CHAPTER XX

The startling news from Philadelphia that Dorothy had suddenly

disappeared and was believed to have been kidnapped, fell upon the

Traynor home with the crushing force of a bombshell. At first Helen

refused to credit the report. It seemed impossible that any new

suffering was to be inflicted upon her after what she had already

endured. White faced, her whole being shaken by emotion, she read and

re-read her aunt's letter, telling of the child's mysterious

disappearance, and when at last she could read it no more because of

the tears that blinded her, she threw herself limp and broken hearted

into Ray's arms. Hysterically she cried:

"What have I done that I should be made to suffer in this way? My God!

Where is my child? This maddening suspense will kill me."

Ray tried to soothe her. Reassuringly, she said:

"Don't worry, dear. Everything will be all right. A general alarm has

been sent out. The police all over the country are searching high and

low. It's only a question of a few hours and you'll have good news."

But the hours passed and no news came to cheer the distracted,

broken-hearted mother. Dorothy had disappeared completely, leaving no

trace, no clue behind.

There was neither rest nor peace for the Traynor household that day.

Helen, almost out of her mind from grief and worry, refused to eat or

sleep until news of the missing child was received. In her agony she

went down on her knees and prayed as she had never prayed before that

her child be restored to her.

Her little daughter was, she felt, the one link that still bound her to

life. To her husband she felt she could not turn for sympathy. The

romance of their early married life had been shattered forever by the

extraordinary change that had come over him. He had long since ceased

to be to her any more than a name. In her heart, she had come to

despise and detest him as much as before she had worshiped the very

ground he trod. It was an astonishing revulsion of feeling which she

was powerless to explain; she only knew that the old love, the old

passion he had awakened was now quite dead. He inspired in her no more

affection or feeling than the merest stranger. Ever since his return

from South Africa they had lived apart. Ever since that first night of

his return when their tête-à-tête in the library was interrupted by the

bogus telegram, he had quite ceased his amorous advances. He seemed

anxious to avoid her. Only on rare occasions, and then it was by

accident, did they find themselves in each other's company.

In fact, he was practically never home, living almost exclusively at

the club, where he went the pace with associates of his choosing,

mostly gamblers and men about town. He had begun to drink hard and

when not in pool rooms or at the races, betting recklessly on the

horses, squandering such huge sums, and overdrawing his check account

so often that the bank was compelled to ask him to desist, he sat in

the barrooms with his cronies till all hours of the morning when he

would be brought home in a condition of shocking intoxication. Happily

Helen was spared the spectacle of the degradation of a man she once had

loved with all the force of her virgin soul. Roberts, the butler,

aided by the other servants, smuggled their intoxicated master up to

his room, where he remained until sober, when he went back to his club

only to repeat the same performance.

To such a man she could not turn for aid or consolation in the hour of

this new misfortune. Indeed, ever since his return, he had been

strangely indifferent to the welfare of the child, never asking after

her or expressing a desire to see her. At times it seemed as if he had

forgotten that he had a child. By some strange metamorphosis he had

developed into an unnatural father as well as a brutal, indifferent

husband.

But to Helen, alone save for the devoted companionship of her sister,

this was anxiety and suffering enough. Only twenty-four hours had

passed since the child disappeared, but to the unhappy mother it seemed

as many years. Constantly at the telephone, expecting each moment to

hear that the police had been successful in finding the child, she was

gradually wearing herself away to a shadow. Breakfast she left

untouched. Lunch she refused to eat. In vain Ray remonstrated with

her. If she went on like that she would fall ill. But still Helen

refused. Tears choked her, and morning wore into afternoon and still

no news.

After lunch Ray went out to see if Mr. Steell could help them,

promising to return as soon as possible. Helen sat and waited alone.

The clock was just striking two o'clock when the front doorbell rang

and a letter was brought to her. She did not recognize the writing,

but eagerly she tore it open. Instinctively, she felt it concerned her

missing darling. The letter read as follows:

No. -- Lasalle Street, Bronx.

Friday.

Madame:

Your child is safe and in good hands. She wants to see her mother. If

you come this afternoon (Friday) to the above address you can see her.

It is the house with the closed green shutters. But if you value your

child's life you must come unaccompanied, and you must inform no one of

the contents of this letter, not even the members of your family. If

you disobey, swift punishment will follow and your child will suffer.

Climb eight flights and knock three times on door at end of

passage.----X.

