Lord John in New York

The veiled eyes behind the grille vanished; and a moment later another voice took up the argument. As Teano had recognised Jenny's voice, I knew the Head Sister's. The idea was absurd, said the latter. We could not be admitted. I stepped aside, not trusting my disguise, and Teano held out a folded document to which we had given an official semblance.

"I don't want to make trouble for you, ladies, but – " he hinted. The paper and a glimpse of a red seal said the rest. Bolts slid back indignantly, and the gate was flung open. I beheld the Head Sister, tall and formidable. Behind her I glimpsed a group of other forms less imposing, among them Maida, flowers in her hands, and surrounded with children. As for Teano, no doubt he saw only the shy figure retiring from the gate.

"This is preposterous!" exclaimed the Head Sister. "But search the garden if you must. You will find nothing." She moved away to join her satellites, motioning to the door-keeper that the gate might be closed. Before the gesture could be obeyed, however, Teano put himself between the tall woman and the little one.

"Beg pardon, madam. I admit we've got in on false pretences," he said sharply; "but we're detectives sent to arrest Three-Fingered Jenny, and here's our warrant."

He flourished the faked document. Before the mistress of infinite resource had time to collect her forces – we had swept Jenny outside the gate, and slammed it. We raced with her to Teano's waiting car, and – cruel to be kind – stopped to explain nothing till Pine Cliff was more than a mile away.

I took the wheel and gave Paul a place by Jenny. I heard him plead, "Don't you know me, Jen?" But not once did I turn my head until Teano spoke my name.

"She's my Jenny," he said, "and she cares, but she doesn't want to be rescued! It's a question of her boy. She won't give him up."

"Quite right," I agreed. "Why should she give him up? Has she left him in the Sisterhood House?"

"No, he's lost," Jenny answered. "I don't know where he is – since this morning. But the House has been our home for weeks. The Head Sister took us in, and promised to save Nicky from bad people and bad ways. He'll go back there, and – "

"But where is he now?" I cut in, having slowed down the car. "Can't we head him off? The child has money, I know. Where would he go and spend his earnings?"

"I – can't tell," she stammered. "He's always wanted me to take him to Coney Island – to some amusement park. But – "

"To Coney Island we'll go," I exclaimed.

*****

What followed was a wild adventure. I had never been to Coney Island. But I seemed to have been born knowing that it was a place dedicated to the people's pleasure. No doubt it was a toss-up which amusement ground to choose. By hazard, we began with Constellation Park; and almost at once came upon traces of Nicky. "A little dumb boy with black eyes, all alone, with plenty of money, and a grin when asked if he were lost?" Oh, yes, he was doing every stunt. We tracked him through peanuts and ice cream, lions' dens and upside-down houses, to the Maze of Mystery.

The name was no misnomer. Hampton Court, and the Labyrinth of Crete itself could have "nothing on it." In a bewildered procession Teano, Jenny and I wandered through streets of mirrors, complicated groves, walled concentric alley ways, with unexpected and disappointing outlets until at last a pair of elf-eyes stared at me from a distant and unreachable surface of glass. I cried out; so did Jenny and Teano, for all of us had had the same glimpse and quickly lost it.

"Nicky," gasped Jenny, just behind my back. "And, oh, Red Joe's got hold of him! It's all up – if we can't get between them. It's Red Joe I stole him back from when we went into the Sisterhood."

I looked back to console her – and she was gone. Teano, too, had suddenly separated from us, whether accidentally or for a purpose, I could not tell. But the maze would have put any rabbit warren to shame. When you thought you were in one place, you found to your astonishment that you were in another, with no visible way of getting out.

Then again, eyes looked at me from a mirror which might be far off or within ten yards. There were mirrors within mirrors, dazzling and endless vistas of mirrors. Child's eyes, mischievous as a squirrel's, met mine, peering from between crowding forms of grown-ups. The man Jenny had spoken of as "Red Joe" (I picked him out by a ferret face and rust-red hair) was trying to push past a fat father of a family, to reach the child in grey. Whether Nicky knew that he was a pawn in a game of chess, who could tell? There was but one thing certain. He was having "the time of his life."

"If I could get him for Jenny, what would Jenny do for me in return?" I asked myself. It might turn out that she could unlock the door that had shut between me and Maida Odell.

