Only a man of Taylor's coa.r.s.e and cruel mould could have looked at her without remorse or compunction. He did not see a beautiful refined woman cheerfully bearing another's cross. He saw only a society girl, who had matched her immature wits against his and lost, was beaten and in the dust. There was a pathetic break in her voice as she answered him.

"I shall not fail you," she said.

Duncan closed the door after them.

"Well?" Taylor demanded eagerly when they were alone. "Did Denby declare the necklace?"

"No, sir," Duncan returned promptly.

"Then I was right," the other commented. "He's trying to smuggle it in.

Jim, this is the biggest job we've ever handled."

"Ford and Hammett are at the dock all ready to search him when I give the word."

Duncan was sharing in his chief's triumph, but Taylor's next command was disappointing.

"Don't give the word," he enjoined. "There's to be no search."

"No search?" exclaimed the chagrined Duncan.

"No," Taylor told him. "Just let him slide through with the ordinary examination. Trail Denby and his party to Westbury and be sure none of them slip the necklace to anyone on the way out there, but no fuss and no arrests, remember. Meanwhile, get up a fake warrant for the arrest of Miss Amy Cartwright. It may come in handy."

"Yes, sir," said Duncan obediently.

"And when you've told Ford and Hammett what they are to do, change your clothes and make Gibbs do the same, and meet me at the Pennsylvania Station at six o'clock."

"Where are we going?" Duncan asked. He could see from his chief's manner that something important was in the wind.

"To Long Island," he was told. "We are going to call on Miss Ethel Cartwright."

"Then you can use her to land Denby?" his subordinate cried excitedly.

"Use her?" the deputy-surveyor said with a grim smile. "Say, Jim, she doesn't know it, but she's going to get that necklace for me to-night."

He hurried out of the room, leaving Duncan shaking his head in wonderment. His chief might have qualities that were not endearing, and his manner might at times be rough, but where was there a man who rode through obstacles with the same fine disregard as Daniel Taylor?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mrs. Harrington admitted freely that she had been very far-seeing in asking Denby to travel on the Mauretania with her and Monty. She was one of those modern women who count days damaging to their looks if there comes an hour of boredom in them, and her new acquaintance was always amusing.

One day when they were all three sitting on deck she asked him: "What are you going to do when you get home?"

"Nothing particular," he replied, "except that I want to run down to Washington some time during the month."

"You see," Monty explained, "Steve is a great authority on the tariff.

The Secretary of the Treasury does nothing without consulting him. He has to go down and help the cabinet out."

"That's hardly true," Denby said mildly, "but I have friends in Washington nevertheless." It was obvious Monty was not taken in by this.

He only regarded his friend as a superb actor who refused to be frightened by the hourly alarms his faithful a.s.sistant took to him with fast-beating heart. Young Vaughan told himself a dozen times a day that this excitement, this suspicion of the motives of all strangers, was undermining his health. He had complained of the dull evenness of his existence before meeting Denby in Paris, but he felt such a lament could never again be justified. He found himself unable to sit still for long.

He marvelled to see that Denby could sit for hours in a deck-chair talking to Alice without seeming to care whether mysterious strangers were eyeing him or not.

"I asked you," Mrs. Harrington went on, "because, if you've nothing better to do, will you spend a week with us at Westbury? Michael will like you, and if you don't like Michael, there's something seriously wrong with you."

"I'd love to come," he said eagerly. "Thank you very much."

"Hooray," said Monty. "Alice, you're a sweet soul to ask him. Of course he'll like Michael. Who doesn't?"

"Everybody ought to," she said happily. "Do you know, Mr. Denby, I'm one of the only three women in our set who still love their husbands. I wouldn't tell you that except for the reason you'll find out. He's the most generous soul in the world and when I go to him with a bank-book that won't balance, he adds it up and says I've made a mistake and that I'm on the right side. How many husbands would do that?"

"I might," Monty a.s.serted, "because I can't add up long columns, but Michael's a demon at statistics, or used to be."

"He's such an old dear," Mrs. Harrington went on. "His one peculiar talent is the invention of new and strange drinks. I never come back from any long absence but he shows me something violently colored which is built in my honor. And Monty will tell you," she added laughing, "that I have never been seen to shudder while he was looking. Have I, Monty?"

"You're a good sport," said Monty, "and if ever I kill a man, it will be Michael, and my motive will be jealousy."

"Well, you needn't look so unhappy about it," she cried, as a frown pa.s.sed over his face and he sank back in his chair, all his good-humor gone.

Monty had in that careless phrase, "If ever I kill a man," reminded himself vividly of the dangers that he felt beset him and his friend Steven Denby. He had been trying to forget it and now it was with him to stay. And another and a dreadful thought occurred. Would Denby take those accursed pearls with him to the Harrington mansion on Long Island? It was so disquieting that he rose abruptly and went into a secluded corner of the upper smoking-room and called for a cigar and a pony of brandy.

His attention was presently attracted to a stout comfortable-looking man who was staring at him as though to encourage a bow of recognition. He had noticed the stout and affable gentleman before and always in the same seat, but never before had he sought acquaintance in this manner.

There was no doubt in Monty's mind that the man was one of those suave gamblers who reap their richest harvests on the big fast liners. No doubt he knew that Monty was a Vaughan and had occasionally fallen for such professionals and inveigled into a quiet little game. But Monty felt himself of a different sort now.

There was no doubt that the affable gentleman had fully made up his mind as to his plan of action. He rose from his comfortable chair and made his way to the younger man with his hand held out in welcome.

"I thought it was you," he said, and wrung Monty's reluctant hand, "but you are not quite the same as when I saw you last."

"No doubt," Monty said coldly; "I am older and _I_ am not the fool I used to be."

"That's good," said the affable gentleman pressing the b.u.t.ton that was to summon a steward. "Your father will be glad to hear that."

"Have the kindness to leave my father alone," the younger commanded.

Never in his life had Monty found himself able to be so unpleasant.

There was, he discovered, a certain joy in it.

"Why, certainly," said the other a trifle startled, "if you wish it.

Only as he and I were old friends, I saw no harm in it."

"Old friends?" sneered Monty. "Let me see, you were the same year at Yale, weren't you?"

"Of course," the affable stranger said, and turned to see the advancing steward. "What will you have?" he asked.

"I don't drink with strangers," Monty said rising.

"Strangers!" cried the other with the rising intonation of indignation.

"Well, I like that!"