There was no signature. The person who wrote it evidently had reasons

of his own for wishing to remain concealed. That money would be

demanded was more than probable. What other motive could the kidnapper

have? Money she would give--all she had in the world, if only she

could get back her precious child. That a visit to such a place

unattended was full of danger she did not stop to consider. She only

knew that her child was close by--here in New York--and had asked for

her. Not for a moment did she listen to the warnings of prudence. Go

she must, and immediately. She did not even stop to leave a note of

explanation for Ray. Stuffing some money in a bag, she left the house,

saying she would return soon.

Taking the Third Avenue "L" she left the train at Tremont Avenue, and,

after considerable difficulty, found the house indicated in the letter.

Yes, there were the closed green shutters. At first, on seeing it

apparently untenanted, she thought she must have made a mistake in the

number, but, finding that there was no other place near by that

answered the description as well, she decided to risk climbing the long

flight of stairs.

Arrived on the top floor, breathless from the unusual exertion, she saw

a long narrow passage, and, at the end of that, a door. That, no

doubt, was the place. Her heart beating violently, she went up to the

door and gave the three knocks. For a moment or so there was no

answer. A profound stillness reigned. Then she heard footsteps

approaching, The next instant, the door was thrown open and a man's

voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, told her to enter.

At first when she went in, she could see nothing. All the shutters of

the windows looking on the street were closed, and the only light was

that which filtered through the slats. It was an ordinary, cheap flat,

with no carpets on the floors and little or no furniture. On the

floor, scattered here and there, were nailed-up boxes, and parts of

machinery, some already crated, as if to be taken away.

"So you've come! I thought you would," said a voice behind her.

She turned and found herself face to face with Signor Keralio.

At first she was so astonished that she was speechless. Then her

instinct prompted her to turn and flee. If this man had caused her to

be decoyed to this house it could be for no good purpose. But there

was no way of egress. The front door was closed and locked. Not a

human soul was within call. She was alone in an empty house with the

one man she distrusted and feared more than any one else in the world.

Making an effort to conceal her alarm, she turned and faced him boldly:

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

He smiled--a horrid, cynical smile she knew only too well.

"Has not a man the right to be in his own home?"

She started back in surprise.

"This your home?" she exclaimed, glancing around at the scanty and

shabby furnishings.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, don't judge by appearances. I'm really very comfortable here.

It's away from the world. I like to work undisturbed." Significantly,

he added: "Then, you see, it is all my own. I am quite at home here in

my own house. No one can put me out--not even you----"

She raised her hand deprecatingly.

"Please don't remind me of that. I have forgotten it long ago."

His eyes flashed dangerously as he made a step near and exclaimed:

"You have, but I have not. I have not forgotten that you put me out of

your house ignominiously as one turns out a servant. I have neither

forgotten nor forgiven. That is why you are here to-day."

She looked at him in utter astonishment.

"What do you mean?"

He bowed and, with mock courtesy, waved her to a seat.

"I will tell you. Did you receive a letter to-day?"

"Yes--I did."

"You came here in answer to that letter."

"Yes--I did."

"Do you know who wrote that letter?"

"No--not the least."

"It was I--I wrote the letter."

With a stifled cry of mingled fright and amazement, Helen jumped up

from the chair.

"You wrote the letter?" she exclaimed, incredulously.

He nodded.

"Yes--I wrote the letter."

Her eyes opened wide with terror, her hands clasped together nervously,

she exclaimed:

"Then you are----"

He bowed.

"Exactly. I am the kidnapper of your child----"

Speechless, she stared at him, her large black eyes opened wide with

terror. Looking wildly about her as if seeking her little daughter,

she gasped:

"Dorothy? Dorothy here? Where is she?"

"She is safe," he replied calmly.

"Where is she, where is she? Take me to her!" she cried, distractedly,

going up to him and clasping her hands in humble supplication.

He shook off the hand which, in her maternal anxiety, she had laid on

his arm. Lighting a cigarette, he gave a low laugh.

"Plenty of time. There's no hurry. You're not going yet."

Anxiously, she scrutinized his face, as if trying to read his meaning.

"She's going when I go, isn't she?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"That depends--on you."

"What do you mean?"

Again he waved her to a seat.

"Sit down and I'll tell you."

Trembling, she dropped once more on to a chair and waited. He puffed

deliberately at his cigarette for a few moments and then, turning his

glance in her direction, he smiled in a peculiar, horrible way and his

eyes ran over her figure in a way that made the crimson rush furiously

to her cheek. There was no mistaking that smile. It was the bold,

lustful look of the voluptuary who enjoys letting his eyes feast on the

prey that he knows cannot now escape him.