A desperate, a selfish desire to beat Red Joe, seized me; but now the mirrors told, if they did not deceive, that glassy depths of distance between us were increasing in space and mystery. Suddenly I reached a turning-point. Nicky was straight ahead. He paused, looked, made ready to dart away like a trout from the hook. But – inspiration ran with my blood.

I pulled a wad of greenbacks from my pocket and smiled. Red Joe had flattened pater familias unmercifully, and was squeezing past. A hand, a thief's hand if I ever saw one, caught at Nicky's collar. But he dipped from under, slipped between a surprised German's legs, and – I grabbed him in my arms.

EPISODE III

THE GIRL ON THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR

When Teano first spoke to me of his sister, nothing was further from my thoughts than a meeting with the telephone girl at the Priscilla Alden, a hotel sacred to ladies. But unexpected things happen in the best regulated lives, especially in New York, as anyone may learn by the Sunday papers. Not many days after the gate of the Sisterhood House shut for the second time between Maida and me, I changed my residence from New York to a hotel about five miles from Pine Cliff. Roger Odell and Roger's bride had gone to South America on one of those business trips which financiers seem to take as nonchalantly as we cross a street. His last words to me were: "You know, I rely on you to look after Maida, as well as she can be looked after, under that brute of a woman's thumb."

I did the best I could; but whether my wounds or my love sickness were to blame, the fact was that something had made me a bundle of raw nerves.

I slept badly, and my dreams were of some hideous thing happening to Maida; or else of the mummy-case being stolen. In my waking hours I chased back and forth between town and country, trying to find in New York the "Egyptian-looking man" who had disturbed Maida's peace of mind, and who had reasons for wishing me to forget the number of his automobile: trying to make sure on Long Island if a connection existed between this man and the head of the Sisterhood.

At last I realised that I was in no fit state of nerves for a guardian. The hotel people recommended me to a celebrated doctor practising on Long Island; and one morning, ashamed of myself as a "molly-coddle," I went to keep an appointment with him. Thorne was his name and he lived in a grey-shingled house set back from the road behind a small lawn. The place was outside the village; but since abandoning my crutch, I had begun to take as much exercise as possible. I walked, therefore, to the doctor's, rather than use the car presented to me by Roger. This seems a small detail to note, but deductions following certain events proved it to have been important.

I was received by the keen-eyed Thorne, in his private office, and during the catechism to which he subjected me, I thought nothing of what went on in the outer room through which I had passed. I should ill have earned Roger Odell's nickname ("the gilded amateur detective"), however, if I hadn't ferreted it out afterwards and "put two and two together."

It was an ordinary room, with a desk at which sat a young woman who answered the door and kept the doctor's appointments classified. I was vaguely aware that I had interrupted her business of stamping letters, which a boy would post. She had not finished when a few minutes later the next patient arrived. This person gave his name as Mr. Genardius, and confessed that he had no appointment; but his face – covered with bandages – presented such a pitiful appearance that the girl agreed to let him wait. "When the gentleman who's in the office now goes away," she explained, "the doctor's hour for receiving is over. But he may give you a few minutes."

"Isn't the gentleman an English officer, Lord John Hasle?" inquired the would-be patient, whose face as seen under a wide-brimmed, old-fashioned felt hat, and between linen wrappings, consisted of deep-set black eyes, wide nostrils, and a long-lipped mouth.

"Why, yes, he is," admitted the young woman, to whom I had given my name. "Do you know him?"

"Not at all," replied Mr. Genardius, who appeared to her a rather unusual figure in his quaint hat and an equally quaint overcoat. "But as I got out of my automobile I saw him at the gate. I recognised him from portraits in newspapers. He was an army aviator, I believe, who got leave on account of wounds, and came over to see a play produced."

"Oh, yes, The Key– a lovely detective play," was the flattering reply, as reported to me later.

As she spoke, the young woman (Miss Murphy) gave the letters to the boy, who went out, needing no directions. Hardly had the door shut, when Mr. Genardius rose. "Oh, that reminds me!" he exclaimed, "I should have wired to a friend! The doctor is sure to be engaged for some moments. I'll step out and send my chauffeur with the telegram." For an invalid, he walked briskly. The boy hadn't disposed of his letters and parcels, or mounted the bicycle which leaned against the fence, when Mr. Genardius reached the gate. Miss Murphy glanced from the window, interested in the queer personage. She was unable to see the motor from where she sat; but it must have been near, for the black felt hat and the black caped coat came flapping up the garden path again in less than five minutes. The thought flitted through Miss Murphy's head that the bandages worn by the invalid wouldn't make a bad disguise. Mr. Genardius returned to his chair, and selected a newspaper.

