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Title: Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier

Author: L. Frank Baum and Emma Speed Sampson

Release Date: December 22, 2018 [EBook #58513]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Mary Glenn Krause and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

The Bluebird Books

Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier

Mary Louise

Adopts a Soldier

By

Edith Van Dyne

Author of

“Mary Louise,” “Mary Louise in the Country,” “Mary

Louise Solves a Mystery,” “Mary Louise

and the Liberty Girls.”

Frontispiece by

Joseph W. Wyckoff

The Reilly & Lee Co.

Chicago

Copyright, 1919

by

The Reilly & Lee Co.

Made in U. S. A.

Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I

MARY LOUISE CONSIDERS THE SITUATION

7

II

BACK HOME

13

III

DANNY DEXTER

23

IV

DANNY CHANGES HIS UNIFORM

30

V

DORFIELD GIRLS

39

VI

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

47

VII

A TELEGRAM

56

VIII

THE ARRIVAL OF JOSIE O’GORMAN

62

IX

THE MAN FROM BOSTON

71

X

MARY LOUISE MAKES A DISCOVERY

79

XI

THE EMPTY ROOM

87

XII

DANNY DISAPPEARS

95

XIII

FACE TO FACE

102

XIV

THE SEARCH

111

XV

A JOURNEY BEGUN

117

XVI

AUNT SALLY ENTERTAINS

124

XVII

THE BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST

129

XVIII

THE MOTOR TRIP

136

XIX

THE ESCAPE

145

XX

THE DESERT BUNGALOW

150

XXI

A NEST OF CONSPIRATORS

155

XXII

THE CAVE

167

XXIII

THE RIDE AT NIGHT

174

XXIV

MARY LOUISE LOSES HER SLIPPER

181

XXV

A SUCCESSFUL RUSE

187

XXVI

A GOOD NIGHT’S WORK

196

XXVII

ON THE BALCONY

217

Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier

CHAPTER I

MARY LOUISE CONSIDERS THE SITUATION

“Grandpa Jim,” said Mary Louise one May morning as they sat together at the breakfast table, “I see the Dorfield Regiment is due to arrive home to-day or to-morrow.”

“So I see,” replied the old Colonel, “if we may rightly call it the ‘Dorfield’ Regiment. The newspapers don’t mention the fact, but it takes in the whole surrounding country, because there were not enough Dorfield boys to fill the ranks completely and so we took all who applied. I’m afraid you’ll find many unfamiliar faces among the ranks.”

“Still,” said the girl, “there will be some friends anyhow, and the very fact that this is the Dorfield Regiment should arouse our loyal enthusiasm. Why, I’ve followed them all through the war, and somehow this practice has almost made it seem that the whole Dorfield Regiment is a sort of personal possession.”

“I feel much the same way,” said Colonel Hathaway, composedly turning over the Dorfield Gazette. “This is not a delightful country to demobilize in—if we should judge by the Civil War, in which I was somewhat more interested. The regiment may not be free to disorganize for a week, or a month, according to the whim of the War Department.”

“But they’ll enjoy the recreation and the freedom from long marches even if they’re kept here a long time,” returned Mary Louise, “and their pay is the same as when at war. The boys who live here can visit their homes every day, and there may be only a few who come from any great distance. According to the papers, the Dorfield boys saw some real fighting in France.”

“Yes, but new faces in the line are likely to be few,” prophesied the Colonel. “Luckily, not many Dorfield boys lie buried in the French battlefields.”

“What will become of the new men, Grandpa Jim?” asked the girl.

“Well, they will either be furnished money to take them home—second class—or they may obtain positions in or near Dorfield. If there are not too many, they will all get positions here. Many of the merchants I have talked with are already grumbling because ‘help’ is scarce.”

“Let’s go down to the depot and see the trains come in,” suggested Mary Louise. “We’ve none of our kith and kin to greet, but some we know and can shake hands with. Besides, some of those substitutes may live far away and don’t know where to go. They may need friends, or a home, or may have been wounded, and have no one here to care for them. I’m sure we can be of use in some way. We are Dorfield’s own people and must show our appreciation of Dorfield’s own soldiers.”

The Colonel reflected for a time. “During the Civil War there wasn’t another Hathaway in the whole army,” he mused; “yet I had my duty to do, and did it. You know my utmost trial during the Great World War has been my inability to take part in it in any way. A soldier is a soldier always, and here I am on the back shelf unable to help my country in its day of need. Beside being outside of the age limit I haven’t a relative to take my place.” This had been the old gentleman’s grievance for many months. He fumbled with his cane a few moments and then said, “But get your automobile out, and we’ll go down and give the soldiers the welcome they deserve.”

“It’s too rainy and muddy for the auto to-day,” said Mary Louise, “and I don’t want to punish the dear little car by a mud bath. But we’ll take our umbrellas and try to find one of those substitutes who are stranded here, without friends or regular occupation, wondering what to do with themselves.”

“I hope, my dear, you have no such idea as taking one of those persons—what do you call the fellows?—‘substitutes,’ into our family, even as a servant?”

By servant the precise old gentleman had no reference in any way to a house-servant, as the house was fully cared for by Aunt Sally and Uncle Eben. To introduce a stranger into their domestic affairs was indeed preposterous. But Mary Louise understood him the moment he spoke. “Haven’t the soldier boys all been servants of our glorious country?” asked Mary Louise indignantly. “Yes,” he replied, “but they have come from all classes and sections, some of them gentlemen, or scholars, our equals in every way, while others have scarcely enough wit to bring in an armful of wood.” “Even then,” broke in the girl, addressing the aged but stalwart Colonel, “someone must bring in the wood, and it’s an important matter to my mind.” She laughed in her piquant, irresistible way. She continued: “You see, Grandpa Jim, we’ve found at least one good reason for helping the brave soldiers who have so lately fought for the country you fought for many years ago.” “You may be right,” said the old gentleman, “but we are a little premature in this argument, my dear; we only know that the Dorfield Regiment is coming home again, and we only guess that there will be one or more extra men to provide for. Indeed, there may be none at all, for all those big, sturdy fellows had lives to live before they joined the colors. Perhaps half a dozen may be left to find situations and boarding houses for; perhaps two or three are so situated, perhaps one. When all are mustered out and returned to the places from which they enlisted we may have none at all to care for,—and that is a likely probability.”

“True enough, I admit,” said the girl with a little laugh, “so let us patiently wait till the train is in and the boys are mustered out. Then we can tell what duties are required from the loyal citizens of dear old Dorfield. It isn’t a big city, nor did it have a very big regiment to send to the front, nor very many soldiers to fight European battles, so I suppose I am borrowing trouble unnecessarily. Anyhow before we start, as the saying is, let us ring the doorbell and see if anyone is at home.”

CHAPTER II

BACK HOME

They put on their raincoats, and with umbrellas started out into the soggy, showery morning, for the drizzle had kept up nearly all the night before. “Even if we still had your old rattle-trap automobile which we exchanged for mine,” observed Mary Louise, “we’d have had hard work to make it go this morning.”

“It’s a shame,” said the old Colonel, as they started along the path, “to bring our soldiers home on such a rainy day. It ought to be a bright and sunny day of welcome.” “Still it’s their home, and they’ll be glad to get here under any circumstances,” asserted Mary Louise. “I think it’s raining harder than ever, Grandpa Jim.”

They were now where they could see the station, which seemed dull and deserted and the few people that were there seemed to be coming toward them. “I don’t believe the boys are coming to-day,” said the Colonel, “don’t you remember the paper said to-day or to-morrow?” “True,” added one of a group which had paused before them and knew the Colonel well, as all the earlier settlers did; “we’ll do better to get home where it is warm than hanging around here this miserable day. The weather would discourage any railroad train.” “That suits me,” said Mary Louise, and they started for home, chatting about the Dorfield men and discussing their usefulness.

There were no boys in “Grandpa Jim’s” family. He had had only one daughter who grew to delightful womanhood, married Judge Burrows, a prosperous lawyer, who died a few years later, leaving his baby girl—Mary Louise—to the care of his invalid wife and the staunch old grandfather.

Combining the two estates (the handsome old home belonged to the Hathaways), made a very pretty property for the young girl to inherit, and Mary Louise Burrows was known as the heiress of it all.

Colonel Hathaway naturally idolized this granddaughter, and it was from her baby lips that he first acquired the title of “Grandpa Jim,” which was cordially and affectionately followed by his many friends in the pretty but modest little city, where he was regarded as one of the two or three “leading citizens.”

Grandpa Jim’s wealth was sufficient for him to retire from any active business, so he passed his time in cheerful gossip with the other inhabitants and made many “travel trips” with Mary Louise, both in order to educate the young girl and relieve his own ennui.

The Great War had kept him at home during recent years, but he had read daily reports of its progress and talked them over with those of his acquaintances who were most interested in the fray.

He was also tremendously interested in the early education and career of his fascinating granddaughter, the more so after the child’s mother contracted a serious disease which carried her away from them forever.

So here were these two, a big old gentleman and a small young girl, located in one of the most prominent and attractive houses in Dorfield. Here they were, beloved by many but envied by none so far as they knew.

Mary Louise had many girl friends. Indeed, you might say every girl in the town claimed her friendship, for she was generous, bright, initiative and had a glad and loving word for every girl she met. Therefore it is no wonder that a lack of boys in the Hathaway family should create an added interest in the one girl of the establishment among the soldiers now returning from their victorious campaign. But the young girl did not know that.

On her side, Mary Louise had no cousins or other relatives, with whom she might intimately hobnob; Grandpa Jim’s male relatives were so remotely connected to him by blood that he could not name you one of them. But there were none in Dorfield—nor out of it—whose hearts were more overflowing with patriotic enthusiasm than this fine old war veteran and his charming granddaughter as they went down the hill the next morning toward the depot. As they passed along, the electric lamps in front of the station were still striving to penetrate the gray gloom of foggy moisture.

Grandpa Jim said in his cheery voice: “It’s another one of those wholly tantalizing mornings, Mary Louise, but that won’t dampen the joy of our soldiers at getting home again.”

“To be sure,” she replied, “so let us hope the trains will make up for lost time. Good gracious, Grandpa Jim,” pausing abruptly to peer ahead, “they’re in now!” for her eyes were sharper than those of the Colonel.

She ran on a few steps in excitement, but then, remembering that in the semi-darkness she was her “Grandpa Jim’s cane,” she abated her pace and went back to take his arm.

“It won’t matter, child,” he said, laughing lightly; “we’re not specially interested in those aboard, and they’ve all got to march over to their old cantonment before they are disbanded. But we have the right to shake hands with them.”

“We can say: ‘Hello, Bill!’ anyhow, if we see anyone we used to know,” said Mary Louise, and even the old Colonel was interested enough to hurry forward to join the throng of soldiers who had traveled all the way to France to prove that they were real warriors.

Mary Louise had many humble acquaintances among the throng which moved in well drilled ranks from the depot to the cantonment—a matter of half a mile or so, and she nodded briskly here and there at “the boys,” who flushed and threw out their chests proudly as they formed ranks.

A few of the young men were “calling acquaintances,” and these were especially honored by the beautiful girl’s attention.

“Take it easy, my dear,” puffed Grandpa Jim, as he clung to the arm of Mary Louise on the slippery pathway. “They’re marching faster than we can walk, and they’re still covered with the dust and grime of travel. Look down there at the cantonment! The places where they used to pitch their tents are nothing but mud holes. I doubt if our soldiers under present circumstances are as glad to see us as we are to see them. Let’s go home.”

