"Cap' Rickards slowed up and took me aboard," explained Tower volubly.

"Then he filled me with rock and rye and packed me in blankets. Gee, how they smelt, but how grateful they were! What between prime old whiskey inside and greasy wool outside I dodged a probable attack of pneumonia.

When the _Cygnet_ tied up at Barnegat at noon to-day I was fit as a fiddle. Cap' Rickards rigged me out in his sh.o.r.e-going suit and lent me twenty dollars, as that pair of blackguards in the launch had robbed me of every cent. They even took a crooked sixpence I found in London twenty years ago, darn 'em! I phoned Helen, of course, but didn't realize what a hubbub my sad fate had created until I read a newspaper in the train. When I reached home poor Helen was so out of gear that she hadn't told a soul of my escape. I do believe she hardly accepted my own a.s.surance that I was still on the map. However, when I got her calmed down a bit, she remembered you and the rest of the excitement, so I phoned the detective bureau and the club, and came straight here."

"That is very good of you, Tower," murmured Meiklejohn brokenly. He looked in far worse plight than the man who had survived such a desperate adventure.

"Well, my dear chap, I was naturally anxious to see you, because--but perhaps you don't know that those scoundrels meant to attack you, not me?"

Meiklejohn smiled wanly. "Oh, yes," he said. "The police found that out by some means. I believe the authorities actually suspected me of being concerned in the affair."

Tower laughed boisterously. "That's the limit!" he roared. "Come with me to the club. We'll soon spoil that yarn. What a fuss the papers made!

I'm quite a celebrity."

"I'll follow you in half an hour. And, look here, Tower, this matter did really affect me. There was a woman in the case. I b.u.t.ted into an old feud merely as a friend. I think matters will now be settled amicably.

Allow me to make good your loss in every way. If you can persuade the police that the whole thing was a hoax--"

For the first time Tower looked non-plussed. He was enjoying the notoriety thrust on him so unexpectedly.

"Well, I can hardly do that," he said. "But if I can get them to drop further inquiries I'll do it, Meiklejohn, for your sake. Gee! Come to look at you, you must have had a bad time.... Well, good-by, old top!

See you later. Suppose we dine together? That will help dissipate this queer story as to you being mixed up in an attack on me. Now, I must be off and play ghost in the club smoking-room."

Meiklejohn heard his fluttering man-servant let Tower out. He tottered to a chair, and Ralph Voles came in noiselessly.

"Well, what about it?" chuckled the reprobate. "We seem to have struck it lucky."

"Go away!" snarled the Senator, goaded to a sudden rage by the other man's cynical humor. "I can stand no more to-day."

"Oh, take a pull at this!" And the decanter was pushed across the table.

"Didn't Dr. Johnson once say that claret is the liquor for boys, port for men, but he who aspires to be a hero should drink brandy? And you must be a hero to-night. Get onto the Bureau and use the soft pedal.

Then beat it to the club. You and Tower ought to be well soused in an hour. He's a good sport, all right. I'll mail him that sixpence if it's still in my pants."

"Do nothing of the sort!" snapped Meiklejohn. "You're--"

"Ah, cut it out! Tower wants plenty to talk about. His crooked sixpence will fill many an eye, and the more he spiels the better it is for you.

Gee, but you're yellow for a two-hundred pounder! Now, listen! Make those cops drop all charges against Rachel. Then, in a week or less, I'll come along and fix things about the girl. She's the fly in the amber now. Mind she doesn't get out, or the howl about Mr. Ronald Tower's trip to Barnegat won't amount to a row of beans against the trouble pretty Winifred can give you. _Dios!_ It's a pity. She's a real beauty, and that's more than any one can say for you, Brother William."

"You go to--"

"That's better! You're reviving. Well, good-by, Senator! _Au revoir sans adieux!_"

The big man swaggered out. Meiklejohn drank no spirits. He needed a clear brain that evening. After deep self-communing he rang up police headquarters and inquired for Mr. Clancy.

"Mr. Clancy is out," he was told by some one with a strong, resonant voice. "Anything we can do, Senator?"

"About that poor woman, Rachel Craik--"

"Oh, she's all right! She gave us a farewell smile two hours ago."

