Part 42 (1/2)

He stopped short.

”What's the matter?” asked Billy Getz nervously.

”Run the boat in there,” said Philo Gubb excitedly. ”Those verdures ain't _like_ 7462 Bessie John; they _are_ 7462 Bessie John.”

The Sheriff stared keenly at the spot indicated by Detective Gubb's extended hand and, turning suddenly, said a word to the pilot in the house at his side. The ferry veered and ran in toward the island. Not until the boat was nearer the sh.o.r.e than a front row of the orchestra seats to the back drop of a theater did the others on the boat understand. Then the trick was seen and understood. The trees of the sh.o.r.e were not all trees. One group was a painted canvas, copied carefully by Greasy from Dietz's 7462 Bessie John at the behest of Billy Getz. Stretched across a small indentation of the sh.o.r.e it made a safe screen, unrecognizable a few rods from the sh.o.r.e, and behind this bit of painted forest they found the long, low, black pirate craft--Billy Getz's motor-boat.

When the Sheriff had torn down the canvas and his men had hoisted and heaved the pirate craft to the broad deck of the ferry, Billy Getz was gone. Riverbank never saw him again, and a half-dozen of his roistering companions also disappeared completely.

”Sometimes occasionally,” said Philo Gubb, as the ferry turned toward town, ”the combination of paper-hanging and deteckative work is detrimental to one or both, as the case may be, but at other occasional times they are worth one hundred dollars.”

”That's right!” said the Sheriff suddenly. ”You get that reward, don't you?”

”Most certainly sure,” said Philo Gubb.

HENRY

Philo Gubb entered his office and placed on his cutting-table the express package he had found leaning against his door. With his tr.i.m.m.i.n.g-knife he cut the cord that bound the package. It contained, he knew, the new disguise for which he had sent twenty-five dollars to the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Supply Bureau, and he was eager to examine his purchase, which, in the catalogue, was known as ”No. 34.

French Count, with beard and wig complete. List, $40.00. Special price to our graduates, $25.00, express paid.”

Mr. Gubb wore a face more solemn than usual, for he had just had bad news. He had hidden his distrust of Mr. Medderbrook, the father of his beloved Syrilla, and had carried that gentleman the one hundred dollars he had earned by aiding in the capture of the river pirates, but he had found Mr. Medderbrook close to tears.

”Read this, Gubb,” Mr. Medderbrook said; and that he was deeply affected was shown by the fact that he did not ask Mr. Gubb to pay any part of the cost of the telegram from Syrilla which had, this time, come ”Collect.” The telegram read:--

Scared crazy. Resumed vegetables and all kinds of food, eating steadily all day and night, but have lost twenty-five pounds more. Now weigh only one hundred and twenty-five and going down rapidly. If worse goes to worst, love to Gubby.

It is not surprising that Mr. Gubb sighed as he lifted the exaggeratedly thin-waisted frock coat from the package, but there came a tap on the door and he hastily covered the coat with the wrapping paper and turned to the door.

”Enter in,” he said. And the door opened cautiously and a short, ruddy-faced man entered, peering into the room first and then closing the door behind him as cautiously as he had opened it.

”Are you this here detective feller?” he asked bluntly.

”I am Mister P. Gubb, deteckating and paper-hanging done, to command at your service,” admitted Mr. Gubb. ”Won't you take a seat onto a chair?”

”Depends,” said Mr. Gubb's visitor, keeping his hand on the doork.n.o.b.

”I'll put it to you like this: Say some guy stole something from me, and I was willing to pay you for finding out who stole it and for getting it back--you'd take a job like that and say nothing about it to anybody, wouldn't you?”

”Most certainly sure,” agreed Mr. Gubb.

”That's the idee! You'd keep it dark. It wouldn't be n.o.body's business but yours and mine, would it? It would be a quiet little deal between you and me, and n.o.body would know anything about it. Hey?”

”Exactly sure,” said Philo Gubb. ”The deteckative business is conducted onto an absolutely quiet Q.T. basis.”

”Correct!” said his visitor. ”I see you and me can do business. Now, my name is Gus P. Smith, and I've had one of the rawest deals handed me a man ever had handed him. I was coming along down one of these alleys between streets this morning and--”

He stopped short and turned to the door. Some one had tapped on the panels. Mr. Smith opened the door the merest crack and peered out. He closed it again instantly.

”Somebody to see you,” he whispered. ”What I've got to say I want kept private. I'll be back.”