Mary Louise in her heart knew that he was right, but her tone was somewhat peevish when she answered:

“If everyone felt as we do, it would be a nice reception for our soldier boys, wouldn’t it—with just ‘poodle-ground’ to greet them? The earnest shouts of those who are here must carry joy to the hearts of those who have braved many a storm to drive back the Germans, and we must prove we’re as loyal and brave as our men.” Thoroughly in earnest, the beautiful girl continued: “For my part, I’m really enjoying it all, Gran’pa Jim, and—Hello, Ned Clary!” waving her handkerchief and nodding smilingly as they reached the beginning of the cantonment, which was now a very busy place.

The girl gazed with interest upon the mud-stained uniforms. But the soldiers themselves received the most of her attention. Their faces were most attractive to her, and she scanned them as closely as if really looking for some relative. Those who worked, worked quietly and doggedly, having performed such duties many times. Others looked on, smoking their cigarettes indifferently. Still others sat upon the stone curbing and waited nonchalantly until something should happen that might prove more interesting.

Mingled with these were all classes of citizens of Dorfield, and suddenly Mary Louise cried out:

“Oh, Laura Hilton! Where on earth did you come from?” as if she had not known that the other girl had followed or preceded her down the hill.

“Me?” answered Laura, as if in amazement; “why, I just came down to see if Cousin Will was in this division. He said in his last letter that he would be home next week; but they may have pushed him on ahead, you know. Cousin Will is a big man—you’ll remember—wherever he happens to be. At war he is a Sergeant—or a Corporal—or some such genius, I’ve heard, yet somehow he doesn’t seem to have his own way quite as much as when at home, clerking in the corner grocery store. He says he had one boss in civilian life; in the army, he has a dozen.”

“Well,” said Mary Louise, taking her arm confidentially, “that was only Cousin Will’s banter, you know. No one ever believed in him and I doubt if he ever believed in himself. I am glad he is coming home with a whole skin anyhow, and I wish all our poor boys were as safe to-day as he is.”

“Well,” responded Laura, “neither you nor I can claim any of the Dorfield boys, and yet it’s some satisfaction to see them coming home from that long journey across the seas and know that they have fought for us and died for us—whenever such foolish sacrifice was required.”

“Oh, Laura!” exclaimed Mary Louise, reprovingly. “Do you think it was foolishness to save all our lives—to make the world safe for democracy?”

“Don’t let us argue concerning politics,” said the other girl with a shy shrug. “I am not much posted on such things, as you very well know.”

“You belong to the Liberty Girls, though,” said Mary Louise.

“Oh, as for that,” said Laura, “I will do anything I can for my country and its warriors, and the only reason I am not more interested in the return home of the Dorfield Regiment is that none of my flesh and blood is mixed up in it.”

“Then what are you down here for?” inquired Mary Louise.

“Just to watch these men greet their own friends, who must be supremely proud of their work and anxious to see them safely home. They have had some rather severe scrapping over there, I believe, and according to all reports there has not been a shirker or a coward in the whole lot of them. No wonder everybody has turned out to give them an enthusiastic reception! Just look at the number of mothers and fathers and whole families here to welcome their own back! It’s hard to tell who is enjoying it most—the soldier boys who have come back, or their families who have awaited them so long. But why are you here, Mary Louise?”

“Why, for almost the same reason. There has been a hint that some soldiers from other parts of the country have been transferred to the Dorfield Regiment, to take the places of those who have fallen in the various battles. Grandpa Jim has an idea that some of these strangers may need work or a home after they are mustered out.”

“How can we tell who are the strangers and who are not?” asked Laura.

“Why—why—by watching them, I suppose,” replied Mary Louise.

CHAPTER III

DANNY DEXTER

They walked through the thronging crowds to the other side of the little city where the main activity was now located.

Here the soldiers were erecting their tents, arranging their personal belongings, preparing for their brief stay—for here they were sworn into the service, and here they hoped to be immediately mustered out. The great war was over, every man had done his duty, and now they were back again, each one determined to do better both in position and ways than when he had left home.

Dorfield was not large enough to import many workers, therefore the merchants were delighted at the return of its men and impatiently waited until they should he mustered out. All the old jobs were awaiting them, with an advance in wages which had followed the increased cost of living.

There were busy scenes at the cantonment during the next few days while the officers were dismissing the men who were no longer needed by the government.

In a short time all of the returned soldiers were hard at work at their old jobs, except those who were strangers and had no jobs to return to. The government was supposed to attend to these, but the government was lax in its duty, and though the number of such men gradually grew fewer, there were still plenty for Gran’pa Jim and Mary Louise to choose from. But although the girl begged for this or for that one, the old gentleman was particular and suspicious.

“Why, I’d as soon have Danny Dexter as that fellow!” he would exclaim, for Danny Dexter was quite a well known individual by this time. He would sit upon a taut rope, swinging his feet and smoking his pipe all day long, and if he was called upon to do anything, he was absolutely unresponsive. Both in skin and clothing he was dirty and untidy. But he was a cheery, smiling youth, and the more Mary Louise saw of him the better she liked him.

As the encampment faded away, Danny Dexter alone remained to say good-bye, and Mary Louise remarked that none left without a shake of Danny Dexter’s hand.

Finally he alone remained of the big encampment. The tents had gradually been struck and carted away to the government storehouse, but Danny’s tent, with him lazily clinging to the ropes, still remained to show the place that once had sheltered the Dorfield Regiment. One day the inspector noticed this and mustered Danny out, too; but that didn’t seem to make any difference to Danny. He had money, probably left from his pay, so he still occupied the weather-beaten old tent and carted his provisions from the village stores, cooking them himself and gossiping with his old comrades when they were not busy.

“What you goin’ to do, Danny?” he was asked again and again.

“Don’t know yet,” was always the careless reply. “Government seems to have forgot me just now, so I guess I’ll jus’ hang around here this summer and when winter comes, go up to New York and see what’s goin’ on over there. I’m in no great hurry.”

“Why don’t you get a job in Dorfield? It’s a pretty good place and living is cheaper than in New York.”

“Money don’t interest me much,” was the careless answer. “What a fellow needs is to see life an’ make the most of it. If you’re happy, money don’t count.”

“Are you happy now?” they asked him.

“Oh, fairly so, but I’m gettin’ tired doing nothing at all; may skip out of Dorfield any day, now.”

More than ever, old Mr. Hathaway had met and studied Danny Dexter and disliked him; and more and more Mary Louise had seen him in the stores and found him worthy her consideration. Often at dinner or breakfast the girl and her grandfather spoke of him and disagreed about him.

“We needn’t adopt him for good, you know,” said Mary Louise. “Just for a few months to see how he works in. And he needn’t be one of the family or eat with us. He can work in the garden and keep the front yard cleared up, and in that way he’ll get his living and fair wages.”

“Well,” said Gran’pa Jim, “I’ll speak to Danny Dexter in the morning.”

He did. Next morning he met the boy leaning over the counter at the grocery store on the corner, where Will White, back at his old job, was waiting on customers. The old gentleman noticed that Will saluted when Danny entered the store soon after Gran’pa Jim did.

“Why did you do that?” asked Mary Louise’s grandfather, in a gruff voice.

“Why, he was our top-sergeant, sir, while I was only a private,” replied Will, “and I can’t get over the distinction. In the war I had to salute him, and—don’t you know, sir, that Danny Dexter wears a decoration, or could wear one, if he cared to? But he keeps it buttoned up tight in his pocket-book. Medal of Distinction or something, earned by saving the lives of some of the wounded soldiers. Danny was always modest; they called him ‘The Lamb’ in our regiment—but, gee whiz, how that lad can fight when he gets the thrills into him!”

All this was said while Top-Sergeant Dexter was in the rear of the grocery, examining the labels on a vinegar barrel, so he heard nothing of Will White’s commendation. Shortly after, when Gran’pa Jim had given his own order, the old gentleman walked over to Dexter and said in his point-blank way:

“Dexter, do you want a job?”

Danny sat down on a box, scuttled his feet and regarded his interrogator with a smile that slowly dawned and as slowly faded away.

“I’m getting tired of hanging around here,” he announced. “What sort of a job have you to offer?”

“Why, I live in that big corner house facing the park. What I want is a young man to care for my garden—”

“Ah, I love a garden. Flowers are so spicy and bright and fragrant, don’t you think?”

“And also to clear up the front lawn, and to rake up the leaves, and see that the living room grate is supplied with firewood, and keep up the yard generally and to clip the hedges—”

“I see,” said Danny, with another smile; “a sort of Private Secretary as it were.”

“And attend to any errands my granddaughter may require.”

“I thank you, Mr. ——”

“Hathaway is my name, sir.”

“Mr. Hathaway. The job you offer does not impress me.”

“You fool!” roared the old gentleman, exasperated both by the refusal and the dignity with which it was made by this uncleanly, disfigured soldier. “Why do you turn down a position without looking at it? Many a young fellow in Dorfield would be glad of the offer I have made you.” He thought how Mary Louise would laugh at him when he told her how, finally, he had offered “the job” to the solitary soldier and had been ridiculed and refused. “Walk over with me to my place and inspect the premises and then you may change your mind.”

“All right!” responded Danny, jumping up with a cheerful face that betrayed he felt no malice at having been labeled a fool by the irascible old gentleman. “Let’s walk over and look at your ranch. I may find it better than I think it is. But I’ve a pretty good estimate now of an old-fashioned country villa ‘facing the park.’ They’re very grand, magnificent, you know, and usually belong to the most prosperous men in town. Come on, Mr. Hathaway.”

“That’s right, Danny,” whispered Will White, as his friend passed out. “It’s a whale of a place; and then, too, there’s Mary Louise!”

CHAPTER IV

DANNY CHANGES HIS UNIFORM

Of course, there was Mary Louise.

She was lying lazily on the couch by the front window this bright though chilly May day, reading at times a book, and occasionally hopping up to toss a stick of wood on the fire. Glancing through the window, she noticed Gran’pa Jim and Danny Dexter crossing the park toward the house.

It was early spring in Dorfield and although the numerous trees in the park and surrounding country were leafless, the scene was far from unpleasant to the eye of a stranger. Danny Dexter walked briskly—he had to, to keep pace with Mr. Hathaway—and seemed to enjoy the prospect keenly.

Mary Louise glanced at her gown. It seemed dainty and appropriate for a spring morning, but the girl remembered one with prettier ribbons in a drawer upstairs, so she dashed the book down and flew up the stairway.

Meantime Mr. Hathaway and the soldier had reached the house and passed around the brick sidewalk that led to the rear. Danny glanced doubtfully at the brick-paved driveway.

“No horses, I hope?” said he.

“No,” answered his conductor. “I love horses myself, but Mary Louise prefers an automobile; so, as she’s the mistress of the establishment, as you will soon learn, the horses are gone and a shiny little car takes its place in the stable.”

“Employ a chauffeur, then?”

“No; Mary Louise loves to drive the thing herself, and if anything goes wrong—something’s always going wrong with an automobile—there’s a garage just back of us to fix it up again.”

Danny sighed.

“I can run the blamed things,” he remarked, “and I know how to keep them loaded with oil and water and gasoline—”

“Oh, don’t worry about running it,” exclaimed the other. “Why, she won’t let even me run the thing, so I’ve never learned. As for the chauffeurs, Mary Louise despises them.”

“So do I,” agreed Danny. “Your granddaughter, sir, must be a very sensible girl.”

That won Gran’pa Jim’s heart, but just then Mary Louise herself came tripping through the archway that led from the kitchen to the back porch and the garden. She was most alluringly attired, as if for a spin on a sunlit winter’s morning, and paused abruptly as if surprised.