"You mean she is at liberty?"

"Certainly, Senator."

"May I ask to whom I am speaking?"

"Steingall, Chief of the Bureau."

"This wretched affair--it's merely a family squabble between Miss Craik and a relative--might well end now, Mr. Steingall."

"That is for Mr. Tower and Mr. Van Hofen to decide."

"Yes, I quite understand. I have seen Mr. Tower, and he shares my opinion."

"Just so, Senator. At any rate, the yacht mystery is almost cleared up."

"I agree with you most heartily."

For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours Senator Meiklejohn looked contented with life when he hung up the receiver. Therefore, it was well for his peace of mind that he could not hear Steingall's silent comment as he, in turn, disconnected the phone.

"That old fox agreed with me too heartily," he thought. "The yacht mystery is only just beginning--or I'm a Dutchman!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE DREAM FACE

That evening of her dismissal from Brown's, and her meeting with Rex Carshaw, Winifred opened the door of the dun house in One Hundred and Twelfth Street the most downhearted girl in New York. Suddenly, mystery had gathered round her. Something threatened, she knew not what. When the door slammed behind her her heart sank--she was alone not only in the house, but in the world. This thought possessed her utterly when the excitement caused by Carshaw and Fowle, and their speedy arrest, had pa.s.sed.

That her aunt, the humdrum Rachel Craik, should have any sort of connection with the murder of Ronald Tower, of which Winifred had chanced first to hear on Riverside Drive that morning, seemed the wildest nonsense. Then Winifred was overwhelmed afresh, and breathed to herself, "I must be dreaming!"

And yet--the house was empty! Her aunt was not there--her aunt was held as a criminal! It was not a dream, but only like one, a waking nightmare far more terrifying. Most of the rooms in the house had nothing but dust in them. Rachel Craik had preferred to live as solitary in teeming Manhattan as a castaway on a rock in the midst of the sea.

Winifred's mind was accustomed now to the thought of that solitude shared by two. This night, when there were no longer two, but only one, the question arose strongly in her mind--why had there never been more than two? Certainly her aunt was not rich, and might well have let some of the rooms. Yet, even the suggestion of such a thing had made Rachel Craik angry. This, for the first time, struck Winifred as odd.

Everything was puzzling, and all sorts of doubts peeped up in her, like ghosts questioning her with their eyes in the dark.

When the storm of tears had spent its force she had just enough interest in her usual self to lay the table and make ready a meal, but not enough interest to eat it. She sat by a window of her bedroom, her hat still on her head, looking down. The street lamps were lit. It grew darker and darker. Down there below feet pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed in mult.i.tudes, like drops of the eternal cataract of life.

Winifred's eyes rested often on the spot where Rex Carshaw had spoken to her and had knocked down Fowle, her tormentor. In hours of trouble, when the mind is stunned, it will often go off into musings on trivial things. So this young girl, sitting at the window of the dark and empty house, let her thoughts wander to her rescuer. He was well built, and poised like an athlete. He had a quick step, a quick way of talking, was used to command; his brow was square, and could threaten; he had the deepest blue eyes, and glossy brown hair; he was a tower of strength to protect a girl; and his wife, if he had one, must have a feeling of safety. Thoughts, or half-thoughts, like these pa.s.sed through her mind.

She had never before met any young man of Carshaw's type.

It became ten o'clock. She was tired after the day's work and trouble of mind. The blow of her dismissal, the fright of her interview with the police, the arrest of her aunt--all this sudden influx of mystery and care formed a burden from which there was no escape for exhausted nature but in sleep. Her eyes grew weary at last, and, getting up, she discarded her hat and some of her clothes; then threw herself on the bed, still half-dressed, and was soon asleep.

The hours of darkness rolled on. That tramp of feet in the street grew thin and scattered, as if the army of life had undergone a repulse. Then there was a rally, when the theaters and picture-houses poured out their crowds; but it was short, the powers of night were in the ascendant, and soon the last stragglers retreated under cover. Of all this Winifred heard nothing--she slept soundly.

But was it in a dream, that voice which she heard? Something somewhere seemed to whisper, "She must be taken out of New York--she is the image of her mother."

It was a hushed, grim voice.