"I heard her voice, sir; up there somewhere, sir, soon after I come to my senses. She and some man went along outside. Sounded like he was makin' her go with him. I couldn't get much of what was said, but he sure talked awful rough, an' she seemed to be pleadin' with him. They wasn't there but just a minute, an' then, a little later, I heard an automobile start up."

"You have no idea how long ago this was?"

"No, I ain't, sir. I been lyin' here about half dead, I guess, an' I don't seem to have known anything after that, until those fellows come down here with the lantern. Were they hunting after you?"

"Yes; I outwitted them up stairs, and jumped from a window. But that is enough talk now; we'll go over the whole affair when we are safely away from this place. How is it? do you think you can navigate?"

s.e.xton responded by getting slowly to his feet. He trembled, and was so uncertain, as he attempted to grope forward, that West grasped him firmly, helping him slowly toward the foot of the steps. Even this effort, however, helped the man to recover somewhat the use of his numbed limbs, while his breathing became much easier. The two crept up the stairs cautiously, and surveyed the cluttered up yard as best they might in the dim light of the distant street lamp. It appeared entirely deserted, nor was there any evidence that the building above was occupied. No doubt lights were burning within, but if so the shades must have been drawn closely, allowing no reflection to escape. No better opportunity for evading notice could be hoped for, and West, alert now to every chance, made instant decision.

"They are all inside. Creep along behind that pile of lumber to where you see the hole in the fence. I'll be just behind you. That's the way."

The narrow alley was much lighter, yet still dark enough to conceal their movements, as they clung close to the deeper shadows. Except for an old cart it was unoccupied, the surface covered with ashes, so packed as to leave no trace of wheels. Ahead of them at the end of the block, glowed the only street lamp visible. s.e.xton, by now largely recovered from his late experiences, broke into a run, with West following closely behind.

Both were eager to escape from the immediate neighbourhood unseen.

Suddenly s.e.xton stumbled, but arose almost instantly to his feet again, grasping something which gleamed like silver in his hand.

"Not hurt, are you?" asked West anxiously.

"No; what's this I found?"

The other took it impatiently.

"What is it? Why a small pocket knife, of course. Come on, man, don't stand mooning there." He slipped the article carelessly into his pocket.

"Let's get out into the open while the road is clear."

"Where are you going?" s.e.xton panted, endeavouring to keep beside him.

"Have you anything planned out?"

"Not very much; Milwaukee Avenue first. There is sure to be an all-night restaurant somewhere in sight. Telephone for a taxi, don't dare to risk a street car, we both look too tough."

"Suppose they will follow us?"

"Hardly; they will have no idea which way we went, or how long we'll have been gone. All Hobart will think about now will be getting out of sight himself. Once we turn off this street, we'll be safe enough."

It was considerably past midnight when the two men finally reached the University Club; they had lunched at an all-night restaurant, washed and made themselves as presentable as possible, yet were hardly recognizable as they entered the Club lobby. Neither possessed a hat; s.e.xton was in his shirt sleeves, while West's coat clung to him in rags. Without waiting to explain anything to the servant in charge, except to state briefly that s.e.xton would be his guest for the night, the Captain hurried into the waiting elevator, and accompanied by his companion, ascended to his apartment above.

The reaction from the excitement of the evening left s.e.xton dull and drowsy once he felt secure from any possible danger. His only desire was to lie quiet, and forget. Stretched out on a comfortable lounge, he fell asleep almost instantly, making no effort even to remove his clothes.

West was of a different temperament, his mind far too active to find sleep possible. His only desire was to think, plan, decide upon some future course of action. With mind busy, forgetful of the very presence of his companion, he indulged in a bath, again dressed himself, and, lighting a cigar, settled back into an easy chair to fight the whole out alone with himself.

