Part 9 (1/2)
”I guess you're right. Well, count on me regarding that mysterious bundle in the safe.”
”At three o'clock this afternoon I want you to call me up. If no one has called, why the game is up. But if some one does come around and make inquiries, don't fail to let me know.”
”I'll be here till five. I'd better call you up then.”
Then Norton returned home and idled about till afternoon. He went over to Riverdale. Five times he walked up and down in front of the Hargreave place, finally plucked up his courage and walked to the door.
After all, he was a lucky mortal. He had a good excuse to visit this house every day in the week. And there was something tantalizing in the risk he took. Besides, he wanted to prove to himself whether it was a pa.s.sing fancy or something deeper. That's the way with humans; we never see a sign ”Fresh Paint” that we don't have to prove it.
He chatted with Florence for a while and found that, for all she might be guileless to the world, she was a good linguist, a fine musician, and talked with remarkable keenness about books and arts. But unless he roused her, the sadness of her position always lay written in her face. It was not difficult for him to conjure up her dreams in coming to the city and the blow which, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky, had shattered them ruthlessly.
”You must come every day and tell me how you have progressed,” she said.
”I'll obey that order gladly, whenever I can possibly do it. My visits will always be short.”
”That is not necessary.”
”No,” said Norton in his heart, ”but it is wise.”
Always he found Jones waiting for him at the door, always in the shadow.
”Well?” the butler whispered.
”I have laid a neat trap. Whether this balloon was the one that left the top of this house I don't know. But if there were two men in it, one of them lies at the bottom of the sea.”
”And the man who was found?” The butler's voice was tense.
”It was not Hargreave. I met Orts but once, and as he wore a beard then, the captain's description did not tally with your recollection.”
”Thank G.o.d! But what is this trap?”
”I propose to find out by it who is back of all this, who Hargreave's real enemies are.”
Norton returned to his rooms, there to await the call from Grannis. He was sorry, but if Jones would not take him into his fullest confidence, he must hold himself to blame for any blunder he (Norton) made. Of course, he could readily understand Jones' angle of vision. He knew nothing of the general run of reporters; he had heard of them by rumor and distrusted them. He was not aware of the fact that the average reporter carries more secrets in his head than a prime minister. It was, then, up to him to set about to allay this distrust and gain the man's complete confidence.
Meanwhile that same morning a pretty young woman boarded the _Orient_ and asked to be led to the captain. Her eyes were red; she had evidently been weeping. When the captain, susceptible like all sailors, saw her his promises to Norton took wings.
”This is Captain Hagan?” she asked, balling the handkerchief she held in her hand.
”Yes, miss. What can I do for you?” He put his hands embarra.s.sedly into his pockets--and felt the crisp bills. But for that magic touch he would have forgotten his lines. He squared his shoulders.
”I have every a.s.surance that the man you picked up at sea is my father.
I am Florence Hargreave. Tell me everything.”
The captain's very blundering deceived her. ”And then he hustled down the gangplank and headed for that warehouse. He had a package which he was as tender of as if it had been dynamite.”
”Thank you!” impulsively.
”A man has to do his duty, miss. A sailor's always glad to rescue a man at sea,” awkwardly.
When she finally went down the gangplank the sigh the captain heaved was almost as loud as the exhaust from the donkey engines which were working out the crates of lemons from the hold.