"Mrs. Traynor," he began in the caressing, dulcet tones which she

feared more than his anger, "you are an exceptional woman. To most men

of my temperament you would not appeal. They would find your beauty

too statuesque and cold. I know you are clever, but love cannot feed

on intellect alone, I have loved many women, but never a woman just

like you. Your coldness, your haughty reserve, your refinement would

intimidate most men and keep them at a distance, but not me. Your

aloofness, your indifference only spurs me, only adds to the acuteness

of my desire. I swore to myself that I would conquer you, overcome

your resistance, bend you to my will. You turned me out of your home.

I swore to be avenged."

He stopped for a moment and watched her closely as if studying and

enjoying the effect of his words. Then, amid a cloud of blue tobacco

smoke, he went on:

"I knew only one way to win you--it was to humiliate you, to place you

in a position where you would have to come to me on your knees."

She half rose from her chair.

"I would never do that," she cried. "I would rather die!"

"Oh, yes, you will," he continued, calmly, making a gesture to her to

remain seated. "When I've told you all, you'll see things in a

different light." Fixing her steadily with his piercing black eyes, he

asked: "Have you noticed any difference in your husband since his

return."

She looked up quickly.

"Yes--what does it mean? Can you explain?"

He nodded.

"Did you ever hear your husband speak of a twin brother he once had?"

Her face turned white as death and her heart throbbing violently, she

stared helplessly at her persecutor. She tried to be calm, but she

could not. Yet, why be so alarmed, why should this single question so

agitate her? In the deepest recesses of her being she knew that it was

her unerring instinct warning her that she was about to hear something

that would entail worse suffering than any she had yet endured.

"Yes--yes--why do you ask?" she gasped.

"You all thought the brother dead."

"Yes."

"You were mistaken. He is alive."

"Where is he?" she faltered.

"Here in New York."

"Where?"

"In your house. The man who returned home was not your husband. He

was your husband's twin brother."

She looked at him as one bewildered, as if she did not understand what

he was saying, as if words had suddenly lost their meaning. Her face,

white as in death, she faltered:

"Not Kenneth--then where is Kenneth?"

"He is dead!"

Her powers of speech paralyzed, her large eyes starting from their

sockets from terror, an expression of mute helpless agony on her

beautiful face, she looked up at him with horror. Not yet could she

fully grasp the meaning of his words. At last the frightful spell was

broken. With an effort the words came:

"Then you," she cried. "You are his assassin!"

He shook his head as he replied carelessly:

"No--not I--his brother!"

She gave a cry of anguish and, starting to her feet, made a movement

forward, her hands clutching convulsively at her throat. Air! air!

She must have air. She felt sick and dizzy. The room was spinning

round like a top, and then everything grew dark. Lurching heavily

forward she would have fallen had he not caught her.

Instantly she shrank from the contact as from something unclean, and

with a low moan sank down on a chair and buried her face in her hands.

Her instinct had told her true. Her loved one was dead, she would

never see him again, and that man who had come into the sanctity of her

home and fondled her in his arms was his murderer. Oh, it was too

horrible!

The bitter, cynical smile was still on Keralio's lips as he went on:

"You see the folly of resisting me. Had you surrendered at that time

all might have been well. The price was not too much to pay. I would

have been discreet. No one but ourselves would have known that you and

I were----"

He did not complete the sentence, for at that moment she sprang forward

like an enraged tiger cat, and, seizing a cane that stood close by,

struck him across the face with all the force of her outraged womanhood.

"Murderer! Assassin!" she cried indignantly. "How dare you talk like

that to me? I will denounce you to the whole world. I will not rest

till I see you and that other scoundrel punished and my poor husband is

avenged. On leaving here I shall go direct to the police."

Imbued with strength she never dreamed she possessed, she was about to

hit him again when he seized the cane and threw it away. But across

his pale, handsome face lay a telltale red mark, the smart of which

burned into his soul.

His eyes flashed with anger and he made a visible effort to control

himself. He took a step forward and, as he advanced she saw an

expression in his face which prompted her to retreat precipitately. It

was a dangerous look, the look of a man who knew he had a helpless

woman in his power, a man who was desperate and would stop at nothing

to encompass his ends. Now thoroughly frightened, she looked around

for some way to escape. The windows were impossible, the only way was

by the door and he barred the way. Besides, she would never go without

her child.

He noticed the movement and look of alarm, and he smiled. Continuing

to advance, he said:

"There's no use making a fuss. No one could hear you if you shouted

for help till the crack of doom. You are alone with me--and absolutely

in my power. Do as I ask and there is nothing you shall not have.

Refuse, and I answer for nothing. Come----"

Her whole body trembling, her face white with terror, she kept on

retreating:

"Leave me alone!" she gasped, "or I will scream."

"Scream away," he laughed. "There's no one here to hear you."