“Oh, this is the new man, I suppose,” said she, a touch of haughtiness in her voice. “Your name is Dexter, I believe.”

Danny smiled, slyly.

“What makes you believe that?” he inquired, doffing his little military cap.

“I have heard Will White call you Dexter at the grocery store,” she responded promptly.

“Still, I’m not ‘your new man,’” he said, explaining his presence. “At the invitation of Mr. Hathaway I am merely examining his charming grounds.”

“Yes. What do you think, Mary Louise, this hang-around ne’er-do-well insists on seeing the place before he decides whether he’ll work here!”

Mary Louise gave the soldier a curious look. His wound wasn’t so bad—merely a slash across the forehead, which, had it been properly attended to at the time, would scarcely have left a scar. Otherwise his features were manly enough, and might have been approved by girls more particular than Mary Louise.

“I don’t blame him for wishing to see his workshop,” she averred with one of her irresistible smiles. “I wouldn’t take a job myself without doing that. Look around, Dexter, and if things are to your mind—we need a man very badly, I assure you. Otherwise, we hope to serve you in some practical way. I’m going over to Laura Hilton’s now, Gran’pa Jim, so if you need me, I’ll be there until lunch time and you can telephone me.”

The old gentleman nodded. Then with Danny, he followed her to the ample stables—almost as ornate and palatial as the house.

“I preferred a five-passenger to a runabout,” explained Mary Louise to Danny, “for now I can pack my girl friends in until the chariot is positively running over—and I like company.”

She applied the starter, and away sped the gamey little machine, bearing the girl who was admitted to be “the prettiest girl in the county.”

Mr. Hathaway showed Danny the stables. In one tower was fitted up a mighty cozy suite of rooms for the whilom “coachman.” There was another suite in the opposite tower. Then they went down into the garden, and as the boy looked around him his face positively gleamed.

“It’s magnificent!” he cried, “and just what I always imagined I’d like to fool with. I shall move that row of roses, though, for the place they’re in is entirely too shady. Probably laid out by a competent gardener, but in all these years the climbing vines on his pergola have got the best of his general scheme.”

“You accept the job, then?” asked Gran’pa, relieved.

“Accept? Of course I accept, sir—ever since I saw Mary Louise and her automobile.”

When Mary Louise returned from her drive she found Danny Dexter raking up the scattered leaves in the garden and merrily whistling as he pursued his work. He came to the stable, though, as soon as she drove in, and looked at the machine admiringly. She stood beside him, well pleased, for she liked her automobile to be praised.

“Do you drive?” asked Mary Louise.

“Fairly well, Miss,” he returned; “but I’m not much of a mechanic.”

“That’s my bother,” she insisted, laughing; “but if you like driving I’ll take you on my next trip and the girls will think I’m all swelled up at having a chauffeur. Only—” she paused, looking at him critically, and Danny saw the look and understood it. He blushed slightly, and the girl blushed furiously. She had almost “put her foot in it,” and quite realized the fact.

“The reason I have not kept my face washed,” he said in a quiet voice, “is because our old surgeon at camp told me the wound would heal better if I allowed nature to take her course. It was a bad slash, and while this seemed a curious treatment, the fact has been proved that the wound does better when covered with mud germs than with those from water. The only objection is that it makes me look rather nasty at present, but I made up my mind I could sacrifice anything in the way of looks right now if it would improve my looks in the future.”

“Who was the surgeon?” asked Mary Louise.

“Oh, a crazy old Frenchman who had helped many of our boys and so won their confidence.”

“I don’t believe in his theory,” declared the girl, after another steady look at the cut. “Seems to me that broad gap will always remain.”

“Had you seen it at first,” he said, “you would now realize that it has narrowed more than one-half, and is a healthy wound that is bound to heal naturally. However, this fact assures me I may now wash up and let the thing take care of itself. With my mud face there no object in trying to keep the rest of me clean, so I’ve degenerated into a regular tramp.”

“I suppose you’ve no clothes other than your uniform?” she said thoughtfully. “Do you apply treatment of any kind to your wound?”

“Nothing at all—Nature is the only remedy. And as for clothes, I haven’t the faintest idea what became of my old ‘cits.’ I was told to ship them home, but can’t remember whether I did so or not.”

Mary Louise was dusting the car with a big square of cheesecloth. Danny helped her.

“I wish,” said the girl, “you’d go down to Donovans’ and pick out two suits of clothes—one for working in.” Her voice trembled a little. She did not know how this queer fellow would regard such a suggestion. “I’ll telephone Donovan right away to charge the clothes to Gran’pa Jim’s account,” she continued.

Dexter was silent for awhile, plying his cheesecloth thoughtfully. Then he said:

“In the days of the horse and coachman, did you clothe your men in uniform?”

“Y-e-s, a sort of uniform. When mama was with us she loved to see brightness, coupled with dignity. The Harrington uniform consists of wistaria broadcloth, with a bit of gold braid. But it’s not so gorgeous as it sounds.”

“Suits me, all right,” returned Danny, carelessly. “Would you mind my getting a Hathaway uniform instead of the other clothes?”

Mary Louise was astonished.

“No, indeed,” was her answer. “The uniform will have to be made for you by Jed Southwick, who keeps the materials. But I’m curious to know, Dexter, why you prefer a badge of servitude to a respectable suit of clothes. Do you mind telling me?”

After a little hesitation the soldier answered:

“That’s just it, Miss Hathaway—”

“My name is Burrows—Mary Louise Burrows. Mr. Hathaway is my grandfather.”

“Thank you. Well, it’s the badge of servitude I’m after and that’s why. My home’s a good way from here, Miss Burrows, and it isn’t likely any of my old friends will wander this way, Dorfield being a half-hidden if attractive old city, more dead than alive. But they might come and—just now—I don’t care to meet them and have to explain why I didn’t do more toward winning the war. Every blamed fellow who set foot in France, from private to general, won the war, except me, and that’s rather embarrassing, you’ll admit.”

Mary Louise smiled mischievously, remembering the “medal for distinguished service” even now reposing in Danny Dexter’s pocket-book. But she only said:

“Go to see Jed Southwick at once—the sooner the better—for he’s a good tailor and good tailors are always slow. And order two suits, for something might happen to one of them.”

The boy shook his head.

“I may not stay long enough to wear out two uniforms, Miss Burrows, and a good tailor is expensive, so they’ll cost a lot.”

“We always pay for our men’s uniforms,” protested the girl. “And—how much wages—salary—money—do you get here?”

“Why, I never thought to inquire.”

Mary Louise hung her duster over a rail.

“Gran’pa Jim is always just, and even liberal, so don’t worry,” she said. “Wash your face and then go to town and order your two uniforms. I won’t use you as my chauffeur until you’re all togged out. The girls will admire you more, then, and I’m anxious you should make a hit with them.”

CHAPTER V

DORFIELD GIRLS

It is to be expected that Mary Louise, by virtue of her own wealth and her grandfather’s political and social position, as well as her own personal beauty and loveliness, was easily admitted “The Queen of Dorfield.” There were many charming girls in the quaint little city, nearly all being members of the “Liberty Girls,” an organization conceived by Mary Louise Burrows which had done a lot of good during the war. Indeed, many of these girls were heiresses, or with money in their own right.

Yet wealth was no latch-key to the affections of Mary Louise. Just next door to Colonel Hathaway’s splendid mansion was a neat story-and-a-half dwelling that had not cost half as much as the Hathaway stables, but it was cozy and home-like, and in it lived Irene Macfarlane, the niece of Mr. Peter Conant, the most important lawyer of Dorfield, but by no means a wealthy man.

With Peter Conant lived Irene, who was treated by “Aunt Hannah” (Mrs. Peter Conant) and her husband as a daughter.

Irene had been crippled from birth and was confined to a wheel chair. She was a bright little thing, and Mary Louise, as well as the other girls, was very fond of Irene Macfarlane. Also among the “Liberty Girls” were enrolled Betsy Barnes, the shoemaker’s daughter, and Alora Jones whose father—Jason Jones—was by far the richest man in Dorfield. Alora owned much of the best property in Dorfield but was waiting for her majority to obtain it, for it belonged exclusively to her dead mother. Then there was Laura Hilton, a popular favorite whose father owned some stock in the mill and worked there. The father of Phoebe Phelps was well-to-do, but not wealthy as either Colonel Hathaway or Jason Jones.

Mary Louise never gave a thought to their worldly possessions. If they were “nice girls” she took them to her heart at once.

All girls are prone to gossip (in Dorfield it was a distinctly harmless amusement), and usually Mary Louise and her chums gathered in Irene’s sitting-room, where the surroundings were sweet and “homey.” So, on the day they took their ride with Danny Dexter as chauffeur—Danny dressed in his new uniform—the four girls who had been favored by Mary Louise as passengers met at the Conant residence and began to quiz their friend. From them the news would fly throughout the city, where every little thing is of interest, and Mary Louise was quite aware of that fact.

Irene had been with them, of course, but Irene was a general favorite and her “talking machinery,” as all the girls realized, had not been affected by the trouble which made her an invalid. Then there were Alora Jones, Laura Hilton, and last of all Phoebe Phelps.

“It’s really a ‘five-passenger,’” declared Mary Louise, “but it will take six at a pinch, as you saw to-day. Gran’pa Jim’s old gas buggy was called a seven passenger, but only six could ride in it comfortably as the extra seat was always in the way; yet you know, girls, what a time I had to induce him to sell his hayrack and buy me this beauty.”

“Uncle Eben could drive the Colonel’s car though,” remarked Alora, “while you had to get a chauffeur.” Uncle Eben and Aunt Sally, an aged black man and his wife, were the house servants. “That makes it more expensive.”

“Well, we’ve the money to pay him, anyhow,” retorted Mary Louise, “and then Eben is too old and stiff now to take care of the garden and do all the outside work. Danny does all that now.”

“Oh, that alters the circumstances,” agreed Phoebe Phelps. “But it seems funny to see an old black man and a young soldier boy wearing the Hathaway uniform.”

“It is funny,” admitted Mary Louise, laughing, “but the soldier wanted it that way. He said it made him proud to wear the Hathaway badge of respectability. He’s a total stranger around here, you know—lives in some Eastern city and has conceived a remarkable admiration for little Dorfield.”

“Is that all you know about him?” asked Laura, suspiciously.

“He’s a soldier,” said Mary Louise proudly, “and entered the service a common private and came out a top-sergeant. That’s something.”

“Shows he’s popular with his mates and a good soldier,” agreed Irene.

“He was appointed to Company C of our regiment, together with some others, after the battle of Argonne,” continued Mary Louise, lauding her hero earnestly, “and was twice wounded before being sent home with the Dorfielders. He had been offered an honorable discharge when he got that terrible cut across the forehead, but in a week he was back with the boys, fighting desperately.”

“Did he bring any recommendations?” asked Phoebe.

“Will White told me his story, and so far as recommendation is concerned, every man in the Dorfield Regiment will swear by him and stand for Danny Dexter to the last gasp. Don’t you like my new chauffeur, girls?”

“I do,” responded Laura Hilton. “Father offered him a nice job at the mill, but he turned it down.”

“It was the same with my father,” announced Phoebe.

“The back yard looks neater than it has in years,” commented Irene, “and he surely proved to us this afternoon that he understood driving an auto.”

“Gran’pa Jim declares it was my automobile that won him,” Mary Louise stated. “He wasn’t anxious to be our hired man, either, until he caught sight of the car, when he at once hired out.”

“Well, it is a swell car,” declared Alora Jones, “and has every modern appliance. Besides, it shines like a diamond in the sun.”

