The Million Dollar Mystery Part 57

"I don't doubt it, child," said Hargreave. "I'll explain. When I hired Jones here, who is really Jedson of the Scotland Yard, I did so because we looked alike when shaven. It was Jedson here who escaped by the balloon; it was Jedson who returned the five thousand to Norton, who watched the countess' apartment; it was Jedson who was wounded in the arm. I myself guarded you, my child. Last night, unbeknown to you, I left and the real Jones--for it is easier to call him that!--took my place."

"And I never saw the difference!" exclaimed Florence.

"That is natural," smiled her father. "You were thinking of Norton here instead of me. Eh?"

Florence blushed.

"Well, why not? Here, Norton!" The millionaire took Florence's hand and placed it in the reporter's. "It seems that I've got to lose her after all. Kiss her, man; in heaven's name, kiss her!"

And Norton threw his arms around the girl and kissed her soundly, careless of the fact that he was observed by both enemies and friends.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A QUICK CLUTCH AND THE POLICEMAN HAD HER BY THE WRIST]

Suddenly the policeman who had been standing by the side of Braine ran into the living-room.

"He's alive! Braine's alive; he just stirred."

"What?" exclaimed Norton and Hargreave in a single breath.

"Yes, sir! I saw his hands move. It's a good thing we sent for a doctor. He ought to be along about now."

Even as he spoke the bell rang: and they all surged out into the hall, forgetting for the moment all about the million. Olga hadn't killed the man, then? The doctor knelt beside the stricken man and examined him. He shrugged.

"Will he live?"

"Certainly. A scalp wound, that laid him out for a few moments. He'll be all right in a few days. He was lucky. A quarter of an inch lower, and he'd have pa.s.sed in his checks."

"Good!" murmured Servan. "So our friend will accompany me back to good Russia? Oh, we'll be kind to him during the journey. Have him taken to the hospital ward at the Tombs. Now, for the little lady up-stairs."

A moment later Braine opened his eyes, and the policeman a.s.sisted him to his feet. Servan, with a nod, ordered the police to help the wounded man to the taxicab which had just arrived. Braine, now wholly conscious, flung back one look of supreme hatred toward Hargreave; and that was the last either Florence or her father ever saw of Braine of the Black Hundred--a fine specimen of a man gone wrong through greed and an inordinate l.u.s.t for revenge.

The policeman returned to Hargreave.

"It's pretty quiet up-stairs," he suggested. "Don't you think, sir, that I'd better try that bedroom door again?"

"Well, if you must," a.s.sented Hargreave reluctantly. "But don't be rough with her if you can help it."

For Braine he had no sympathy. When he recalled all the misery that devil's emissary had caused him, the years of hiding and pursuit, the loss of the happiness that had rightfully been his, his heart became adamant. For eighteen years to have ridden and driven and sailed up and down the world, always confident that sooner or later that demon would find him! He had lost the childhood of his daughter; and now he was to lose her in her womanhood. And because of this implacable hatred the child's mother had died in the Petrograd prison-fortress.

But what an enemy the man had been! He, Hargreave, had needed all his wits constantly; he had never dared to go to sleep except with one eye open. But in employing ordinary crooks, Braine had at length overreached himself; and now he must pay the penalty. The way of the transgressor is hard; and though this ancient saying looks dingy with the wear and tear of centuries, it still holds good.

But he felt sorry for the woman up above. She had loved not wisely but too well. Far better for her if she put an end to life. She would not live a year in the G.o.d-forsaken snows of Siberia.

"My kind father!" said Florence, as if she could read his thoughts.

"I had a hard time of it, child. It was difficult to play the butler with you about. The times that I fought down the desire to sweep you up in my arms! But I kept an iron grip on that impulse. It would have imperiled you. In some manner it would have leaked out; and your life and mine wouldn't have been worth a b.u.t.ton."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MYSTIC MILLION]

Florence threw her arms around him and held him tightly.

"That poor woman up-stairs!" she murmured. "Can't they let her go?"

"No, dear. She has lost, and losers pay the stakes. That's life.

Norton, you knew who I was all the time, didn't you?"

"I did; Mr. Hargreave. There was a scar on the lobe of your ear; and secretly I often wondered at the likeness between you and the real Jones. When I caught a glimpse of that ear, then I knew what the game was. And I'll add that you played it amazingly well. The one flaw in Braine's campaign was his hurry. He started the ball rolling before getting all the phases clearly established in his mind. He was a brave man, anyhow; and more than once he had me where I believed that prayers only were necessary."

"And do you think that you can lead Florence to the million?" asked Hargreave, smiling.

"For one thing, it is in her room, and has always been there. It never was in the chest."

"Not bad, not bad," mused the father.

"But perhaps after all it will be better if you show it to her yourself."

"Just a little uncertain?" jibed the millionaire.

"Absolutely certain. I will whisper in your ear where it is hidden."

Norton leaned forward as Hargreave bent attentively.

"You've hit it! But how in the world did you guess it?"

"Because it was the last place any one would look for it. I judged at the start that you'd hide it in just such a spot, in some place where you could always guard it, and lay your hands on it quickly if needs said must."

"I'm mighty glad you were on my side," said Hargreave. "In a few minutes we'll go up and take a look at those packets of bills. There's a very unhappy young woman there at present."

"It is in my room?" cried Florence.

Hargreave nodded.

Meantime the Countess Olga hovered between two courses: a brave attempt to escape by the window or to turn the revolver against her heart. In either case there was nothing left in life for her. The man she loved was dead below, killed by her hand. She felt as though she was treading air in some fantastical nightmare. She could not go forward or backward, and her heels were always within reach of her pursuers.

So this was the end of things? The dreams she had had of going away with Braine to other climes, the happiness she had pictured, all mere chimeras! A sudden rage swept over her. She would escape, she would continue to play the game to the end. She would show them that she had been the man's mate, not his pliant tool. She raised the window and stepped out onto the balcony .... into the hands of the policeman who had patiently been waiting for her to do so! Instantly she placed the revolver at her temple. A quick clutch, and the policeman had her by the wrist. She made one tigerish effort to free herself, shrugged, and signified that she surrendered.

"I don't want to hurt you, Miss," said the policeman; "but if you make any attempt to escape, I'll have to put the handcuffs on you."

"I'll go quietly. What are you going to do with me?"

"Turn you over to the Russian agent. He has extradition papers; and I guess it's Siberia."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "FLORENCE, THAT IS ALL YOURS"]

"For me?" She laughed scornfully. "Do I look like a woman who would go to Siberia?"

"Be careful, Miss. As I said, I don't want to put the cuffs on unless I have to."

She laughed again. It did not have a pleasant sound in the officer's ears. He had heard women, suicidal bent, laugh like that.

"I'll ask you for that ring on your finger."