Part 20 (1/2)

If six policemen could be so easily put out of commission at a given moment, why not many? If a p.a.w.nshop could be so easily looted, why not Tiffany's, or one of the great wholesale jewellers in Maiden Lane? Why not the Sub-Treasury?

In Blizzard's mind the idea became an obsession; and he worked out schemes, in all their details; only to think of something bigger and more engaging. One or two details were present in all his plans: a hiding-place for the treasure when he should get it, and a large number of lieutenants whom he could trust. He could, he believed, at the least throw the whole city into a state of chaos for a few hours--for half a day--for a whole day. And during that period of lawless confusion anything might happen to anybody--to Barbara for instance. But his plans were not ripe, nor his trusted lieutenants as yet sufficient in number.

He must therefore either put off his vengeance indefinitely, or run the risk of having his own career as a criminal come to a very sudden end.

For once in his life he vacillated. But it was something more than the desire for vengeance which decided him to risk everything on immediate action.

His plan was very simple. Sometimes a messenger-boy brought a note to her studio. And Blizzard had observed that Barbara's invariable habit with notes was first to read them, and then to burn them. She never tore them into pieces and threw them into the fireplace. She struck a match, lighted them at one corner, and saw to it that they were entirely consumed. When Barbara had finished with a note, or a circular, or a letter, Sherlock Holmes himself could not have recovered the contents or the name of the sender. Banking on this habit, Blizzard wrote Barbara a note and sent it to her father's house by a man he could trust. She received the note at six o'clock, while she was resting prior to dressing and dining out. It read as follows:

81 Marrow Lane.

DEAR MISS FERRIS:

My affairs don't seem to be prospering here, so I am going away. I am sorry the Bust isn't finished. You will be disappointed. I am leaving at 8 o'clock for the West. I have enjoyed sitting for you. I wish you all the success and happiness you deserve.

Very truly yours,

BLIZZARD.

Her mind working very rapidly, Barbara rose at once, and quite unconsciously, so strong was habit in her, struck a match, set the beggar's note on fire, threw it into the fireplace, and watched it burn to ashes. On the way to the fireplace she pressed a b.u.t.ton to summon her maid. When this one came, Barbara, already out of her dressing-gown, spoke imperatively:

”I am going out. I want a taxi called at once. Then come back and help me dress.”

But when the maid returned there was little for her to do. Barbara was in a hurry.

She found a taxi waiting at the door. She glanced at the driver--he was not one of those who usually drove her.

”Do you know where Marrow Lane is?”

”Is it near the Brooklyn Bridge, miss?”

”I think so. Marrow Lane, No. 81. You can make inquiries. Hurry.”

The strange driver drove skilfully and swiftly down the avenue. Two thoughts occupied him: the beauty of his fare, and the docility with which she came to the master's hand when he called.

In Barbara's mind there was but one thought: not that she was going to visit a disreputable man in a disreputable part of the city, but that she was going to keep that man in the city and finish her bust of him, or know the reason why. Fame was in her grasp. She felt astonis.h.i.+ngly sure of that. She was not going to let it escape for a mere matter of convention. It had been her first idea to send Blizzard a note by messenger. But she had more confidence in her personal powers of persuasion. If her model needed money or was in some sc.r.a.pe that could be righted by money and influence, she believed that she could keep him in New York.

It was not yet dark, but all the city lamps were lighted, and the East Side had that atmosphere of care-free gaiety habitual to it after business hours when the weather is rainless and warm. The taxicab moved slowly, because the children had overflowed the sidewalks and played games which kept them in blissful danger of their lives. Twice the taxi stopped. Instantly a crowd gathered about it, and Barbara became an embarra.s.sed but amused centre of criticism and admiration.

It became dark. The streets were less crowded. There were fewer lights.

There was an unpleasant smell of old fish and garbage. The people Barbara now observed seemed each and all intent upon something or other.

They were not merely loafing in the pure evening air, but hurrying.

There were no more children. The taxi pa.s.sed slowly (because of the uneven pavement) through a short, narrow street. The few lights in this street were nearly all red.

Save for the light in Blizzard's manufactory, Marrow Lane was dark and deserted. For some reason or other the city lights had gone out, or had been pa.s.sed over by the lamplighter.

Through the glazed door Barbara saw the vast black shadow of Blizzard's profile on the white wall of his office. There was no bell. She turned the k.n.o.b and pushed open the door. A bell clanged almost in her ear with fierce suddenness. It was like an alarm. Her heart beat the quicker for it; the number of her respirations increased. She was sorry that she had come. She was frightened; still she stepped through the door-way, and called in her clear? resolute voice:

”Mr. Blizzard! It's Miss Ferris.”

His vast shadow remained motionless like a stain on the wall. And for a moment he did not answer. Could she have seen his face itself, instead of only its shadow, she must have turned with a cry of fear and found that the door which had closed behind her, clanging its bell, was locked, and that there was no escape that way.