” Coe went on. “On the charge of abduction and theft and housebreaking, and—oh, lots of other things! Anything to say, Whiting?” “No, except that you’ll pay for this. I tell you, this is my house and you’ve no right here!” “Stuff and nonsense!” commented Coe. “But how do you make out it’s your house?” “I’ve rented it,—sublet it from the owners—” “Who are away for the summer! Oh, yes—I see! I especially see! And,—ahem,—just when did you take the house over?” “Long ago, I’ve had it for months. I tell you it’s mine!” “Sure it is! I don’t dispute you. And you rented it before the sixth of April, didn’t you? And you’ve used it ever since as a—” “Yes, Coley, he has!” Elsie cried out. “Kimball is upstairs,—I know he is! Oh, find him,—find him quick!” The second policeman was now present, and he and Allison ran upstairs by leaps and bounds, leaving Coe and the other to attend to Whiting. Elsie was quite herself again, hope and gladness having restored her like magic. She was for running after the man, but Coe said, “Wait, Elsie, they’ll soon be back,—you stay here,—” for he was all uncertain as to what the men might discover. On the two rushed, finding no one in the rooms on the first or second floor. On, up to the third floor, and there, from a closed room they heard faint sounds. Smashing the light door in, they found Kimball Webb. Allison had never seen the man before, nor had the policeman, but they knew him from his photographs, and they gasped at his condition. Emaciated, pale, with a haunted look in his big, dark eyes, the man seemed half crazed. But at sight of them he revived instantly. “Police!” he cried, “oh, thank Heaven!” He mumbled unintelligibly, because of a diabolically clever gag which impeded his speech, while it allowed him to breathe and eat. This was removed quickly, and the restored man, cried imploringly, “Elsie?” “She’s all right,” said Allison, cheerily, and Webb smiled happily, then, immediately his face darkened and he said, “Whiting?” “Safe in custody, sir,” the policeman assured him, staring as if he could scarce believe that the long lost man was really found. “Let me at him!” and Webb’s look of righteous revenge was something so awful that the other two stared in awe. “Tell me everything, quick,” Webb went on, for he was rapidly regaining his poise, strength and activity. “Where is Elsie? Where is Whiting? Oh, men, I’ve been here an eternity!” “You have!” cried Joe. “I say, have you been here all the time?” “Yes, every day,—every hour of it! I thought I’d die,—I wanted to,—but I wanted to live to give Whiting his!” “And for Elsie’s sake,” put in Joe, to divert Webb’s thoughts from the more dangerous channel. “Yes, Elsie! Where is she? Can I see her now?” “I don’t see why not,” said Allison, and the other man nodded as Joe ran to the stairs and called down over the banister. At the sound, Elsie came flying upstairs, and the men, unable to hold Webb back, followed him as he descended one flight to meet her. They met in the second floor hall, and clasped in each others’ arms were so silent in their shock of joy that the others went rapidly downstairs and left them to themselves. “Oh, Kimball, I knew I’d get you back,” Elsie kept repeating, “I knew I would!” “I didn’t, dearest, I didn’t dare even hope for it. I’ve been so helpless,—gagged always, lest I attract attention from outside and bound much of the time, lest I break out, somehow.” “And you couldn’t manage an escape?” “Not possible. Bass, that’s Whiting’s man,—” “Mr. Pike?” “No, Bass is his name. And his wife’s here, too. They’ve looked after me with decency, but they were absolutely unapproachable as to bribery.” “I know it,” and Elsie smiled ruefully. “Oh, Kim, never mind, now, dearest, I’ve got you at last! Did they force you to write that note to me?” “Yes, at the point of a pistol.” She wept softly in his arms, and he held her close, forgetting all his misery in his present joy. “How did he get me?” he said, presently. “How did Whiting pull it off?” “Oh, he had a contrivance in the fireplace by which he could get into your room, and he carried you off, drugged, I suppose—” “Yes; I remember the sweetish smell of chloroform and that’s the last I knew.” “Well, never mind. You can hear all these details some other time.” “After we’re married,—you will marry me, won’t you, Elsie,—dearest! you,—you—haven’t married anybody else, have you?” “No!” she cried, frightened at the grasp on her arm. But her assurance restored his poise. “Forgive me, dear. I’m weak from being housed and tortured so long. Come, can we go away from this dreadful place?” “Yes, we will. And I will marry you, of course. Haven’t I waited for you? But, we can’t get the money, Kim, it’s too late. Today’s my birthday, and the time is up.” “Never mind, dear heart. I’ll make money enough for us. Don’t worry. I’ve finished my play since I’ve been here,—and it’s a corker! I had to work on it to keep from losing my mind. I almost did, anyway. But they let me have paper and pencil, and I finished the thing some time ago. Oh, Elsie, it has been the most unutterable hell!” “Yes, dearest, but I’ll make a Heaven for you that will make you forget it all.” “You shall, my beloved. I’ve forgotten it already! The sight of your dear face has blotted it all out.” “You’re awfully thin, Kim, but otherwise you look just the same.” “Good! I feared I’d be but a small remnant of my former beauty! Come on, girl, darling; let’s go home. Lord, I don’t know a thing that’s going on,—and I don’t much care. I’ve got you,—and some day I shall have a go at Whiting,—but I’m too happy now to tackle him. Is he about?” “He is indeed! Very much about. Here comes Coley Coe.” “Who’s he?” And then, at Elsie’s introduction, the two men shook hands. “I’ve hunted for you long enough,”—said Coe,—“I’m right down glad to see you!” “And I’m glad to see any one who was instrumental in bringing about my rescue!” “Miss Powell did that,” Coe said; “she cleverly corralled a milkman and made him serve her ends!” “But Coley did lots,—oh, lots!” Elsie cried, her eyes sparkling with appreciation. “You’ll adore him after you know him better, Kim! I