The adventures of the night had greatly changed his conception of this affair in which he had become so strangely involved. The mystery confronting him appeared more difficult of solution than ever. His first vague theory of the case had already gone completely to smash. Question after question rose before him which remained unanswered. He was more thoroughly convinced than ever that Percival Coolidge had been murdered; that the act had been committed either by Hobart himself, or under his direction. He possessed no proof, however, nor could he figure out a motive for the crime. Who was this Jim Hobart? That was one of the first things to be learned. Was he in any way personally interested in the fortune left by Stephen Coolidge? Or did he hold any special relationship with the murdered man? How could he expect to profit by the sudden death of Percival? More important still, what peculiar influence did the fellow exert over the girl? Here was by far the deeper mystery, the one that troubled him most. The others seemed possible of explanation, but the sudden change in Natalie Coolidge was beyond all understanding.

Except in face, form, dress, outward appearance, she no longer seemed to West as being the same woman he had formerly known. His original interest in her had vanished; he had learned to distrust and doubt her sincerity and truth. Beyond all question she was openly playing an important part in this tragedy under Hobart's direction, but for the life of him he could not figure out to what end. Still the very mystery of it had its fascination. While he felt no longer any special desire to serve her, to further risk his life in her cause, yet he experienced a fierce determination to learn what all this really meant; to uncover the object these conspirators had in view. Although he imagined love no longer spurred him on, his real interest in the affair became even more intense, with an aroused desire to read the riddle. He convinced himself that from henceforth this was to be his only object--not the girl, nor any attraction she once had for him, but a stern determination to solve this crime, and bring its perpetrators to justice. If she was involved it could not be helped, she would have to suffer with the rest; his own duty was clear.

Yet how could he begin action? What clue did he possess which could be followed? Practically none. Before morning, that saloon on Wray Street would unquestionably be deserted, except perhaps by its proprietor, and Mike would simply deny everything. A search of the place would be useless, for Hobart would be too sly a fox to leave any trail. Two possibilities remained; the police might have some record of the fellow, might know his favourite haunts, even be able to locate his next probable hiding place. If not, the only hope remaining would seem to be Natalie Coolidge. She would undoubtedly return to Fairlawn; was probably there already, and, by shadowing her, the whereabouts of Hobart would surely be revealed either sooner or later.

But possibly there was a quicker way to learn their purpose than by thus seeking to find either. If it was the Coolidge fortune which was at stake, why not endeavour to learn in whose trust it was being held, and what steps were being taken to safe-guard it? This investigation ought not to be particularly difficult, even though he possessed no authority; he could explain the nature of his interest to an attorney, and be advised how to proceed. Determined to take all three steps the first thing next day, West rested back comfortably in the chair, already half asleep. One hand rested in his pocket, and as his fingers fumbled some object there, he suddenly recalled the knife s.e.xton had found in the alley.

He drew the article forth curiously, and looked at it under the glow of the electric light--it was a small silver handled pen-knife, such as a lady might carry, a rather strange thing to be discovered in a dirt alley back of Wray Street. The incongruity struck him forcibly, and he sat up, wide awake once more, seeking for some mark of identification on the polished handle. There was none, not an inscription of any kind, but he noted that the single slender blade did not fit closely down into its place. He opened it idly to learn the cause--beneath appeared the white gleam of tightly folded paper.

CHAPTER XX

WHAT THE TELEPHONE TOLD

All West's indifference vanished instantly. He had to pry the paper out, so closely had it been wedged in beneath the closed knife blade, and it required a moment in which to straighten it out so that the writing was discernable. Even then the marks were so faint, and minute, he could not really decipher them until he made use of a magnifying gla.s.s lying on the desk. A woman's hand, using a pencil, had hastily inscribed the words on a sc.r.a.p of common paper, apparently torn from some book--the inspiration of an instant, perhaps, a sudden hope born of desperation. He fairly had to dig the words out, letter by letter, copying them on an old envelope until he had the message complete: "_Please notify police to search Seminole quick_."

