Part 17 (1/2)

”I'm so glad to see you,” he rattled on. ”Don't you remember our being introduced, at dinner one night, in Paris. I'm delighted to meet you again. On your way down-town, I suppose?” His remark seemed a question.

She answered it at once. ”Yes, a little shopping to do, and then I thought of stopping at the house of some friends--the United States Minister,” she added, by way of explanation.

The stranger bowed. ”May I have the pleasure of accompanying you?” he asked. ”I also am going in that direction.”

Grace a.s.sented, and they went out together. At the door the man summoned a cab. ”It is safer,” he whispered. ”We may be observed.”

Once inside the cab, which was a closed one, the young man began to ply Grace with questions. ”I am one of Monsieur Lefevre's men,” he told her, noting her momentary hesitation. ”Be quite frank, please, and tell me everything.”

When she had finished her story, he sat in silence for a long time. Then he turned to her with a question which made her think he had suddenly lost his mind. ”Has Dr. Hartmann a phonograph in the house?” he inquired.

”A phonograph?” she looked at him curiously.

”Yes--yes.” His voice betrayed his excitement. ”We must send a message to Mr. Duvall. Your windows overlook the room where he is confined. He may hear it. It is the only way.”

”Yes,” she said, after a moment's thought. ”There is a phonograph in the library--a small one. It is seldom used. But Dr. Hartmann--”

”Listen to me,” he interrupted, ”and do exactly as I say. Pretend to be ill. Ask Dr. Hartmann's permission to have the instrument moved to your room. Then play the records which I am about to get for you.”

She gazed at him, scarcely understanding. ”But--” she began.

”Of course you will play other records, as well, but this one you must play often--as often as possible. I do not know that Mr. Duvall will understand what the message is--it is a chance, but we must take it. I myself do not understand it very clearly, but the suggestion comes from Monsieur Lefevre himself. You know him. He has your husband's safety at heart.” He leaned out, giving a few rapid instructions to the cabman, and then once more turned to Grace.

”Do not visit the house of the United States Minister. It will be most unwise. As soon as he learns that Mr. Duvall and yourself are at Dr.

Hartmann's house as spies, he will of necessity refuse to a.s.sist you further. Should he not do so, should he demand Mr. Duvall's release, nothing would be gained, since the snuff box would of necessity be left behind. Dr. Hartmann will not injure your husband--he is too anxious to get possession of the snuff box for that. We will try the phonograph, to-day, and if that means is unsuccessful, we must make an attempt to regain the box, and release your husband by force.”

As he finished speaking, the cab drew up at a music store. The stranger sprang out, and in a few moments reappeared with a small package in his hand. He handed it to her, then removed his hat and bowed. ”I would suggest, mademoiselle, that you return at once, and make use of this as I have directed. If anything further occurs, send word by the delivery boy to-night.” He bowed, and walked rapidly down the street.

Grace sadly ordered the cabman to return to Dr. Hartmann's, and then sat back, her mind torn by conflicting emotions. The whole thing seemed inexplicably mysterious and confusing. Here was Richard, her husband, suffering she knew not what agonies at Dr. Hartmann's hands, and these people, who ought to be attempting to liberate him, asked her to play upon the phonograph. She tore open the package which the young man had handed her, and glanced at it eagerly. Its t.i.tle told her no more than the stranger himself had done. She read it over and over, aimlessly. It was _The Rosary_.

CHAPTER XVIII

The dull, heavy sleep into which Richard Duvall had fallen, after Dr.

Hartmann had left him, was suddenly disturbed by the realization that someone had seized him roughly by the arms. He attempted to rise, struggling instinctively against the two men who, he dimly saw, were bending over him, but his resistance was useless. In a moment the leather straps which encircled his wrists and ankles had been drawn tight, and he felt himself being lifted bodily and deposited on the floor in the center of the room. At first he cried out, cursing his captors loudly, but an instant's reflection showed him how profitless his remonstrances were, and he allowed himself to be bound to the floor in silence. In a moment, Dr. Hartmann--the detective saw that it was he, with Mayer--had switched on the violet light, and he once more felt its blinding radiance upon his face.

Hartmann opened the door. ”I shall be back again in a few hours,” he said, as he left the room. ”I hope that by that time you will have quite recovered your senses.”

The detective made no reply. He had definitely made up his mind upon one point: he was not going to purchase his freedom at the expense of his duty. The unfortunate situation in which he now found himself was, he knew very well, entirely his own fault, and his desire to atone for his momentary carelessness made him determined not to accede to Dr.

Hartmann's demands. He hoped that his friends outside--Lablanche, Dufrenne, even Grace--might be able to come to his a.s.sistance. If he could only know that the snuff box was safe in Monsieur Lefevre's hands, the rest did not matter much.

These thoughts pa.s.sed through his mind as he lay with closed eyes, his face quivering under the dazzling light which fell upon it. Its intensity was, he thought, greater, if anything, than it had been before, and the irritating effect upon his eyes more p.r.o.nounced. He did not open his eyes at all, on this occasion, for fear even a momentary exposure would increase their sensitiveness.

Slowly the day pa.s.sed. He concluded that it was afternoon, when he heard far off a bell striking the hour of two, although it might equally well have been two o'clock in the morning, for all he could tell. There was a faint hum of conversation in the laboratory above him, which convinced him that it was still day.

Presently his ear, acutely sensitive to the slightest noise which might disturb the stillness about him, became aware of a faint sound of music, which seemed to come to him from a long distance off. It was a popular French march, and from a certain quality of the notes he concluded that it was being played upon a phonograph. The strains of the music distracted him, took his mind from the things about him, and as he listened to it, it seemed that the effort of keeping his eyes tightly closed grew sensibly less, the blinding pressure of the unwavering light cone upon his face appreciably easier to bear. He knew that this was but a momentary relief, but he welcomed it eagerly. Lying in this terrifying silence, under the cruel glare of light, had become frightful--he wondered if, after all, his nerves, his mind, could long stand the strain.

The music stopped suddenly. He found himself eagerly hoping that there would be more. In a few moments it began again, and he was listening to the familiar strains of _The Rosary_. He had always liked the song--Grace, too, had been fond of it. He wondered if she could be playing to him, trying to soothe his fast-shattering nerves with music.

It pleased him to think that it might be so, although he had no reason to suppose that Grace knew of the torture to which Dr. Hartmann was subjecting him.