Abruptly, he lost patience. "No more crumbs, Mrs. Spaulding."

Over her protests and a barrage of new questions, none of which he answered, he ushered her through the door, down the corridor, and into one of the hotel's mirror-lined elevators.

"Take this woman to the lobby," he instructed the operator, "and see that she's escorted out of the building."

Chapter Three.

The satisfied smirk on Damon Bathory's face as the elevator door closed was enough to spur Diana on. She returned to the hotel by another door within a minute after being escorted out the front. She had no difficulty eluding the elevator operator or any other hotel staff, but once she was back in the lobby she hesitated.

Still shaken by what had happened in Bathory's room, Diana curbed her impatience. That dreadful man obviously thought she was little better than a wh.o.r.e, and yet she'd responded to him. He was a menace in every sense of the word.

She had not yet steeled herself to return to the fourth floor when the object of her interest exited the elevator and pa.s.sed not two feet in front of the spot where she stood, fortuitously concealed by a potted palm. Oblivious to her presence, he headed towards the nearest exit. From the intent look on his face, he was on important business.

Before she could think better of it, Diana followed him.

Damon Bathory did not deserve any consideration, she told herself. He had insulted her with his casual a.s.sumption that she'd crawl into his bed in order to get her story.

Spying on anyone wasn't to her taste, but Diana rationalized that Bathory had only himself to blame. She'd given him two opportunities to contribute to what she meant to write about him. Now she was free to get the details for her story any way she could.

Horatio Foxe wanted scandal. Dark secrets. She couldn't be certain that Bathory was guarding anything more than his right to privacy, or that she would learn anything significant by d.o.g.g.i.ng his footsteps for the rest of the day, but all of a sudden she was very tired of being told what to do. Although she could sympathize with Bathory's natural desire to keep his past, jaded or otherwise, from becoming public knowledge, her frustration over Foxe's demands fueled her irritation at the other man's behavior. She'd have liked to tell both of them to go to the devil.

Instead, when Bathory stepped off the curb outside the hotel and hailed a Hansom cab, Diana flagged down an olive-green Gurney.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked in a raspy voice.

All Diana could see of his face over a bright plaid m.u.f.fler were two bloodshot eyes. She hesitated only an instant. If she waited, she'd lose sight of her quarry.

"Follow that cab," she ordered, and was relieved when the driver sneezed, indicating that he was suffering from a head cold rather than keeping himself warm with drink.

Committed now to the chase, Diana unlatched the rear-facing door of the vehicle, scrambled onto one of the two lengthwise seats, and pulled the curtains across the side windows. She was left with a narrow opening through which she could see without being seen. If her luck was in, Bathory would never know she was behind him. She might just get her sensational story, after all.

The bubble of excitement that danced in her veins at the start of the chase popped only moments later. As the two cabs sped north and then east, Diana realized that she might not have enough money with her to pay for the ride.

A cab was the most expensive way to travel in Manhattan, fifty cents for the first mile and twenty-five cents for every mile thereafter. Although she did not often use it, it was Diana's custom to carry the necessary cab fare to get home when she ventured out at night. In the daytime, however, she went about on foot -- which cost nothing -- or at most paid her ten cents and took a horse car. She could not afford to chase Damon Bathory far if he insisted on this means of transportation.

Diana's Gurney stayed close behind the Hansom all the way to 1st Avenue, but she never even saw the speeding ambulance until it cut between them. There was no time to brace herself. The sudden stop jounced her right off the seat. Her elbow struck the door.

"Close one." The hackman cracked his whip to start the horse moving again.

Diana swallowed hard as she righted herself and rubbed her funny bone. Less than three weeks earlier, on the night of the fire at the Union Square Theater, another ambulance had taken the corner at 6th Avenue and 14th Street too sharply and overturned. The injured men in the back had been thrown into the street.

Such traffic accidents were far too common of late. She ought to write an article exposing the situation. A rueful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Foxe would probably expect her to claim she'd been injured near to death before he'd approve the idea.

Moments later, the Gurney stopped again. An empty Hansom, heading the other way, clattered past. With a sinking sensation in her stomach, Diana recognized the yellow topcoat and shiny silk hat of Bathory's driver. "Where could he have gone?"

"Not much here but Bellevue," her cabman mumbled into his m.u.f.fling scarf. "Ambulance came out of the hospital yard by the 26th Street gate."

Bellevue?

Diana stared up at the high, bleak walls. The facility was a respected medical school and hospital these days, but when it had first been built it had also housed a penitentiary. There were still bars across some of the windows.

It was a perfectly logical destination for someone in Damon Bathory's profession. Diana's imagination could conjure up any number of ghoulish reasons for him to pay the place a visit. Was he there to tour the operating theater? The morgue? The insane pavilion?