West read this over, word by word, again and again. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Had it any possible connection with the case in which he was interested? There was no signature, nothing to guide him; yet in some way the plea sounded real, was a cry of distress, an appeal for help. It could be given no other meaning, yet how long had it been lying there in the alley? Not any great length of time surely, for the polished silver was far too conspicuous to escape notice. It must have been dropped during the night, within a very short time of its discovery. But what did the words signify? "_Notify police_" was clear enough, but "_search Seminole_" meant absolutely nothing. What was "Seminole"--an apartment house? A hotel? A saloon? Perhaps the police would know; evidently the writer so believed, or she would never have used the name with such confidence. A familiar name to her, she a.s.sumed that the police would have no difficulty in instantly locating the place meant. The haste with which the message had apparently been written, its short, sharp words, bespoke urgent need, the consciousness of imminent peril. Plainly the writer had used the only means at hand in a hurried desperate effort to gain a.s.sistance.

"The police." The request had been for the police; then why not appeal to the police? Why not take the note now directly to headquarters, and let them help solve its mystery? At first West hesitated, yet a moment's thought convinced him this would be the logical course to pursue. He could accomplish nothing alone, unguided. His appealing to the police need not necessarily involve any disclosure relative to the Coolidge matter. He had found this note accidentally in an alley in the northwest section of the city; his being there need require no special explanation; he did not understand its meaning, but it was quite evidently a police matter, and consequently he placed it in their hands. That all sounded natural enough. Besides at this hour of the night there was no other place to which he could go for information.

He looked at s.e.xton, who was sleeping soundly, and decided not to awaken the man. He had no use for his services just now; the City Hall was only a few blocks away, and he might not be out more than an hour himself. He would leave a note so that if by any chance he should be delayed, s.e.xton would understand what had occurred. He scratched this off hastily, placed it in a conspicuous place, and swiftly departed, after extinguishing the light. He was no longer conscious of fatigue, or the pain of bruises, his mind eager to learn the meaning of this new discovery.

It had been a quiet night at the City Hall Station, and West encountered no difficulty in reaching the presence of the lieutenant in charge. The latter gazed at his caller curiously over an early edition of the morning paper, as the officer who had opened the door to the inner office, said rather doubtfully.

"This guy wants to see you personally, sir; he wouldn't talk to no one else."

"All right, Slavin; shut the door, and I'll hear what he has to say. What is it, my man?"

West explained swiftly and clearly, his manner of speech, as well as his statement as to who he was, evidently making a favourable impression on his listener, who interrupted the brief narrative with several respectfully asked questions. He look the note, spread it out on the desk, and studied it carefully.

"Looks genuine enough," he commented at last, "but not very clear. I don't know any place in this town called Seminole. Wait a minute though; perhaps one of the boys may have an idea."

He pressed a b.u.t.ton on top of the desk, and in response to the summons, a side door opened, and a main in plain clothes entered.

"You rang, sir?"

"Yes, McAdams; this gentleman here--"

"Captain West, as I am a sinner!" he exclaimed. "Gee! but I am glad to see you again, old man! Say. By Gad! you don't remember me."

"Oh, but I certainly do, Mac," and West grasped the extended hand heartily. "It's a devil of a surprise, that's all. Saw you last at Brest, the day you sailed for home. So this was your job, Sergeant?"

"Been with the department ever since I was a kid. Put me in plain clothes since I came back. Lieutenant, this is Captain West, over across the pond with the Engineers; we were buddies for about two months. What was wanted, sir?"

"Well, Captain West has just been telling me a rather peculiar story, and wanted some information I thought perhaps you could give; you know the old town right now better than I do. First of all, do you recall any crook by the name of Hobart--Jim Hobart?"

"Hobart? Hobart? no, not off hand, I don't. How old a man is he, Captain?"

"Middle-aged, anyway; an active fellow enough, but his hair is quite grey."

"Do you know where he hangs out?"

"The last I saw of him was in a saloon known as Mike's Place over on Wray Street."

"Off Milwaukee; yes, I know. Mike is a big Pole, but has never had any serious trouble so far as I know. However, being there is no special recommendation to a guy, but I don't believe this man Hobart has been pulled since I've been on the force. And you don't recall the name, Lieutenant?"

"No; but he might be an old timer come back. Look him up in the index, Mac. That will soon tell you whether we have got any such mug, or not."