Pamela nodded.
“He went down with one of the heads of the New
York police.”
She turned away, but Fischer caught at her wrist.
“You know more than this!” he cried hoarsely.
The agony in the man’s face and tone touched
her. After all, he was fighting for the great
things. There was nothing mean about Fischer,
nothing selfish about his lying and his crimes.
“I have told you all that I can,” she
whispered, “but if you hurried, you could catch
the New York to-night—and I think
I should advise you to go.”
Fischer, on leaving his unsuccessful dinner party,
drove direct to the residence of Mr. Max H. Bookam,
in Fifth Avenue. The butler who admitted him
looked a little blank at his inquiry.
“Mr. Bookam was expected home yesterday, sir,”
he announced. “He has not arrived, however.”
“Has there been any telegram from him?—any
news as to the cause of his non-return?” Fischer
persisted.
“I believe that Mr. Kaye, his secretary, has
some information, sir,” the man admitted.
“Perhaps you would like to see him.”
Fischer did not hesitate, and was conducted at once
to the study in which Mr. Bookam was wont to indulge
in various nefarious Stock Exchange adventures.
The room was occupied on this occasion by a dejected-looking
young man, with pasty face and gold spectacles.
The apartment, as Fischer was quick to notice, showed
signs of a strange disorder.
“Where’s Mr. Bookam?” he asked quickly.
The young man walked to the door, shook it to be sure
that it was closed, and came back again. His
tone was ominous, almost dramatic.
“In the State Prison at——,
sir,” he announced.
“What for?” Fischer demanded, breathing
a little thickly.
“I have no certain information,” the secretary
replied, with a noncommittal air. “All
I know is that I had a long-distance telephone to
burn certain documents, but before I could do so the
room and the house were searched by New York detectives,
whose warrant it was useless to resist.”
“But what’s the charge against Mr. Bookam?”
“It’s something to do with the disasters
in——,” the young man confided.
“The Governor of the State, who is Mr. Bookam’s
cousin, is in the same trouble.... Better sit
down a moment, sir. You’re looking white.”
Mr. Fischer threw himself into an easy-chair.
He felt like a man who has built a mighty piece of
machinery, has set it swinging through space, and
watches now its imminent collapse; watches some tiny
but ghastly flaw, pregnant with disaster, growing
wider and wider before his eyes.
“What papers did the police take away with them?”
he asked.
“There wasn’t very much for them,”
the secretary replied. “There was a list
of the names of the proposed organisation which, owing
to your very wise intervention, was never formed.
There was a list of factories throughout the United
States in which munitions are being made, with a black
mark against those holding the most important contracts.
And there was a letter from Governor Roughton.”