The cab driver cleared his throat, reminding Diana that she could not afford to have him wait until Bathory decided to leave. Getting out, she paid her fare. When she counted the change, she knew she'd not be taking any more cabs, not with only fifteen cents to her name.

A stiff breeze off the East River made Diana shiver, even though she knew the temperature was above freezing. The days had been mild for weeks now. Crocuses were already pushing their way out of the earth and a few trees had started to bud. That morning, she'd been tempted to trade her Ulster for a lighter-weight coat. Thank goodness she had not! The warmth of the heavy woolen garment was very welcome now. She wished she'd also thought to carry a m.u.f.f.

And more money.

Most of all, she thought as she shivered again, she wished she'd never heard of Damon Bathory.

Propelled by the cold wind and her own curiosity, Diana entered the hospital. Once inside, she sought out those women wearing distinctive blue and white striped seersucker dresses and starched white caps, collars, cuffs, and ap.r.o.ns. Their costumes marked them as students at Bellevue's Training School for Nurses. Diana hoped they would prove the most approachable members of the hospital staff.

No one recognized the name Damon Bathory, but the fifth young woman Diana accosted remembered seeing a man who fit his description.

"He's a handsome devil," she confirmed. "Dark haired. I saw him walking with Dr. Braisted, head of the insane pavilion. He must be a physician himself if he's been allowed in there. That area is off-limits to visitors."

More likely he was impersonating a doctor, Diana thought. She'd seen for herself what a talented performer he was.

She also knew far more than she wanted to about what went on inside the insane pavilion. The previous fall a fellow journalist had made headlines by feigning madness in order to reveal the abuses at Bellevue and conditions in the madhouse on Blackwell's Island. Nellie Bly's story had appeared first in the New York World and then, in December, in a book called Ten Days in a Mad-House.

According to Miss Bly, inmates were kept in cheerless surroundings, sleeping on iron cots furnished with straw-stuffed pillows and wool blankets, but the latter were worn thin by hundreds of washings and there was no heat. Cold air eddied into stark, dimly-lit rooms through windows which had bars but no gla.s.s, further adding to the torment of patients wearing hospital gowns made of cotton-flannel that barely reached their knees.

Most patients were cla.s.sified as hysterics, Diana recalled, a catchall term applied indiscriminately to those who suffered from symptoms as varied as muscular twitching and loss of memory. The restless, the apathetic, the delusional, all might be labeled hysterics. Standard practice after that diagnosis was to do little more than keep the sufferer inst.i.tutionalized.

Yes, Diana thought, she could imagine Damon Bathory in that setting. As a doctor ... or as a patient.

The relative warmth of the hospital no longer held any appeal for her. Retreating outside, she found a secluded spot from which to keep an eye on the entrance to the wing with the barred windows. For the best part of the next hour, she waited for Bathory to come out, unable to stop herself from wondering if the mind of a horror writer differed all that much from that of a madman.

By the time he reappeared -- head down and looking neither right nor left as he turned south down 1st Avenue -- Diana had recalled more than she wished to of the content of Nellie Bly's articles and had also revisited all the tales in both of Bathory's books. As she began to follow her quarry once more, myriad possibilities lingered in her mind, all of them dreadful to contemplate.

She trailed Bathory on foot, all the way back to his hotel. By the time they reached it, the only things she still worried about were the blisters rising on her feet. He was remarkably fit. She'd been hard put to keep pace with him. Although she was grateful he'd not taken another expensive cab, she was sadly footsore when she once more stood in Union Square.

She waited there, watching the Palace, until he reappeared a short time later. Diana followed him to an art gallery near 34th Street, her reward for diligence a new blister on one heel.

Through the display window she saw two men, Bathory and a dapper little gentleman who appeared to be the gallery manager. A sign on the door indicated there had been an auction on the premises the previous evening -- landscape paintings by an a.s.sortment of contemporary artists -- but today the place was quiet. Too quiet for her to enter and eavesdrop on their conversation without being noticed.

Bathory made no purchases. After a few minutes, he cut short the little man's chatter, exited the gallery, and returned to his hotel. Trailing after him, tired and discouraged, she considered her situation. Should she have remained at the art gallery to ask questions of the proprietor? If she had, she'd have lost sight of Bathory. She could go back. But what if he went out again?

As if in answer to her prayers, she spotted one of the street arabs Horatio Foxe employed to run errands. She felt sorry for the urchin, one of so many homeless lads who ran wild in the city. They earned a pittance by selling newspapers on the street corners and lived in whatever shelter they could find. The "newsboys' lodging house" was Printing House Square, in the open. She'd seen dozens of them there late at night, fighting for the warm spots around the grated vent holes that let out heat and steam from the underground press rooms.

"You, lad," she called to the lanky, sullen-faced boy. "What's your name?"

"Poke, missus." He pulled off a filthy cap and looked hopefully up at her.

"Did you see the man who just went into the hotel?"

