Part 33 (1/2)

Sweet.w.a.ter laid his own hand on the bills.

”Frederick,” said he.

”Ah!” said the other thoughtfully, lifting his finger and proceeding to stride up and down the room. ”He's a stiff one. What he says, he will do. Two thousand dollars! and soon, too, I warrant. Well, I'm in a devil of a fix at last.” He had again forgotten the presence of Sweet.w.a.ter.

Suddenly he turned or rather stopped. His eye was on the messenger, but he did not even see him. ”One Frederick must offset the other,” he cried. ”It's the only loophole out,” and he threw himself into a chair from which he immediately sprang up again with a yell. He had hurt his wounded arm.

Pandemonium reigned in that small room for a minute, then his eye fell again on Sweet.w.a.ter, who, under the fascination of the spectacle offered him, had only just succeeded in finding the k.n.o.b of the door. This time there was recognition in his look.

”Wait!” he cried. ”I may have use for you too. Confidential messengers are hard to come by, and one that Campbell would employ must be all right. Sit down there! I'll talk to you when I'm ready.”

Sweet.w.a.ter was not slow in obeying this command. Business was booming with him. Besides, the name of Frederick acted like a charm upon him.

There seemed to be so many Fredericks in the world, and one of them lay in such a curious way near his heart.

Meanwhile the captain reseated himself, but more carefully. He had a plan or method of procedure to think out, or so it seemed, for he sat a long time in rigid immobility, with only the scowl of perplexity or ill-temper on his brow to show the nature of his thoughts. Then he drew a sheet of paper toward him, and began to write a letter. He was so absorbed over this letter and the manipulation of it, having but one hand to work with, that Sweet.w.a.ter determined upon a hazardous stroke.

The little book which the captain had consulted, and which had undoubtedly furnished him with a key to those two incongruous words, lay on the floor not far from him, having been flung from its owner's hand during the moments of pa.s.sion and suffering I have above mentioned. To reach this book with his foot, to draw it toward him, and, finally, to get hold of it with his hand, was not difficult for one who aspired to be a detective, and had already done some good work in that direction.

But it was harder to turn the leaves and find the words he sought without attracting the attention of his fierce companion. He, however, succeeded in doing this at last, the long list of words he found on every page being arranged alphabetically. It was a private code for telegraphic or cable messages, and he soon found that ”Happenings”

meant: ”Our little game discovered; play straight until I give you the wink.” And that ”Afghanistan” stood for: ”Hush money.” As the latter was followed by the figures I have mentioned, the purport of the message needed no explanation, but the word ”Frederick” did. So he searched for that, only to find that it was not in the book. There was but one conclusion to draw. This name was perfectly well known between them, and was that of the person, no doubt, who laid claim to the two thousand dollars.

Satisfied at holding this clew to the riddle, he dropped the book again at his side and skilfully kicked it far out into the room. Captain Wattles had seen nothing. He was a man who took in only one thing at a time.

The penning of that letter went on laboriously. It took so long that Sweet.w.a.ter dozed, or pretended to, and when it was at last done, the clock on the mantelpiece had struck two.

”Halloo there, now!” suddenly shouted the captain, turning on the messenger. ”Are you ready for another journey?”

”That depends,” smiled Sweet.w.a.ter, rising sleepily and advancing.

”Haven't got over the last one yet, and would rather sleep than start out again.”

”Oh, you want pay? Well, you'll get that fast enough if you succeed in your mission. This letter” he shook it with an impatient hand--”should be worth two thousand five hundred dollars to me. If you bring me back that money or its equivalent within twenty-four hours, I will give you a clean hundred of it. Good enough pay, I take it, for five hours'

journey. Better than sleep, eh? Besides, you can doze on the cars.”

Sweet.w.a.ter agreed with him in all these a.s.sertions. Putting on his cap, he reached for the letter. He didn't like being made an instrument for blackmail, but he was curious to see to whom he was about to be sent.

But the captain had grown suddenly wary.

”This is not a letter to be dropped in the mailbox,” said he. ”You brought me a line here whose prompt delivery has prevented me from making a fool of myself to-night. You must do as much with this one. It is to be carried to its destination by yourself, given to the person whose name you will find written on it, and the answer brought back before you sleep, mind you, unless you s.n.a.t.c.h a wink or so on the cars.

That it is night need not disturb you. It will be daylight before you arrive at the place to which this is addressed, and if you cannot get into the house at so early an hour, whistle three times like this--listen and one of the windows will presently fly up. You have had no trouble finding me; you'll have no trouble finding him. When you return, hunt me up as you did to-night. Only you need not trouble yourself to look for me at Haberstow's,” he added under his breath in a tone that was no doubt highly satisfactory to himself. ”I shall not be there. And now, off with you!” he shouted. ”You've your hundred dollars to make before daylight, and it's already after two.”

Sweet.w.a.ter, who had stolen a glimpse at the superscription on the letter he held, stumbled as he went out of the door. It was directed, as he had expected, to a Frederick, probably to the second one of whom Captain Wattles had spoken, but not, as he had expected, to a stranger. The name on the letter was Frederick Sutherland, and the place of his destination was Sutherlandtown.

XXVIII

”WHO ARE YOU?”

The round had come full circle. By various chances and a train of circ.u.mstances for which he could not account, he had been turned from his first intention and was being brought back stage by stage to the very spot he had thought it his duty to fly from. Was this fate? He began to think so, and no longer so much as dreamed of struggling against it. But he felt very much dazed, and walked away through the now partially deserted streets with an odd sense of failure that was only compensated by the hope he now cherished of seeing his mother again, and being once more Caleb Sweet.w.a.ter of Sutherlandtown.