“My, she’s only had the thing a month,” said Phoebe, “and it’s the most expensive little car in the market. Several have been sold in Dorfield already.” There was envy in this speech, and all the girls sighed in unison. Mary Louise, however, smiled slyly for she knew that with the exception of Irene, any one of the girls present could afford to buy a duplicate of her car.

“Well, the Hathaway establishment is blossoming out,” said Laura lightly, “and one man—a hard-working soldier—seems responsible for the transformation.”

“No, let’s put the auto first,” objected Irene. “First the old Colonel is cajoled into selling his ancient rattle-trap and buying Mary Louise a luxurious car, the latest model offered for sale; then comes along a soldier who falls in love with the car, and to get the fun of handling the machine hires out to the Hathaways. He proves a good man all-around and soon has the old place slicked up as if it were new.”

“That’s all an example of Mary Louise’s luck,” commented Laura. “It couldn’t possibly happen to anybody else.”

“I’m inclined to think that’s true,” added Phoebe, laughing at their earnest faces. “Mary Louise seems to get the best of what happens around Dorfield, but that’s not her fault—the dear little heart—and I’m mighty glad things come her way for she deserves it.”

“The dealer, Lou Gottschalk, had six of these cars shipped in one batch, the 1919 model,” explained Mary Louise, “and this was the last to sell—merely because it had a few fixin’s not attached to the others. The fixin’s made it some prettier, but no better running, and there’s no change in the gear.”

Day after day Mary Louise won more praise from her girl friends by taking them to ride in her new automobile, which her new man kept shining as brilliantly as varnish will shine. When perched on the driver’s seat in the Hathaway uniform—modest and inconspicuous—Danny lent an added air of dignity to the outfit, and he certainly found time, after looking after the garden, drives and lawn, to keep the car immaculate also. Night after night Mary Louise could see the light shining in his tower, which proved he did not waste an instant of his time.

One afternoon, when the soldier was at the store, Mary Louise visited this tower room and discovered there were several things that might add to his comfort and convenience; so she purchased a cheap but comfortable lounge, several cozy chairs, a new rug and a big “high-boy” full of drawers and shelves. This was done in gratitude for Danny’s faithful work, and he showed his appreciation by means of a smile and nod, without ruining the event by a word of speech.

He kept up well, too, and was never a slacker in his work. If the work got a little ahead of him he got up earlier in the morning and accomplished his tasks in that way. Mary Louise was very proud of her hired man’s ability.

CHAPTER VI

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

One evening she said to him:

“I’m going to drive to Sherman to-morrow, Danny, so we’ll get an early start. Know where Sherman is?”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Burrows.”

“Well, it’s a straight road after we get to Bridesville, where we went yesterday, so we can’t easily get lost. My dressmaker lives at Sherman, which is fifty miles away. That’s only a short journey in the car, and we’ll have luncheon at Bridesville. Just you and I and Irene Macfarlane, you know.”

“Seven o’clock, Miss Burrows?”

“That’s about right, Danny.”

“I’ll be ready, Miss.”

So Mary Louise dismissed the matter from her thoughts and went to bed without a single misgiving.

At a little before seven next morning Irene Macfarlane was wheeled out upon the front yard nearest the driveway, happy and full of good spirits, for a day like this was a rare treat for her. A day with Mary Louise in the splendid new car, with only Mary Louise and her chauffeur for company, luncheon at Bridesville and plenty of room on the back seat was assuredly an event to be regarded with pleasure—and that’s why Mary Louise had chosen her for comrade.

But neither the car nor the uniformed chauffeur were present. The moments rolled on until 7:30 was reached and still no sign of the automobile. Mary Louise ran around to the stables, to find both the car and Danny Dexter absent. Danny had locked the door to his tower and the front door of the stables stood wide open—just as if the young man had prepared for a long day’s trip, but all else seemed in order. There were two checkered robes belonging to the car, but these were gone, as was all else that might be needed on the trip—including the extra gasoline tank, always carried for emergencies. But Danny and car, with its fittings, had absolutely disappeared.

“Perhaps he’s gone for gasoline or oil and been delayed,” pondered Mary Louise on her way back to the side porch. “But it’s quite unlike Danny Dexter to put off such an important thing until the last moment, so I’m afraid one of the parts has broken, and Danny is waiting at the garage to have it replaced. We may as well be patient, Irene, for our fate is in Danny’s hands and I am sure he’ll get us started as soon as possible.”

“It isn’t that,” replied Irene dolefully, “but I’ve got two music lessons to give late this afternoon.”

“Oh, send them word you’re sick and have the dates changed,” suggested Mary Louise. “I’m sure that will satisfy them. And after all, Danny may be here any minute and then all our troubles will be over. As a matter of fact, Danny told me yesterday that the carburetor needed adjusting and that may be what is detaining him. So run along and have Aunt Hannah telephone your pupils.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll go and tell Aunt Hannah right away,” responded the crippled girl, “and I’ll tell her why Danny’s late, too.” She immediately wheeled her chair around and started for her home, being gone less than five minutes; but she needn’t have hurried for Danny hadn’t returned by luncheon time. Irene and Mary Louise spread their basket of lunch on the table on the side porch and had a merry time of it in spite of the missing soldier and his automobile.

“Of course, if he doesn’t come pretty soon now,” admitted Mary Louise, “we must postpone the trip to another day, but we’ll have all that fun added to this, some day when the car is running properly,” promised the owner, and they ate every bit of Aunt Sally’s delicious luncheon and had a really “good time” in spite of their disappointment. Fortunately most of their girl friends, learning of this intended trip, did not come near them the whole day, so they were left alone to their own devices.

As evening approached, nevertheless, Mary Louise began to be uneasy. Gran’pa Jim came home from town and found the two girls playing “muggins” on the porch.

“What! Back already!” he exclaimed.

“Why, we didn’t go,” answered Mary Louise.

“Dressmaker wasn’t ready for you?”

“No. We—we’ve lost the car—and Danny.”

The old gentleman sat down on a chair and whistled slightly.

“Tell me all about it,” he suggested.

Mary Louise complied. Really, there wasn’t much to tell. Danny Dexter had been ordered to be ready with the car at seven o’clock, for a trip to Sherman and had agreed to the proposition. He hadn’t appeared all day; in fact, he and the car were both missing.

“I’ve telephoned the garage and the gasoline station,” concluded the girl, “but he hasn’t been seen at either place to-day. Seems sort of funny, doesn’t it, Gran’pa Jim?”

Grandpa Jim drummed with his fingers rather absently on the rail of the porch.

“I insured the car but not Mr. Dexter,” he remarked slowly. “Odd that a good soldier should turn out a thief, isn’t it?”

“He was absolutely in love with that automobile,” added Irene, eagerly. “He would give anything to own it.”

“Danny is no thief!” asserted Mary Louise, positively. “He may have gotten into trouble with the car, somehow; but steal it—never.”

“Ought—oughtn’t we to do something right away?” asked Irene, diffidently.

“We’ve wasted the whole day already,” Colonel Hathaway replied with a smile; “perhaps a night and a day, if he had already made up his mind to take the car. In that time he could get a long distance away from us. And we’ve no idea what direction he took. Some auto thieves go direct to the cities to hide, while others feel they are safer in the country roads. Anyhow, I think we’d best call up Chief Lonsdale and ask his advice.”

“To be sure!” exclaimed Mary Louise, excitedly. “Why didn’t we think of that before? We’ve made mistake after mistake all day long. I’ll go in and telephone him at once.”

The Colonel held her back. “If the Chief’s to understand what we mean and what we want, I’d better talk with him myself. You grow more and more muddled the more you talk with a person over the wire.”

So he rose deliberately and went into the house, and soon they heard the Colonel telling the whole story of Danny Dexter to the Chief of Police. He told it concisely and “without any frills or rigmaroles,” as Irene admitted, and Chief Lonsdale ended by promising to come over at once if they’ll give him some supper. “It won’t be as good as I’d get at home,” he added, “but Aunt Sally isn’t the worst cook in Dorfield by any means.”

The old Colonel chuckled and hung up the receiver, and before long, in drove Chief Lonsdale in his Ford and anchored it near the front door.

“Evenin’, Charlie,” was the Colonel’s greeting as they shook hands.

“Evening, Colonel,” responded the Chief, hanging up his overcoat and hat. “Been gettin’ yourself inter trouble, eh?”

“No, ’twas Mary Louise who considered a soldier must be, perforce, an honest man.”

“I know him, and I believe she’s right in this case,” replied Charlie Lonsdale. “If your man-of-all-work isn’t honest, I’m not honest and no judge of an honest man.”

Irene, who had remained to supper, although she lived next door, clapped her hands gleefully. Mary Louise walked around the table and kissed the Chief upon his grizzly chin; the Colonel alone frowned.

“Think I’m going to eat over here and take ‘potluck’ for nothing?” inquired the Chief.

“You’re an old idiot,” declared Colonel Hathaway, who was very fond of the Chief of Police and often had him over for a Sunday dinner.

“If the stranger soldier hadn’t been all right,” responded the other, “do you think I’d let you keep him and allow him to take charge of Mary Louise’s precious auto? Or risk my poor stomach on corned beef and cabbage, such as we’re going to have presently?”

“Why, how did you know that?” asked Mary Louise. “I didn’t know that myself until you told me!”

“Eyes—nose—presently, taste,” said the policeman, laughing at them. “Saw Aunt Sally lugging it home in a basket this morning—”

“But—”

“Smelled it when I came into the house just now.” Then he continued, laughingly:

“Have been hankering for corned beef all day, and that’s the reason I invited myself over.”

“You know you’re always welcome, Charlie,” said the Colonel, highly pleased, “and we’ll have a couple of these fine ‘Cannel’ cigars after the meal,” promised the Colonel. “I keep a few of them on hand just for guests like you.”

“This don’t seem much like finding my car—and poor Danny Dexter,” pouted Mary Louise. “That machine can easily go sixty miles an hour, so we may be fifty miles farther away from it since you arrived, Chief Lonsdale.”

“Possible,” admitted the Chief, “and it’ll take an hour more to eat supper and—I may stay with you all night. Still we didn’t fix any time limit on capturing the thief, so there’s no hurry that I can see.”

Irene and the Colonel were nervous and—to an extent—so was Mary Louise, but the latter girl was more composed than the others. As for the Chief, he seemed to have forgotten all about the task on which they had embarked—after he had telephoned to some man in his office.

CHAPTER VII

A TELEGRAM

“What do you think of telegraphing to Josie O’Gorman?” asked the Colonel, after taking his granddaughter into a corner after dinner.

“Josie?” cried the Chief, overhearing the question. “That’s a clever idea, and I’m not ashamed to say I’ve been considering Josie for the last hour or more. What that girl can’t stumble against is no work for a detective. She isn’t clever, nor does she consider herself so; but she’s a way of falling into traps set for others that is really remarkable. If you know where Josie is, I advise wiring her the first thing you do.”

“I’ll go down to the telegraph office at once and send the message in your name, Mary Louise,” decided Colonel Hathaway, going into the closet to get his hat and coat. “There’s nothing like promptness in such a case, and my reflections during the past two hours have led me to nothing at all, I must confess. I’ll just step over to the stables a minute and then we’ll start.”

The two men and Mary Louise went to the stables, where the Chief unlocked the tower in a wink of an eye, and then carefully examined the contents of Danny’s private room. All was in perfect order, and nothing indicated that the young ex-soldier had intended to be gone more than a day at the most. In the standing room or garage, downstairs, all was as neat as wax and ready for the automobile when it arrived home—if it ever did.