"De bloke wit no hat?"

"Er, yes. I want to hire you to watch for him to come out again and follow him if he does."

"On de level?"

She produced a few pennies, nearly all the money she had left, to persuade young Poke to take over surveillance of Bathory's hotel.

"My eyes, ain't it nice!" The pennies disappeared into a grubby hand.

After giving the boy further instructions, Diana left him lurking in front of the Palace Hotel.

What was she up to now? Ben watched from the small balcony attached to his hotel room as Mrs. Spaulding carried on an intense conversation with a rough-looking lad with unkempt hair and clothes that hung loosely on his thin frame.

Posting a guard, Ben decided when he saw money change hands. His nemesis went back the way she had come, limping slightly. The lad remained behind.

She'd return to the art gallery, he had no doubt. Ben had caught sight of her there, peering at him through the huge plate gla.s.s windows that fronted the place, and had abruptly taken his leave.

Mentally d.a.m.ning the woman to perdition, Ben had to admire her tenacity. He doubted she would learn much from the manager. The authorization Ben had shown him in order to collect Aaron's bank draft had not borne his name and he did not think the fellow would give out any information about Aaron, either, not when Ben had taken the precaution of warning him he'd lose future commissions if he did so.

Because he was thinking about his brother, Ben did not at first credit his identification of the man standing in the shadow of the iron fence surrounding Union Square Park. Then the figure moved and there was no mistaking that habitual slump. Instead of being almost five hundred miles away, Aaron Northcote was here in New York City.

Cursing even more creatively than he had when he'd noticed Mrs. Spaulding on his trail, Ben headed back towards the lobby at a run. He ignored the elevator and took the stairs. He didn't worry about being seen by the young watchdog Mrs. Spaulding had posted. He'd deal with the boy later. He exited the hotel at top speed and snagged Aaron's arm just as his brother was about to set out in the same direction Mrs. Spaulding had taken. All but dragging the younger man back into the three-acre park, he held his temper until he was sure they were out of earshot of the urchin.

"What are you doing here?" Ben demanded.

To his relief, Aaron did not try to get away. "Following you."

It did no good to get angry with Aaron. Taking a deep breath, Ben willed himself to calm down. He shoved his brother onto a bench and sat beside him. With luck, and the aid of a healthy bribe, the boy watching them would not report any of what he saw to Mrs. Spaulding.

"You went to the art gallery," Aaron said. "I could have done that."

"Yes, but you agreed after what happened in Philadelphia that I'd take care of business matters for you. Remember?"

Aaron didn't answer.

"I have the bank draft. Do you want it?"

"No. You know I lose things like that."

"That's why I collected it, Aaron. You do what you do best and I do what I do best."

"There was a woman following you," Aaron said with one of the abrupt changes of subject for which he was notorious. "She's trouble, Ben."

"Why do you think that?"

He tapped his forehead. "I just know."

"Do me a favor? Stay away from her. There's no need for you to speak to her." The thought of Mrs. Spaulding interviewing Aaron chilled Ben's blood.

"I know where she lives."

For a moment Ben felt as if he'd been struck. He had to breathe deeply before he could ask the next question. "How do you know that, Aaron?"

"I followed her last night after the reading. She was the last one to leave the theater."

"Why didn't you stay and talk to me, Aaron?" And just how long had his brother been in New York?

But when Aaron only shrugged his shoulders, Ben knew it was no use asking him more questions. Aaron never remembered details.

"You let me deal with her, Aaron."

"You'll take care of her?"

"I'll take care of her."

He gave a nod. "Good. Can't let people follow you, you know."

He seemed unaware of the irony of that statement.

"I want you to go home," Ben said. "Will you do that for me? Today?"

"Are you coming, too?"

"I need to stay a little longer. I wish I could leave now. My business in New York is finished. I'd planned to head home first thing tomorrow morning. But there is that woman."

His eyes bright, Aaron listened closely to Ben's suggestion that he travel in a private compartment.

"I'll follow along just as soon as I can. Believe me, I don't want to spend any more time than I have to in the city."

"You've been gone a long time."

"Yes. I have."

Aaron nodded sagely. "Mother's fault."

Silently, Ben had to agree with his a.s.sessment. Much of this was Maggie Northcote's fault, but it was pointless to a.s.sign blame.

"I'm hungry," Aaron complained.

Most likely, he'd forgotten to eat. Ben thought a moment, then hailed a horse-drawn jitney, instructing the driver to take Aaron to the Park Avenue Oyster House. It had the advantage of being located just past the entrance to the Murray Hill Tunnel, on the south side of Grand Central Station. "I'll meet you there in an hour," he told his brother, and gave Aaron sufficient money to buy a hot meal.

As soon as Aaron's cab was out of sight, Ben turned to the scruffy lad leaning against a nearby lamppost. "I'll double what the lady pays you," he said.