About this time came a telephone call, which Miss Murphy answered. And though two days had passed before I realised the need of questioning the young woman, she was able to recall a rustle as of tearing paper at this moment. Her attention was occupied at the 'phone; but when Genardius had departed, and she wished to glance at the theatrical advertisements, she noticed that a page was gone from The World. Had she not remembered the name of the paper, a link would have been missing from the chain of evidence. As it was, I was able to deduce that the torn page contained a news item "exclusive to The World." Mr. Genardius had doubtless read some other newspaper at home, and it had interested him that "Millionaire Roger Odell's Egyptian Present for His Bride" was likely to reach New York that night on an Italian liner.

How The World had got hold of this story remains a mystery. It had leaked out that Roger had bought for a great sum an opal "Eye of Horus," supposed to be the mate of a curious ornament possessed by his adopted sister, and the only other jewel resembling it, in existence. Grace Odell (nee Grace Callender) had admired Maida's fetish. That was enough for Roger. He made inquiries, and learned from a firm of jewellers that a duplicate of Miss Odell's opal had been sold years ago by a certain Sir Anthony Annesley to the Museum of Cairo.

How it had come into Annesley's hands was not known; and he had long ago died. Maida had been satisfied with her fetish, and did not covet its fellow, but Grace's chance word caused Roger to cable an agent in Egypt, and, after bargaining, the Museum authorities had consented to part with the treasure. This information the newspapers had obtained, but the time and the way of the opal's arrival in America had, Roger thought, been kept a dead secret.

In order that jewel-thieves, ever on the alert for a prize, should not stalk the messenger, Roger's agent had engaged the services of a private person. A relative of his, an American girl who had acted as stenographer in Naples, was giving up her position to return to New York. Taking advantage of this fact, and his confidence in her, the agent had given Miss Mary Gibson charge of the Eye of Horus. Having no connection with any jewel firm it was believed that she might pass unsuspected. The curio being thousands of years old, was not subject to duty, and could, it was hoped, be placed by Miss Gibson directly in the hands of its owner, before anyone discovered that it had been in hers. Roger Odell had intended to meet the young woman; but his suddenly arranged journey upset that plan, and the day before my visit to Dr. Thorne I had received the following cable:

"Stenographer will go straight from ship to Priscilla Alden. If ship late, meet her there early morning after. Will be expecting you."

Had I not come to an understanding with Roger before he sailed for Rio Janeiro, this message would have been gibberish. But he had asked me to take over the jewel because he hoped thus to bring me into touch with Maida. If I could bestow the opal in Roger's bank, Miss Odell (whose vows did not bind her to absolute seclusion) might run up to New York and compare it with her own curio. I had caught eagerly at the plan. Gladly would I have waited hours on the dock for Miss Gibson, but fearing I might be suspected as his agent, if thieves were on the watch, Roger had thought it best for the young woman not to be met. In order to avoid attention, she was to proceed as if she had been the insignificant stranger she was supposed to be. She was to inquire on shipboard for an hotel in New York, taking lady guests only. The Priscilla Alden would be mentioned, and she would send a wireless, engaging a room. As clients of the Priscilla Alden were allowed no male visitors after ten p.m., my call would have to depend upon the time the ship docked. Even before Roger's cable, I had ascertained that the Reina Elenora was likely to get in late, and I made up my mind to spend the night at my own old hotel in New York. That would enable me to present myself early next day at the Priscilla Alden.

While I described my nightmare dreams to the doctor (keeping Maida's name to myself), Miss Murphy left Mr. Genardius for a few moments. A rich old lady patient drew up at the gate in an automobile and sent her chauffeur to fetch the young woman. There was a verbal message to be delivered, and while Miss Murphy committed it to heart, doubtless the bandaged man listened at the keyhole. He heard enough to realise that John Hasle was close upon the trail of Miss Odell's enemies.

Thorne was sympathetic. He talked of nerve-shock in various forms, from which most returning soldiers suffered.