“Nothing to be gained from an inspection here,” remarked the Chief, who had allowed the Colonel to light his cigar but not to smoke it while they were in the building. “You see, Hathaway, it’s a hard thing to trace an automobile, especially if it’s a popular make.”

They stopped at the telegraph office and the girl promised to forward their message at once.

“You see,” said she, “It’s a dull season and a dull hour, and Washington messages supersede all other. This telegram ought to be there in ten minutes, and I’ll send the answer to your house immediately, Colonel Hathaway.”

“Could you send a duplicate to the Police Office at the same time, Miss Girard?” inquired the Chief.

She nodded an assent, making her pretty hair flutter in all directions.

“Very well; put everything aside and get our telegram off at once,” said Colonel Hathaway, and they proceeded to the police office.

“That blamed car worries me a good deal; I can’t see how we’re to locate it, with no clue but a tire mark,” remarked the Colonel when they were on the street again.

“Anything can be accomplished if we set our hearts on the task,” returned Chief Lonsdale, somewhat testily.

“There have been six others of this make of machine sold right here,” the Colonel said, “but the one we are looking for had several unusual fittings to mark it. There’s a difference in the wheels of Mary Louise’s car—couldn’t you tell by that; also the driver’s seat is different.”

“I don’t remember having noticed these particular marks myself,” said the Chief, “but a dozen or so of my men have done so, and at this present moment are busy trying to locate Mary Louise’s car.”

“You’re a good fellow, Charlie,” remarked the Colonel gratefully. “I feel sure we’ll get our clutches on the machine sooner or later, even if the streets are crowded with automobiles of this and all other makes.”

“You’re skeptical, of course,” replied the Chief, “regarding the power of the police, but I’m not at all, so I’ll plod along and make the best of a poor beginning. So please have faith in our ability and we’ll find your car.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of your ability,” said Gran’pa Jim.

“Let’s run down to the office,” proposed the Chief. “We’ll get the news as quickly there as here—perhaps a bit quicker, and I can see you’re too nervous—both of you—to get to sleep at your usual hour.” So they got into the Chief’s auto and started for the police office, where the man at the desk listened quietly but without astonishment to the Chief’s story, referring to a sheet of notes at his side, “Guess I got it all, sir,” he said.

“Is Olmstead out?” asked the Chief.

“Not just now, sir, he’s just back from the telegraph office, where he listened to this message to Mary Louise coming over the wire.”

“Let us see it.” Without a word the desk sergeant handed over a paper with some words scrawled upon it, but neither old Mr. Hathaway nor the Chief of Police had any difficulty in reading it:

“DEAR MARY LOUISE:

“Will be with you to-morrow morning at eight o’clock. Remind Aunt Sally of my insatiable appetite as that’s usually your breakfast hour.       With love,

“JOSIE.”

“Aha! that’s one thing off my mind,” cried Mary Louise, crushing the paper and then spreading it out the full size of the sheet. “It’s well for us that Josie is at home and willing to pick up a case of such a character. There is too much mystery about the case for us to undertake it without the help and backing of that clever girl, and if she is unable to solve the mystery, her father will give her all the necessary help to find both the automobile and Danny Dexter.”

By the time they had adopted Josie O’Gorman’s leadership and decided to depend upon it, the three had left the police office and started for home. It was very annoying both to the Colonel and to Mary Louise to travel on foot after constant use of an automobile. The Chief, having urgent business in another part of the city, was unable to take them in his auto. As they slowly walked toward home, they discussed the mystery and rejoiced that Josie was going to help them solve it.

“She isn’t much of a detective,” remarked the old Colonel, “but she wins as often as she loses, and she’s earnest and hard-working; more-over, she has her father’s brains to appeal to, and there are no more skillful ones in all Washington than those of John O’Gorman.”

“To be sure,” said Mary Louise, as she clung to her grandfather’s arm. “They first sent him to France to take charge of the Secret Service bureau there, but he was recalled because there were more important duties here. Josie wrote me there were a thousand suspects in America to one abroad. Besides, each nation has its corps and band of detectives and some are especially clever.”

“It’s a good thing for us,” declared the old gentleman, “for it gives us Josie, and with her the advice of the shrewdest secret service man in America.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE ARRIVAL OF JOSIE O’GORMAN

Josie O’Gorman did not bother to ring the doorbell next morning. She went around to Aunt Sallie’s outside kitchen door, which always stood open at this hour, and after a word of greeting to the black mammy, made her way to the cosy little room which she always occupied when visiting there. Afterward she quietly unpacked the contents of her suitcase. This being accomplished Josie went downstairs to find Colonel Hathaway there alone, sipping his coffee behind his newspaper while awaiting Mary Louise.

“Good mornin’,” she said, and threw her arms around her old friend and heartily kissed him.

“I hope that cackle I hear from the kitchen means an egg, and the egg another kiss,” remarked the old Colonel, smiling at her. “I am very glad you are here. You’ll be a great comfort to Mary Louise, I can assure you, for she has already exhausted our resources and I’m quite sure she’s on the ragged edge of nothing.”

“What’s wrong, Colonel?” asked Josie, as Aunt Sallie brought in her coffee.

“Everything—and nothing,” replied Colonel Hathaway, in a way, testily, and yet with an amusing expression. “But here she comes and you can get all the points of the terrible tragedy.”

Mary Louise entered the breakfast room briskly, as if fully expecting to find her old friend there, for she knew that Josie would not lose a minute in answering her summons. Indeed, her telegram of the evening before quite settled the matter as far as she was concerned.

“What’s gone wrong?” she asked again, when they had seated themselves, after the exchange of a hearty kiss, at the table.

Mary Louise, in a despondent voice, replied: “Everything has gone wrong, dear. There was a beautiful automobile at the auto show a while ago, and as Gran’pa Jim’s big old car had no one, from Uncle Sam to a grasshopper, to care for it any longer, I induced him to let me trade it in for the beauty I have referred to. I didn’t care much for Gran’pa’s rattletrap, but its wheels went round nevertheless.”

“I know,” nodded Josie, over her ham and eggs.

Then Mary Louise went on about her discovery of Danny Dexter, and his quaint manners, and the methods he employed in abdication.

“We’ve tried every method we could think of,” concluded the girl, “and the result is that yesterday we wired you, at Gran’pa’s suggestion.”

“What!” in amazement. “Do you mean that the dear Colonel has at last acquired sufficient confidence in my ability to entrust me with a job of this sort?”

The Colonel’s eyes could be seen just above the edge of his newspaper, and both Josie and Mary Louise thought they twinkled.

“If it can be done,” he muttered, “Josie is as likely to do it as anyone on earth. And she’s fond of Mary Louise, so I’ve an idea she’s better fitted than anyone else. But it’s a stiff job.”

“Yes, it is,” said Josie, in the same monotonous voice. “To recover lost automobiles is almost impossible in small towns,” added Josie. “Tourists are mighty numerous, and if one of these transients took the machine, such a person would surely drive off as soon as possible.”

“But how can that be,” protested Mary Louise, “when Danny Dexter had the car in his keeping, and now he is missing as well as the machine?”

Josie laughed joyously.

“But who told you it was Danny who ran away with your beauty,” demanded Josie. “On the other hand, I’m growing more and more to favor this young man. If he can’t ‘own the dear little thing,’ the next best thing is to be its chauffeur. Tell me some more about him—all you know.”

Mary Louise flushed at this tribute, but she allowed the Colonel to depict Danny’s character before she gave her own glowing opinion of him.

Josie slowly shook her head.

“There’s something wrong about this whole affair,” she reflected; “either he’s suspiciously bad, or he’s undeniably good—one of those perfect examples given us by the good Lord to pattern after. I’m afraid of those goody-goodies till I can make a hole in them and see what they’re stuffed with.”

“At present your chauffeur is as invisible as your machine,” she said at last, “and so we must wait for a more promising clue.”

“Well, what’s to be done first?” inquired Mary Louise, impatiently. “While we’re talking and fussing here, that car is getting farther and farther away from us.”

“True,” assented the girl detective, calmly, “but I need a good breakfast to fit me for a hard day’s work—and I’m getting it.”

“You’re stuffing yourself like a cormorant!” said Mary Louise. “Why, I’ve seen you go for twenty-four hours without eating, Josie O’Gorman.”

“Under other circumstances. My! how good this ham and these eggs taste after a foodless night. But I’m thinking while I chatter, Mary Louise, and if you don’t like my methods of detection, discharge me on the spot, Miss Burrows,” she said with mock dignity.

“Oh, hurry up, Josie. What’s first on your program?”

“First, we must visit an old friend, Charlie Olmstead—and—”

“Oh, we’ve been through all that yesterday—and the evening before,” Mary Louise retorted. “What do you imagine we’ve been doing all this time?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Josie, meekly; “but anyone who would let a youth and a bran’ new auto get away from them so easily would do ’most anything. I suppose you’ve interviewed the postmaster, also?” She asked in a tone that was meant to be casual.

“One of our first acts, of course.” Josie smiled over Mary Louise’s head, but the old Colonel caught the expression and answered, to assist his dearly beloved grand-daughter:

“We may have acted foolishly, Josie, but you may be sure we acted. The interview has, you must admit, rendered it unnecessary for you to do the same thing and so has saved you the loss of considerable time.”

Josie again smiled.

“You’ve now told me all you know about the automobile, and all you know about the queer fellow who acted as chauffeur and did other jobs around the place. You have practically ended your resources and want to put the case in my hands. I want to take it, for it’s one of those odd cases that appeal to an amateur detective. Why, even daddy has been mixed up in some of these ‘lost automobile’ cases, and has found to his embarrassment that some of them have baffled him to this day. Some of those mysteries of stolen cars proved so tame that dear old daddy fairly blushed to discover how cleverly, yet simply, they had fooled him.”

“But you say he recovered some of them?” asked Mary Louise.

“Why, yes; I must credit daddy with the fact that he has recovered most of the machines—and some of the thieves.”

“Is it so hard, then, to arrest the drivers?” inquired the Colonel, curiously.

“Yes, indeed,” was the answer. “For if an auto thief discovers he is being followed by one with a faster engine or more ‘gas’ in his tank, he can just hop out and take to the woods. In some unusual cases the driver is also caught but you can see how easy it is for him to dodge his pursuers.”

“Then if no one is chasing, he can get a long way in a couple of days?” questioned Mary Louise, anxiously.

“So he can,” assented the other girl, “but I’ve had the idea that the periods an auto thief may best be arrested are,—first, just after the theft; and secondly, after time enough has elapsed to create a sense of security in the mind of the thief and cause him to cease to worry.”

“Then you think our pirate has ceased to worry?” asked Colonel Hathaway, in a misbelieving tone.

“Yes, and he’s given us a chance to follow one or two clues to our advantage.”

“In what way?” questioned Mary Louise with interest.

“The ‘dear little car’—of course, you must have named it? All automobiles belonging to girls must be named, I believe.”

“Of course. My car is called ‘Queenie.’”

“Certainly; and with a monogram on each side door.”

“Another very good clue,” said Mary Louise, “concerns the driver himself. Danny Dexter is a rather conspicuous returned soldier—not conspicuous because of his garb; he now wears the uniform of the Hathaways’ instead of Uncle Sam’s—but because of a bad scar across his forehead, which he cannot get rid of. So far, I admit we have only circumstantial evidence against the soldier, who won a ‘distinguished service medal’ and through modesty—or for other reasons—keeps this thing in his pocket instead of wearing it on his breast, as others seem proud to do. But that is no warrant for his taking ‘Queenie.’ But now let us visit the police headquarters and secure any further information there.”