Suddenly he made a quick lunge forward and seized her. She struggled

and resisted with all the energy born of despair, pushing, twisting,

scratching. But they were too unevenly matched. She was like an

infant in the grasp of an Hercules. Slowly, she felt her strength

leaving her. His iron grasp gradually closed on her, nearer and nearer

he drew her into his embrace.

With a last, superhuman effort, she managed to wrench herself free, out

of his grip, and breaking completely away, she fled into the next room.

But he was after her in a minute and again seized her, but not before

she screamed at the top of her voice:

"Help! Help! Kenneth! Wilbur! Help! Help!"

He tried to gag her mouth to stifle her cries, but it was too late.

His quick ear caught the sound of approaching footsteps in the outside

hall. Almost at the same instant there was a loud knocking at the door.

Keralio fell back, his face white and tense. Had his plans failed at

the eleventh hour, could anyone have played him false? If the game was

up, they should never take him alive. Leaving Helen, he drew a

revolver, and, going quickly into the inner hall, he waited in grim

silence for the visitors to force an entrance.

"Open the door, or we'll break it in!" shouted a stern voice outside.

"There's no use resisting. The place is surrounded."

Still no answer. Keralio stood grimly in the shadow of the parlor

doorway, revolver in hand, while Helen cowered in the inner room, in

momentary expectation of a tragedy.

Crash! The front door fell in, shattered into a thousand splinters,

and through the breach thus made rushed Wilbur Steell, Dick Reynolds,

and half a score husky Central Office detectives, revolvers in hand.

"There is he!" cried the lawyer, pointing to Keralio.

Quick as a flash, the Italian raised the revolver and fired, the bullet

entering the plastered wall an inch away from the lawyer's head.

Almost simultaneously, another pistol shot rang out, but this time the

aim was truer, for, with a cry of baffled rage, Keralio threw his arms

above his head and fell to the floor dead. Quickly, one of the

detectives stooped down and compared his face with a photograph he had

taken from his pocket.

"Yes----" he exclaimed; "that's the fellow--well known counterfeiter.

Did time in San Quentin and Joliet. Known as Baron Rapp, Richard

Barton and a dozen other aliases. He's one of the slickest rogues in

the country. We've got the valet safe downstairs. I guess he'll get

twenty years."

But Steell had not waited to hear about Keralio. There were others

more important to think about. Rushing into the inner room, he found

Helen prostrate, half fainting from fright.

"Thank God, I'm in time!" he exclaimed.

"Dorothy," she murmured weakly. "Save Dorothy! She's somewhere here."

Going into another room, the lawyer found the little girl fast asleep

on a bed. Bringing her to her mother, he said tenderly:

"Here's your treasure. Now you can be happy."

She shook her head. The nightmare of what Keralio had told her, still

obsessed her.

"No--" she shuddered; "--never again. They have killed him!"

To her surprise, the lawyer, instead of sharing her sorrow, actually

smiled.

"Helen," he said; "I have a great surprise for you. A friend has

accompanied me here. He called at your house to-day, but you had just

left, so he called on me. You have not seen him since he sailed away

three months ago on the _Mauretania_."

She listened bewildered. Her color came and went. What did he mean?

Could it be possible that--no, had not Keralio said he was dead?

Trembling with suppressed emotion, she whispered:

"Tell me--what is it--tell me----"

For all reply, the lawyer went to the door and beckoned to someone who

had waited in the outer hall. A moment later a man entered, a tall,

well set figure that was strangely familiar. Straining her eyes

through her tears, it seemed to her that her mind must be playing her

some trick, for there before her, stood Kenneth, not the impostor her

instinct had warned her to detest and avoid, but the real Kenneth she

had loved, the father of her child. With a joyous exclamation, she

tottered forward.

"Kenneth!" she cried.

The man, his athletic form broken by sobs, opened his arms.

"My own precious darling!"

A moment later they were clasped in each other's arms. Ah, now she

knew that he had come home! This, indeed, was the husband she loved.

There was no deception this time. Wonderingly, she turned to Steell.

"How did it happen?" she asked wonderingly.

"We'll tell you later--not now," he replied.

She shuddered as she asked in a low voice.

"But where is his brother?"

"Dead! He shot himself at the club. Kenneth and I went to confront

him at the club before coming here. It was his only way out."

The detective stepped forward. Addressing the lawyer and holding out

two enormous diamonds that sparkled like fire in the sunlight, he said:

"We've just found these, together with a lot of counterfeit money."

The lawyer laughed as he took charge of the diamonds.

"It'll please Mr. Parker to see these. Come, Dick. Our work is done."

Kenneth put his arms around his wife.

"Safe in port at last, dear."

"You'll never go away again," she murmured through her tears.