Part 39 (1/2)
Norton showed his card and badge.
”Oh, I see!” jeered the aviator. ”A little newspaper stunt in which I am to be the goat. It can't be done, Mr. Norton; it can't be done.”
”A hundred dollars!”
”Not for five hundred,” and the aviator callously turned away toward the young woman with whom he had been conversing prior to Norton's approach. The two walked a dozen yards away.
Norton had not served twelve years as a metropolitan newspaper man for nothing. He approached the mechanics who were puttering about the machine.
”How about twenty apiece?” he began.
”For what?” the men asked.
”For sending that paddle around a few times.”
”Get into that seat, but don't touch any of those levers,” one of them warned. ”Twenty is twenty, Jack, and the boss is a sorehead to-day anyhow. Give her a shove for the fun of it.”
It was a dumfounded aviator who saw his hydroplane skim the water and a moment later sail into the air. These swift moving days a reporter of the first caliber is supposed to be able to run railroad engines, submarines, flying machines, conduct a war, able to shoot, walk, run, swim, fight, think, go without food like a python, and live without water like a camel. Norton had flown many times in the last four years. At the moment he called out to Florence to jump he dropped to the water with all the skill of an old-timer and took her aboard. And he could not use a line of this exploit for his paper!
Jones heard the bell. It was the agent from the Black Hundred. He smiled jauntily.
”Well, old fox, we've cornered you at last, haven't we? I want that money, or Hargreave's daughter takes another sea voyage, and this time she will not jump overboard. A million; and no more nonsense.”
”Give me fifteen minutes to decide,” begged Jones, hoping against hope.
”Fifteen seconds!”
”Then we can't do business. What! Give you a million, knowing you all to be a pack of liars? Bring Miss Florence back and the money is yours. We are tired of fighting.” As indeed Jones really was. The strain had been terrific for weeks.
”The money first. We don't lie any better than you do. Fork over.
You'll have to trust us. We have no use for the girl once we get the cash.”
”And you'll never touch a penny of it, you blackguard!” cried Norton from the doorway.
The agent turned to behold the reporter and the girl. He did not stop to ask questions, but bolted. He never got beyond the door, however.
”Always the small fry,” sighed Jones. ”And if I could have put my hands on the money I'd have given it to him! Ah, girl, it doesn't do any good to talk to you, does it?”
”But they told me he was dying!”
Jones shrugged.
CHAPTER XVI
The maid stole into the house, wondering if she had been seen. She wanted to be loyal to this girl, but she was tired of the life; she wanted to be her own mistress, and the small fortune offered her would put her on the way to realize her ambition. What had she not seen and been of life since she joined the great detective force! Lady's maid, cook, s.h.i.+p stewardess, flash woman, actress, clerk, and a dozen other employments. Her pay, until she secured some fat reward, was but twelve hundred a year; and here was five thousand in advance, with the promise of five thousand more the minute her work was done. And it was simple work, without any real harm toward Florence as far as she was concerned. The whole thing rested upon one difficulty; would Jones permit the girls to leave the house?
One day Florence found Susan sitting in a chair, her head in her hands.
”Why, Susan, what's the matter?” cried Florence.