Josie was following Mary Louise out when she turned and asked: “Coming with us, Colonel Hathaway?”

“Not this morning,” he replied. “You’ll want to get started and have the case well in hand before you need my assistance. If I remember rightly, Josie O’Gorman likes to work alone, so I predict it won’t be long before she’ll fire even Mary Louise and shoulder the whole thing.”

“This isn’t like the other cases in which Josie has come to our rescue,” protested Mary Louise. “It’s more like open warfare—get your eye on the thief, or on the car, and you can raise the hue-and-cry as much as you care to.”

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN FROM BOSTON

On their way to the police headquarters the two girls gossiped pleasantly concerning the events that had happened since they last saw each other, for there are other things in the world besides lost automobiles and strange young men. There are even winter coats, and how much fur it is good taste to trim them with this year. There were, also, round hats, three-cornered hats and four-cornered hats to discuss, as well as the broad-brimmed hats and matinee, church or street hats. And by the time they reached the police station they had scarcely touched upon shoes and stockings—never mentioned gowns at all!

They found Mr. Charles Lonsdale, Chief of Police, at his desk.

“Oh, here you are,” said Josie. “Good morning, Chief.”

“Good morning, I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour,” was his response.

“Yes,” said Josie, “I knew you’d wait, knowing I’d arrived on the morning train. You see, Chief, this is one of those peculiar cases that can begin or stop at any moment, as we may decide. I don’t know what the ‘dear little thing’—eh—eh—‘Queenie,’ I believe, is her proper name—is worth, but—”

“Without a ‘trade,’ and with the accessories we loaded it with, our poor little Queenie is worth thirty-two hundred dollars,” confessed Mary Louise.

The Chief looked astonished; Josie regarded her friend with amazement.

“Whatever its cost,” commented Lonsdale, “the thing has been stolen, and it’s my duty to try and find it. As for you, Josephine, you may tackle it or not, as it pleases you. Thirty-two hundred dollars is a good bit of money for a little automobile.”

“It isn’t entirely the money that bothers me or Gran’pa Jim,” remarked Mary Louise, with another deep sigh. “We’d have paid a thousand more, gladly, if necessary. It’s the thought that Danny would betray the confidence we held in him.”

There was a brief silence, during which Josie took out her memorandum book.

“What’s the record, so far?” she asked carelessly. “Well, I’ll answer myself: not much, although the whole town knows that Mary Louise’s new auto has been stolen and Danny Dexter has disappeared at the same time. Meantime certain details have reached my ears that lead me to believe that Danny Dexter is but one of half a dozen assumed names used by this ex-soldier. The fellow accepted his position with the Colonel as half-chauffeur and half-gardener so that, at the slightest warning, he could use the little auto in making a getaway. In other words, he’s playing a bigger game than we’ve given him credit for.”

“Who told you all this?” inquired Mary Louise, in amazement.

Josie O’Gorman laughed, but before she could answer, there burst into the room from a side closet a big man with the marks of smallpox scattered about his face, a broad, sensitive nose, and shrewd eyes. It was evident at once that he was interested in their discussion.

“Anyone could see that with half an eye,” he made answer. “I’ll buy you half a dozen better automobiles than ‘Queenie’ if you’ll find its driver for me.”

“What about him?” asked Josie staring at him.

“Well, one name’s as good as another, just now, so we’ll still call him Danny Dexter,” responded the detective, leaning back in the chair so as to rest his feet against the wall. “For instance, I’m from Boston, and my name’s Crocker. Understand?”

Josie shook her head. She’d met a lot of detectives at one time or another, and this one seemed familiar, in a way.

“Then it’s a Boston case, after all,” she said in a disappointed voice.

“No, it’s just a Danny Dexter case, let us say,” responded the big man, also in a disappointed voice. “They gave him up in Boston as a bigger crook than they had time to handle, and the Bank was unwilling to spend more money on so elusive an individual. But I had some information of a floating character that came back to me time after time from the war zone that justified me in resigning from the government deal and taking up the case personally. So I’ve been in Dorfield ever since its famous regiment arrived—for the truth is that the Dorfield boys put up as game a fight as any Americans in the Expeditionary Force. Your boys had no press agent, nor any motion picture concern to back them up, so the truth will never be heralded broadcast in newspaper headlines, but take it from me, Dorfield comes under the A-No. 1 class.”

They regarded him a time in silence.

“How did you make your way here?” asked Josie.

“I saw you arrive in town and recognized you as John O’Gorman’s daughter. Was on old John’s force at one time. Josie O’Gorman is a friend of Mary Louise Burrows, whose auto was stolen by the man I’m hunting. That’s simple enough.”

“Have you been searching for him long in this locality?” asked Chief Lonsdale, handing him a business card.

“Oh, you’re not unknown to me, Charles Lonsdale,” he said; “I’ve hung around here for two days or more, and that’s long enough to tag any man.”

“What’s the name of your Boston fugitive?”

“Here they call him Danny Dexter—his war name. In Boston he was best known as Jim O’Hara.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Josie O’Gorman, in a low tone of surprise. “Then he’s well worth finding. Forger?”

“Yes—and more,” replied the big man, gravely.

Chief Lonsdale was staring at both of them.

“What is your real name?” he asked the man. “A business card doesn’t amount to much in our profession,” and he spun the proffered card across the table.

“Well, where I live we don’t often resort to aliases. They just call me Bill Crocker.”

“Oh!” again said John O’Gorman’s daughter, both surprised and interested in the turn events had taken. “I’ll go bond for him, Chief,” she continued. “It’ll do us both good to know Bill Crocker.”

The man with the pock-marks, who leaned back against the wall in careless attitude, his clothing wrinkled and unpressed, his whole appearance unkempt and unattractive, returned their looks with a mild smile.

“Reputation is a vague thing,” said he, “and often undeserved or exaggerated. To-day Bill Crocker of Boston might be called the John O’Gorman of his city, but what will he be to-morrow? A few failures and he is totally forgotten.”

Josie gave one of her sympathetic nods.

“That’s true,” she affirmed. “If you’re pretty big you’re given a headline; perhaps your picture is printed, but in a few days no one remembers who you were. That’s a good idea, for otherwise the Book of Fate would be packed with nonsense. An author, painter or sculptor stands a chance of living in name, but no one else has a ghost of a chance.”

“Are you prepared to spend some money on this game?” asked Bill Crocker. “The Bank offers a big reward for the man, with all expenses. I’m going to try and get him.”

“Try for it,” repeated the Chief of Police. “We’re prepared to do all the Bank would—and then some,” added Lonsdale calmly. “Eh, Miss Burrows? But we want the auto more than the man.”

“That is true,” agreed Mary Louise, “and yet I will leave the whole matter in your hands. With Charlie Lonsdale, who is regarded as an especially clever Chief, and Josie O’Gorman, whom I have evidence to prove is the brightest girl detective in America, and Bill Crocker of Boston, who is regarded with such awe by his confreres, we certainly ought to win against one common soldier who has turned criminal because he likes a pretty automobile and thinks it safe to steal it from a country town.”

“You forget yourself and your own talents, my dear,” said Josie.

“Why, I seem to have a real talent for stirring up criminal cases,” Mary Louise admitted, “but not for unraveling mysteries.”

“The reason we’re not all better detectives,” commented Bill Crocker, “is that we lose too much valuable time. Let us get busy on the case before us. First, I want to see the old stables—lately used as the garage.”

“This seems like doubling on our tracks,” retorted Josie; “we all know this place so well. But as you insist on crowding yourself into this gang of investigators, we’ll make a brief survey of the premises so you may know the exact situation as well as the rest of us.”

CHAPTER X

MARY LOUISE MAKES A DISCOVERY

That night the air seemed breathless. A storm was threatening, and by eleven o’clock the wind had risen from a gentle sigh to quite a steady roar and was sending great dark clouds scudding across the full golden face of the moon.

Mary Louise felt breathless too, and was strangely unquiet. A storm was brewing in the very heart of her, and she could not understand just why. All she knew was that there was no use trying to sleep as yet. She simply had to think. So, pulling a silken sweater of a soft rose color over her light dinner frock, she dragged her great wicker chair before the window and curled up therein.

All her being was crying out in rebellion at the thought that Danny, her kind, candid, cheery Danny Dexter, could be a forger. As if she were in his presence, she could see the honest, straight-forward glance of his clear, blue eyes, and as she lay in her big chair in her darkened room and watched the wind play havoc in the garden, she suddenly realized that she had at times believed that there was something deeper in his eyes when they rested upon her.

This idea strangely disquieted Mary Louise. She made a remarkably lovely picture as the moon shone full upon her in one of its fleeting moments of freedom. The wind had loosened her soft dark hair and had flung it in little tendrils about her flushed young face, and her lips were parted in the eager recognition of a fact that had suddenly come to her. She knew she believed in and trusted Danny Dexter!

“Oh, what can I do?” she moaned. “Danny, I know you’ve done nothing wrong, but how can I make the others understand? And how can I ask Josie to hunt for someone else; she will hunt down one clue until she knows about it. Oh, dear me!”

And at this point a little sigh escaped from Mary Louise.

The wind evidently being in a mood sympathetic with her own, gave a sudden gusty sigh of despair; it fairly shook the house, and whistling about the chimney, finally expended itself in whirling through the window the tiny bit of cambric Mary Louise called a handkerchief.

She rose listlessly to catch it, her thoughts all centered on her problem, but the bit of white fluttered off in gay abandon among the rose bushes. Mary Louise watched the speck of light out there, idly leaning her rose-clad shoulder against the frame of the open window.

Suddenly she felt she could no longer breathe inside. She must, she felt, get out in the wind, under the clouds, and feel the wildness and vitality of the night. Her rose-pink bedroom opened on a little balcony from which a few steps led directly into the garden. With a sudden sense of relief, Mary Louise threw back her dark head, breathing in the very storm about her, and ran down the steps into the dark. Straight for the group of tall pines at the rear of the grounds she went, to hear their wailing response to the wind, and to watch the hide and seek of the moonlight through the long needles.

Refreshed and almost happy again, she leaned against the dark pungent trunk of the oldest pine, and her dark eyes turned to the tower room that had been Danny’s.

All at once she started quickly, for faint and dim though it was, a light was unmistakably filtering through the drawn shutters of the tower chamber.

“Oh!” gasped the girl, her voice trembling with relief. “Of course he came back; I knew he would; but he must come to the house and tell Grandpa Jim he’s back.”

So saying, she ran across the open space and finding the door of the old stable to be unlocked though tightly closed, she pushed it back. As she did so, the moon drifted out from behind its veil and shone full and bright upon the smart trim car which Mary Louise had named “Queenie.” Yes, there it was without a scratch or mar that Mary Louise could see, and appearing as matter of fact as though it had never vanished into thin air!

Mary Louise welcomed it home with a little pat of joy, but most of that joy just now was for the Danny Dexter who had brought her automobile safely back.

Standing there by her beloved car she called shyly, “Danny.”

After a brief pause, again, “Danny.”

But there was no answer, and suddenly it seemed to her that everything was very, very quiet. Startled, she ran up the tower stairs calling in frightened tones, “Danny, oh, Danny! Answer me!”

Not, however, until she had reached the top step did she get her answer. Then the tower room door was flung back and by the dull glow of a candle Mary Louise could see the dim outline of a man. A frightened shriek rose to her lips but before it could be uttered, the man had leaped forward and with strength born of desperation, had lifted her bodily and carried her into the room pushing shut the door after him.

Gasping, Mary Louise sank onto the wicker couch which she had bought for Danny, to make his room more cheery. Even in her great fear, a sense of gratitude came to her that it was this stranger and not Danny Dexter who had stolen her car. And thinking so, some of the fear vanished and she dared glance up at the man.