do!” Webb smiled happily at his lovely fiancÉe, and said, “I see I must marry you out of hand, to be sure of you! When can we pick up our broken threads?” “Pretty soon,” Elsie promised him. “There’s no special hurry for a day or two,” she added, “for it’s just too late to get the fortune,—and that must go to Joe.” “Never mind,” Webb reiterated. “But I won’t wait very long for you, I can tell you that!” “Want to see Whiting?” Coley Coe asked of Webb. “I do indeed! But you’d better hold me!” “Stay here, I’ll have him fetched up.” And so it was in the parlour of the Madison Avenue mansion that the master criminal and his principal victim met. Whiting was blustering,—bragging. Subdued at first by the defeat that had so suddenly overwhelmed him, he later became cocky and insufferable. “Hello, Webb,” he jeered. “You’re on top at last,—but I led you a dance! And I achieved my purpose, too! You won’t marry a great heiress after all! You’ve lost your chance!” “Hush!” and Webb took a step toward him, though warily watched by the two policemen. “Let him come, I’m not afraid of him,” blustered Whiting. “No, you coward,” Webb said, “you are not afraid of a man weakened by months of confinement, and suffering from a lamed knee! You are bravery itself! And furthermore, you are beneath even my scorn! I refuse to tell you what I feel for you. I scorn to speak to you at all. Let the police deal with you and all such as you!” The repressed wrath, the scathing tones, the loathing evident in Webb’s glance made even the depraved Whiting shrivel as if seared with a hot iron. He said nothing and his cocksure manner fell from him, leaving him limp with futile anger. “You—you—” he muttered, but could find no words. “Come, Elsie,” said Webb, without a further glance at Whiting; “may we go, officer?” “Yes, Mr. Webb, and all joy go with you.” Whiting found his voice, and called out, “Small joy to marry a poor girl when you hoped for a fortune!” Webb’s face flushed darkly, and but for Elsie’s restraining hand he would have turned on his tormentor. “And you must hand it to me for cleverness!” Whiting went on. “I had that connection between the houses made four years ago. I meant to get you sooner or later, you stuck-up aristocrat. You won’t be quite so proud when you find you’ve married a penniless bride. Oh, yes, I had the thing built that I might go in and kill you! Yes, that’s what I planned to do,—kill you! Then, I saw better game than that! I kidnapped you, meaning to marry the girl and get all that money myself!” A chattering laugh broke from the speaker, and Elsie shuddered. Without doubt the wicked brain had snapped its tension and Whiting was demented! But he wasn’t,—except momentarily. “Or,” he resumed, “I thought I’d scare you to death with ghosts and things,—but I didn’t—I waited and I had the best scheme after all,—it all worked perfectly,—only scratched the gilt so badly, had to regild it—just a little—just a little—” he babbled on like a veritable idiot, and fearing lest his next phase might be one of violence the policeman urged Webb and Elsie to go at once. Coe and Allison went too, for they all wanted to be at the jubilee of reunion. “And,” said Coe, as they were seated in a swiftly rolling taxi, “Friend Whiting is ’way off about the fortune, Elsie. For, I chance to know the will is worded, ‘married before you are twenty-four years old’; nothing is said about marrying before your birthday. Just before I started I asked your mother what hour you were born, and she said, late in the evening,—after ten o’clock! As it isn’t five yet, you’ve ample time to set your wedding bells ringing!” “Yes,” said Joe Allison, his fine face lighted up with honest joy. “Yes, Elsie, that’s so,—and I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart! I’ll probably feel mighty different later on, but now I’m so keyed up with excitement and noble generosity, that for today, at least, I can say I’m glad you’ve got the money,—glad for you, I mean.” Elsie couldn’t help smiling at his qualified joy over her prospects, and she was a little excited herself. “Are you sure, Coley?” she asked; “then we must be married at once. Will you have me, Kim?” “For richer for poorer,” he murmured, and Elsie, laughing, went on making plans. “You’re only the bridegroom, anyway,” she said, “and you haven’t a word to say. Joe, don’t cry, dear, I’ll give you a goodly slice of that old money. I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars, anyway, and maybe more.” “Lord! Elsie, that’s enough! I wouldn’t wish any more than that! Now I’m truly happy, all over!” and his round young face beamed joyously. “We’re ’most home,” went on the happy bride to be. “We’ll telephone everybody we want to, and we’ll be married,—let me see,—well, we’ll be married as soon as I get things ready enough! I sha’n’t trust you out of my sight, Kim, you stay right at our house, and somebody can bring you clothes from home, and all that.” Elsie had her way, she called the Webb ladies over first, and then arranged all sorts of things to make a pretty wedding, and the ceremony took place in ample time to make her the inheritor of the fortune left by her eccentric aunt, and later on, Allison received his promised portion. Coe earned the fifty thousand dollars reward, for his efforts were at the bottom of the final discoveries. Elsie even remembered the elevator girl and all others who had helped her, and the use of the money proved a source of genuine satisfaction to the newly married pair, as well as to the mother and sister of the bride. Both Joe Allison and Coley Coe insisted on being best man, and were allowed to share that honour. The wedding was a happy one, for every one put aside all present thought of the base and despicable man who had tried so hard to prevent it. He received his due reward in good time, but Elsie Webb and her husband refused ever to hear his name mentioned. The beautiful diamond pendant,—the gift of the bridegroom, flashed at the bride’s fair throat, and there was no discord or jangling of the merry marriage bells. THE END |
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