“It means putting him in your power,”
she said at last, “just as he was put in the
power of John Mark, but I trust you. Give me a
slip of paper, and I’ll write on it what you
want.”
Disarming Suspicion
From the house across the street Caroline Smith slipped
out upon the pavement and glanced warily about her.
The street was empty, quieter and more villagelike
than ever, yet she knew perfectly well that John Mark
had not allowed her to be gone so long without keeping
watch over her. Somewhere from the blank faces
of those houses across the street his spies kept guard
over her movements. Here she glanced sharply over
her shoulder, and it seemed to her that a shadow flitted
into the door of a basement, farther up the street.
At that she fled and did not stop running until she
was at the door of the house of Mark. Since all
was quiet, up and down the street, she paused again,
her hand upon the knob. To enter meant to step
back into the life which she hated. There had
been a time when she had almost loved the life to
which John Mark introduced her; there had been a time
when she had rejoiced in the nimbleness of her fingers
which had enabled her to become an adept as a thief.
And, by so doing, she had kept the life of her brother
from danger, she verily believed. She was still
saving him, and, so long as she worked for John Mark,
she knew that her brother was safe, yet she hesitated
long at the door.
It would be only the work of a moment to flee back
to the man she loved, tell him that she could not
and dared not stay longer with the master criminal,
and beg him to take her West to a clean life.
Her hand fell from the knob, but she raised it again
immediately.
It would not do to flee, so long as John Mark had
power of life or death over her brother. If Ronicky
Doone, as he promised, was able to inspire her brother
with the courage to flee from New York, give up his
sporting life and seek refuge in some far-off place,
then, indeed, she would go with Bill Gregg to the
ends of the earth and mock the cunning fiend who had
controlled her life so long.
The important thing now was to disarm him of all suspicion,
make him feel that she had only visited Bill Gregg
in order to say farewell to him. With this in
her mind she opened the front door and stepped into
the hall, always lighted with ominous dimness.
That gloom fell about her like the visible presence
of John Mark.
A squat, powerful figure glided out of the doorway
to the right. It was Harry Morgan, and the side
of his face was swathed in bandages, so that he had
to twist his mouth violently in order to speak.
“The chief,” he said abruptly. “Beat
it quick to his room. He wants you.”
“Why?” asked Caroline, hoping to extract
some grain or two of information from the henchman.
“Listen, kid,” said the sullen criminal.
“D’you think I’m a nut to blow what
I know? You beat it, and he’ll tell you
what he wants.”