His was not at all a criminal type of face. The mouth and the lines about the mouth were very weak, but the eyes were kindly, and just now, as she met their gaze, they seemed filled with apology and distress. His tone, however, was firm and decided as he turned to Mary Louise.

“Keep absolutely quiet,” he commanded crisply, “and no harm will come to you. But if you try to call out—”

Here he gave his shoulders a shrug and, with a bitter laugh, added: “I’m pretty desperate. I’ve got to get away, and if you make a sound, I may have to tie you up.”

Mary Louise most decidedly did not want to be tied up. Words choked right in her throat but in some way she managed to convey the idea to this waiting man that she was and always would be more quiet than the quietest mouse. She felt she never, never could speak a word again, and she was trembling as if from cold in the dead of winter.

When the man was reassured, he returned to the task from which he had evidently been interrupted. This seemed to be page after page of accounts, and he was going over them with infinite care. As he leaned close under the candle flame, Mary Louise could see that he was a man very far from young. His hair was quite gray and the lines upon his face were heavy. As he turned the last leaf of the accounts, a deep sadness was on his face, which, when he had slipped the package into an envelope and addressed it, changed into as great a tenderness as Mary Louise had ever seen. Then and there all fear dropped from her and she wished she could aid this old man who so surely needed help.

Her presence had evidently been forgotten for the moment, but now the man straightened up with a start as the town clock boomed midnight.

“Good Lord,” he muttered, “and I’m due in twenty minutes! There’s nothing for it but to take the car again and the girl in it. I’m sorry for Danny’s sake, but I don’t dare leave her to give the alarm.”

Deciding which, he muffled himself in a huge tan duster and cap, and motioned to Mary Louise to follow him. As he stooped to blow out the candle the long envelope slipped from his pocket to the floor. Mary Louise, almost without thought, glanced down at it, and there, glaring and flashing up at her from the envelope, was Danny’s name!

She had no time for puzzling, for already her jailor was halfway down the stairs and calling her to hurry. In her anxiety to obey to the letter, Mary Louise fairly flew down the stairs and found the stranger climbing into her beloved place in her very own car. He ordered her to sit beside him, and Mary Louise did so feeling as if she were in a dream. Here she was at her home and in her own car and yet she was a prisoner. Her captor seemed to have some thought for her welfare, however, for as the car slipped quietly out into the night, he tucked a robe carefully about her shoulders and then in silence the two flew off into the wildness of the night.

CHAPTER XI

THE EMPTY ROOM

There was no depression in the spirits of Josie O’Gorman as she bade Mary Louise good-night at her bedroom door, and jumping up the stairs, two at a time, she entered her own room with a rush of energy.

With a quick twist of her wrist, she flooded the room with brightness. It was a large room, furnished simply with a few splendid old pieces of mahogany, but in some way, Josie in the few hours of her stay had managed to impart an air of activity and alertness to her apartment. A typewriter was installed on the low table at the front of the bed. The telephone had been connected with her room, and files of notes and time tables cluttered up the desk. Even the wonderful old four-posted bed had caught the contagion of hurry and was quite flustered beneath a shower of shirts, hats and dresses that had been tossed upon it.

To Josie the main intent and purpose of life was her work; orderliness and prettiness were considerations that had to follow after. Even as she entered the room the telephone was buzzing.

“Hello,” she called, seizing the receiver with one hand, pushing the odds and ends from the desk chair with the other.

“Yes, this is Josie O’Gorman. You say you haven’t found a trace of the car? Well, you needn’t have rung me up for that. I’d grasped that much already. Oh, you’ve found positively no strangers have left the neighborhood within the last forty-eight hours. That’s something to go on at any rate. Yes, thank you. Good-bye.”

As she hung up the receiver Josie’s face wore a puzzled frown.

“It’s a riot of a mess,” quoth she, unbuttoning with quick jerks her mannish-looking dress of dark blue linen. Then, having dropped it on the floor, she kicked it with well directed aim into the corner. Her remark could have been applied most aptly to her attire then, as it lay a forlorn and crumpled heap. Evidently her thoughts were far from those four walls. That any of her garments remained within reaching distance was not due to Josie’s care, for with little kicks one small pump lodged precariously on the window ledge, while its mate nestled more securely in the waste basket. But Josie was puzzling over a problem, and it was not coming out as clearly and as quickly as it might. These automobile robberies were discouraging matters to trace, when one realized how far one could drive a car in a few days and especially when such a clever crook as this forger, O’Hara, was at the wheel.

Josie jumped into her bright pink pajamas, finally produced her little bedroom slippers from her hat box, and covered herself with a warm bathrobe of most brilliant hue. This done, she turned a further glare of light upon the desk, pulled out a box of salty crackers and proceeded to sit there and eat and think.

To all appearances, however, the crackers vanished quicker than the problems and Josie’s head began to nod. Finally with a shrug she admitted, “I can’t make head nor tail out of the thing to-night. I’ll go to sleep and be a brighter detective in the morning.”

So saying, she turned out the light, made sure her little revolver was safely under her pillow, and without a thought of the night outside, she climbed into bed and was instantly asleep.

Josie O’Gorman’s slumbers were not undisturbed very long. For suddenly piercing even to her sleep-drugged ears came the quiet hum of a motor very near indeed. Instantly she was wide awake and reaching for her bathrobe.

Yes, there was the same sound only growing fainter. She rushed to the window but could see nothing whatever, the moon was completely covered by the clouds and the automobile had no lights. Josie placed the revolver in the pocket of her bathrobe and stole quickly from the room.

Her one idea was to waken Mary Louise immediately. Even as Josie entered Mary Louise’s room, she felt a sense of someone quite near and very much awake. There was no time to rouse her girl friend; she was perhaps safer sound asleep. Without turning the switch, Josie made her slow, careful way toward the open window. The scent of the lilies from the garden was blown to her as she neared the balcony, her little revolver held steady and ready for action.

Suddenly some pebbles from the path below were tossed again at the window pane. Josie drew back waiting. The tiny patter came again; and then as she still waited tensely, a man’s voice called “Mary Louise!”

Instantly all Josie’s faculties were alert. This man was undoubtedly O’Hara, the fugitive from justice. Perhaps he intended to frighten Mary Louise into hiding him about the premises; perhaps it was the combination of the safe he wished to extort from her. Whatever it was, she realized that she—Josie O’Gorman—daughter of John O’Gorman, expert detective, was there to save her friend.

There was no thought of fear in Josie’s heart, her brain was clear and her hand steady. She was living to the full this moment the life that she loved best to live.

She stepped cautiously behind the fluttering curtain of the window and reconnoitered. The moon had again struggled out from behind the clouds and, shining palely down upon the white of the balcony, had lit up with a weird glow the sun dial at the end of the garden path. The man who had called out, however, remained a dark shadow against the wistaria vine that clambered over the house. She could only distinguish that a man was there leaning against the wall, and from the faint gleam of white she knew he was facing toward the balcony.

As Josie remained hidden she saw the man bend again and, gathering some pebbles from the path, proceed to toss them against the pane. At the same time he called in a louder tone than before, “Mary Louise!”

With quick presence of mind Josie leaned slightly forward, keeping always in the deepest shadow, her finger on the trigger of her weapon.

Her words were whispered in order not to show the difference between her rather deep, full voice and the quiet, musical tones of Mary Louise.

The man evidently heard her question, “What do you want with me?” for he turned eagerly, though he remained standing where he was.

“This is Danny Dexter,” he said slowly and distinctly. “Don’t be frightened, Mary Louise, but I simply had to call you to the balcony. There is something I cannot leave without telling you.”

Josie made a quick mental note of his immediate departure and proceeded to extract further information by a whispered “Yes” of encouragement.

“I wanted to make you understand that although you would not want me here any longer, still I am absolutely innocent of any forgery I understand this Crocker is accusing me of. And, Mary Louise, your car is safe in the garage.”

Astounding facts indeed for Josie to digest! The man’s tone carried absolute conviction. She could not help the firm belief that this man was not the forger O’Hara. And what was this he said, the car was safe? Had he perhaps been searching for the thief himself?

Josie found her thoughts all in a turmoil. But one thing she did, impulsively and kindly. Clutching her blanket robe more vigorously about her and dropping the revolver in its pocket, she stepped out onto the balcony.

“I’m sorry I deceived you, Danny Dexter, and I believe just what you said,” she told him simply.

Then seeing the shadow of the man start in amazement, she added quickly: “You see, I’m Mary Louise’s friend, Josie O’Gorman, and I’m here to help find the car.”

Then Josie gave a hearty, tickled laugh. “And you just saved yourself from arrest and perhaps from being murdered,” she added, brandishing the weapon she produced from her pocket.

Danny Dexter perhaps appreciated the humor of it all more fully when the revolver was restored to its resting place. At any rate he withdrew into the shadow and quietly waited until Josie, taking pity on him, said:

“You wait down there a few moments, Danny Dexter, and I’ll wake Mary Louise and help her dress and send her out to you.”

“Thank you,” answered Danny, a slight quiver of anxiety in his voice, “but I must leave soon, and if I cannot wait to see her, will you tell her what you heard me say, and also say good-bye?”

“Of course I will!” said Josie O’Gorman, and then, turning, called briskly: “Mary Louise!”

There was no answer; her own breathing was all that she could hear. Frightened, she hurriedly ran across the room and turned on the electric switch. Her startled cry brought Danny in one leap across the balustrade, and together in a panic they gazed about the room. It was empty!

CHAPTER XII

DANNY DISAPPEARS

Danny Dexter took a hasty glance at Mary Louise’s empty room, and then with one running jump he was in the garden again, clutching his cap to save it from the wind and cursing the clouds which just then made it so dark he could not see his hand in front of him. He followed the path to the old stables as best he could, and once he paused as a soft bit of white blew into his face. It was Mary Louise’s little handkerchief that was tossing about in the elements and had finally found a very welcome lodgment. Danny recognized that soft perfume as of violets, and he placed the foolish trifle carefully in the inside pocket of his coat as though it were a very precious thing. Then he hurried on, his anxious eyes straining in the darkness toward the garage.

Past the pines he hastened, never noticing their sighs and wailings, and stopped with a hurt cry of amazement at finding the garage door open and the automobile gone.

“Oh, Uncle Jim, why did you take it?” he groaned aloud—“just when we’d worked for two hours quietly pushing it back in its place. Mary Louise would have been so happy to have found it in the morning. I’d so counted on her joy!” and the lad leaned wearily against the door.

There seemed no need to search the building further, but Danny rushed up the stairs just to be sure Mary Louise had not been there.

“Of course she couldn’t have come here,” he argued with himself, “and yet how kind of her if she had come, thinking Uncle Jim’s light meant that I was back.”

The very thought that Mary Louise had utterly despised him sent Danny flying around the tower room searching for a sign of her. But no sign was given him. He saw where the man whom he called Uncle Jim had rested through the evening and where his candle had dripped tallow on the floor, but that was all.

“Good Uncle Jimsie!” thought Danny, as he quickly scraped up the candle grease and locked the door to the tower room. “It was the one place I could hide him where I felt they would not look for him again to-night. But, thank God, we are saving him!”

Danny again went down the stairs. This time with an electric torch he carefully searched the ground outside to find just where the car had gone. “It started off in the right direction,” said Danny, as he still strained his eyes for one glimpse of something or someone that might turn out to be Mary Louise. Once he saw a gleam of white in the darkness and tearing madly toward it found with a sinking heart that it was only a bush of small white flowers.