As he fumbled among medicine bottles he went on: "I'll prescribe you a tonic; I keep a few things at hand here, and I can fix you up from my stock. Some of the ingredients are rare. You couldn't get a prescription made up nearer than New York. No, by George! there's one thing missing from my lot! Luckily it's not one of the rare ones. Did you come in a car? What, you walked? Well, I'll get the boy to sprint into the village on his bike, to the pharmacy. He can be back inside fifteen minutes. I'll write to the druggist."

Thorne touched an electric button. No one came in response. Impatiently the doctor flung the door open to glare at Miss Murphy. Miss Murphy was not visible, however, and away dashed the master of the house, leaving me in his private office to wonder at his absence. This office being behind the outer room gave no view of the front gate, therefore I could not see what Thorne saw. It wasn't until he appeared that I learned why he had bolted. The boy whom he had intended to send for the missing ingredients had been run down by a motor-car, while bicycling to the post-office. The chauffeur had, through coincidence, been despatched by a patient waiting for Thorne. He had taken a corner too sharply, and knocked the boy off his bicycle, but Joey was more frightened than hurt. He had been picked up by the chauffeur, a foreigner, and when Thorne had looked from the window, it had been to see the lad lifted half conscious from the returning car. At the gate stood not only Miss Murphy, but the owner of the automobile, who had hurried out on hearing the young woman's cry. So it was that the waiting-room had been left empty.

"Joey's as right as rain now, or will be when he's pulled himself together," Thorne explained. "My new patient, whoever he is – a stranger to me – seemed to feel worse than Joey. He gave the kid ten dollars! It may have been as much the boy's fault as the chauffeur's. Anyhow, I bet Joey won't complain. Your medicine will be ready as soon as if nothing had happened, for the owner of the auto (Genardius, his name is) offered to drive to the druggist's and back."

It was Miss Murphy who presently handed the doctor a small, neatly wrapped bottle. "That chauffeur brought me this," she announced. "It seems that Joey's accident upset the invalid gentleman more than he realised at first. He was taken faint at the pharmacy, and decided not to consult you this morning. He'll 'phone, and ask for an appointment."

Dr. Thorne tore the wrapper off the phial, and began pouring its colourless contents into a bottle already two-thirds full, which he had prepared. Suddenly he stopped. "I guess I'll let that do for this time! Take a tablespoonful when you get home, and twice more during the day; once just before bed."

Dr. Thorne inspired me with confidence; and, as I was anxious to keep my wits for Maida's sake, I intended to follow directions. Arriving at my hotel, however, I found a cablegram in answer to one I'd sent Haslemere, in London. I had demanded whence came the scandal which darkened the life of Maida Odell. Replying, he refused details, but deigned to admit that his informant was an American, the widow of a naval officer, of "unimpeachable respectability." That word "unimpeachable" was so characteristic of Haslemere that I laughed, but the description answered closely enough to Mrs. Granville to excite me, and I forgot the medicine.

Later, I had remembered it once more when Teano called, bringing the dumb child Nicky, now his adopted son. I set down the bottle and thought no more about it, for I hoped to learn something of the man who had frightened Maida. My hope that Nicky might turn informant seemed, however, doomed to disappointment. It was difficult to elicit facts, because of his dumbness; but Teano and I agreed that the imp took advantage of his infirmity to bottle up secrets. "He's in fear of some threat," pronounced the detective. "It's the same with his mother. Jenny and I were married the day after you found her. She says she's happy, and she ought to know I'm able to protect her. But she's afraid to speak against the Sisterhood. I shouldn't wonder if they've made her swear some oath."

We talked long on the subject, and Teano produced a list of Egyptians living in New York, obtained at my request. Some were rich. The greater number appeared to be engaged in the import of tobacco and curios, or Eastern carpets. A few were doctors; more were fortune-tellers; while one extraordinary creature whose description caught my fancy was a mixture of both: an exponent of ancient cults and religions, and a qualified physician who treated nervous ailments with hypnotism. This man gave weekly lectures on "Egyptian Wisdom applied to Modern Civilisation," and was known as "Doctor" or "Professor" Rameses. The name was, of course, assumed; but Teano had learned that Dr. Rameses was more than respectable; he was estimable. Following his religion, which claimed that each soul was a spark from the one Living Fire, he aimed to help all mankind, and was apparently a true philanthropist.