His torch was playing upon every bit of ground about the garage, and suddenly it stopped in his hand as though paralyzed. The faint glow of its light had fallen directly upon a little bow from Mary Louise’s slipper, evidently torn off in her scurry to reach the car.

Danny leaned over it as if trying to solve the mystery of its being there. All that he could reason was that Mary Louise must have driven off with Uncle Jim. Then the quickest and only thing for him to do was to reach the crossroads.

His head jerked up in alarm. So engrossed had he been in Mary Louise’s disappearance that he had failed to recall the alarm which Josie must have given. Voices were floating down the garden paths and a glow of light illumined the whole house. The face of Danny Dexter was stern with resolve as with infinite caution he swung to the garage door and crept into the darkness.

He made his way carefully and with instant decision. It was as though by prearrangement, so steadily and yet so quietly he went, across the road and into the waste of meadow beyond it.

The wind had hushed by now, as though in deference to the distant roar of thunder, and a heavy warmth was weighing down the air. The perfume of the drying clover was oppressive as Danny unerringly made his way, his cap now in his pocket, and his thick hair damp on his bare forehead.

The sudden baying of a dog a long way distant caused him to pause, but the sound ceased and only the restless rumble of the approaching storm broke the perfect silence. Then Danny, convinced that he was not followed, stumbled on and reached the edge of the marsh land which skirted the river. It was an intensely lonely spot. Even the deep, full-throated croaking of the bullfrogs seemed subdued by the dank mist that hung low upon the water-soaked land, and the glimmer and sparkle of innumerable fireflies were dim and tremulous through the dusk.

The moon, now very pale and yellow, was wanly glowing a last farewell before succumbing to the piling clouds of the storm. It faintly outlined a small woodland to the right, where willows dipped their branches in the muddy soil and elderberry bushes ran riot undisturbed.

Danny smiled grimly as he thought of the trouble it had been to push Mary Louise’s automobile from its hiding-place there and get it safely home without the engine being heard. And it had all been in vain. But the last part of his errand should succeed; of this he was assured.

Pausing not an instant, he went on as best he could, leaping and slipping from hummock to hummock in the weird green of the moon and by the glowworm’s flash.

At last he was quite at the edge of the wood, and distinctly he made out the dim outline of a little Ford secluded amongst the trees which had so recently held “Queenie.” Danny Dexter felt a thrill of joy and gratitude.

“Are you there?” he called.

“Right-o!” answered a cheery voice, and from the Ford stepped Will White.

As Danny leaped over the railing and disappeared into the night Josie rushed into the hall and up the stairs. Pausing only for a quick knock, she flung open the door of Grandpa Jim’s room, awakening that worthy old gentleman with the startling announcement, “Mary Louise isn’t here!”

“What’s that? Mary Louise gone?”

The realization that his beloved grandchild was in danger waked him wide in an instant. Telling Josie to scamper, he was out of bed and dressed in three minutes by the clock. Josie was but two minutes later than he, which was very quick time for a girl detective.

They met in the library in front of the ashes of the little fire that Mary Louise had kindled so happily the evening before. Grandpa Jim was almost as gray as the ashes, and a great fear was in his eyes as Josie told of hearing the auto and meeting Danny.

“We must telephone for Lonsdale at once, and you’d better ring up Crocker, too,” he said, “for if Danny is innocent of this, our Mary Louise must be in the hands of this O’Hara. Ransom, I suppose.”

The Colonel walked restlessly up and down the room while Josie telephoned. He was still pacing about when she returned to tell him: “They’ll both be here in a jiffy, Grandpa Jim. Lonsdale is bringing his car, and we’ll all go along. Why, they just can’t escape us!”

The old man patted the head of the young girl tenderly. He knew she was trying to give him courage, and indeed she was the picture of pluck as she stood there, her scarlet cheeks reflecting the scarlet Tam o’ Shanter she had carelessly pulled down about her hair. So they stood together as the minutes ticked away, the clock-hands seeming to move with infinite weariness. Finally with a slight ring of the bell the door opened and admitted Lonsdale, the local Chief, and Crocker, the detective from Boston.

CHAPTER XIII

FACE TO FACE

When the automobile left the garage and spun quietly down the thoroughfare, Mary Louise was amazed to find that she could not possibly fear this man. The sadness of the set face that was kept steadily upon the road was such that her kind heart ached for him.

Who was he? What could he be doing? She remembered with a quiver of dismay the letter she had seen addressed to Danny. What could Danny possibly have to do with him?

“After all,” thought Mary Louise, “how little Danny has ever told me of himself!” And the depression of the night seemed suddenly reflected in her spirits.

The car, being without lights, necessarily had to be driven very slowly, but at that they could not have been traveling for more than fifteen minutes when the man at the wheel turned the car into a narrow, grass-grown lane which ran along the edge of the marsh toward the river.

About half a mile down the lane he stopped the car. At the same time the wind died down and a tense quietness came over the feelings of Mary Louise as of breathless waiting. The man at the wheel stood up and carefully gazed across the low land toward a willow copse near the river’s edge. He stood quiet and intent for some few moments. Finally his search must have been rewarded, for with a sigh of relaxation he sank down in the seat again.

It was a full minute before Mary Louise could make out what the man’s sharp sight had detected. A dark object was bobbing and dipping over the marsh land.

She was instantly recalled from her discovery by the voice of her companion. It was a kindly voice though thick and nervous, and he spoke in jerks.

“Mary Louise,” he said, “I believe you are a friend of Danny’s. At least I know he is a true friend to you, as God knows he is to me! I’m Danny’s uncle, raised him from a kid, but I guess I’m no good. Anyhow, when Danny found I wasn’t square, he ran off and enlisted with the Canadians when the war broke out. But now that he knows they’ve found me out, he has done everything possible to help me—believes that blood is thicker than water, I guess. He took your car the night before your trip just to get me to the junction, for the Santa Fe Limited. I’m off for China. But Crocker came that night and we had to hide the car and ourselves.”

Mary Louise was breathless with interest as the man talked. But why should he be telling it to her? The voice jerked on.

“Danny was sick about worrying you, and finally insisted that we push back the car and then meet here. Sorry I had to bring you but my freedom was in pawn, and now—” the man’s voice grew husky—“that lad has made me give my word to hand him my accounts. He swears he’ll make up the deficit. Good Lord, what a boy!”

Mary Louise breathed a soft “Amen.” Her eyes were like twin stars from pride and happiness, and as the man pressed a large envelope into her hand, she realized that one mystery was solved.

“Will you give him that?” said the man, and added, “God bless you both,” as he jumped to the ground and left her.

The strange individual seemed to be swallowed up instantly by the darkness, and except when the flashes of lightning revealed it, the dark bobbing object in the marsh was also invisible. Mary Louise suddenly felt very much alone. She welcomed even the approach of the mysterious something, which each vivid flash of electricity revealed as coming nearer, ever nearer. It seemed to leap and dip and sidle, but at the same time constantly to advance.

The weird hoot of an owl from a tree that edged the lane caused Mary Louise to shiver and to draw the auto robe more closely about her, although the heat of the night seemed to be weighing down all nature. She felt cold and utterly deserted. The now incessant rumble of the thunder drowned any sound the approaching object might be making, and as Mary Louise sat waiting and trembling a great bat flew blindly down and beat its loathsome wings against the car. That was enough and more than enough for Mary Louise. With a gasp she sank on the floor of the auto and covered her head with the robe.

So it happened that when the Ford runabout came close to the car she neither saw nor heard it. Neither did she see one man jump out and help the stranger into his vacant seat, as the latter wrung his hand and bade him farewell in a queer, choked voice.

“My boy, God bless you,” muttered the older man, “and I promise to be on the level for your sake from this time on. ‘Thank you’ are feeble words.”

Danny’s voice was very gentle as he put his strong arm around the trembling shoulders of the older man.

“Uncle Jim,” he said, “I understand a great deal more than before I went into that Hell over there, and I can’t forget that everything you did was for me—to give me money and education. It is just that I should square up our accounts and I want to do it.”

At this point Will White, who had been sitting quietly at the wheel, struck a match and, looking at his watch, suggested: “If my watch ain’t fast and if that train ain’t slow, we’d better hustle.”

Danny stepped back after one last hand-shake, and the Ford went chugging down the lane. With a feeling of regret not unmingled with relief that his part of the escape was accomplished, he turned to Mary Louise’s car standing empty in the shadow. He swung quickly into the driver’s seat and quite as quickly swung out again, for with a stifled “Ouch” a small tousled head appeared above the blankets and Danny and Mary Louise were face to face!

“Oh, Danny!” cried Mary Louise, when she found breath to speak to the intruder in her automobile, “Oh, Danny, I’m so glad that you’ve come to me.”

Had Danny been a disciple of accuracy he could quite easily have explained that he hadn’t the wildest idea he was coming to her. Instead, hearing the welcome in her voice, and being so unbelievably glad to see that tousled head and tear-stained face, he simply said, “Of course I came, Mary Louise,” and then he could not say another word.

He stood bare-headed there on the running board and stared and stared down at Mary Louise who was still sitting on the floor of the car and gazing up at him. Suddenly a huge drop of rain splashed full upon the upturned nose of Mary Louise. It roused her with a start and evidently filled her with a spirit of prophecy for she sagely said, “Danny, I guess it’s going to rain!”

Then Danny, too, felt the great drops beating down his collar, and with a chuckle and an, “I’ll be darned, I never noticed it,” he was swooping out the side curtains and adjusting them to their hooks.

Mary Louise insisted on helping. It was very nice to have her, though of course it delayed matters, and they were both pretty thoroughly soaked before they finally climbed back into the car. It was dry and snug in there at least.

Outside, the storm was now lashing and howling with a fury that was terrific. It was an impossibility to start the car until the wind and rain abated, so Danny switched on the little light and turned once again to Mary Louise.

Then, strange to relate, they were both tongue-tied. Mary Louise became miserably conscious that her hair was in wild disarray, and Danny became blissfully conscious that the wild disarray of Mary Louise’s hair was very lovely. It is difficult to say how long the silence would have lasted had not her hand touched the long, official envelope upon the seat beside her. Then Mary Louise remembered she was playing postman.

“Your Uncle Jim asked me to give you this, Danny,” she said, placing the bulky letter on his knee.

Danny turned to her in wonder and almost in awe. “Mary Louise, you know about me? You know about Uncle Jim, and still you speak to me?”

“Yes,” said Mary Louise softly. “Maybe I speak to you partly because I know about your Uncle Jim, because I think it is so splendid of you to take the responsibility of paying the checks he forged.”

“You can’t know that I took your car that night just to take him to the junction. He came to me to help him and I had to. But, oh, Mary Louise, when Crocker came and I had to hide your car—at least let me tell you what I suffered at the thought of worrying you! I don’t ask your forgiveness.”

Mary Louise found her voice again. “You don’t have to,” she told Danny. “I know, too, of all the trouble you took to push it back safely,” and she turned to him a face so lighted with trust and confidence that Danny gripped the idle steering wheel very hard and gazed straight ahead unseeing into the night.

If he had been observant, he would have noticed that the storm had spent its wildness and was already dying down in the distance. The cool, cleared air was creeping into the car. It was Mary Louise who first saw the new-washed moon appear a golden ball again.

“See, it’s all clearing up,” she said; “we’d better go.”

Danny lingered though for a minute longer. Then—“Mary Louise, may I ask you—” he started to say; then changed it joyously to—“Why, no; I know you won’t give Uncle Jim away to Crocker.”

“Of course not,” replied Mary Louise, and her eyes answered the steady look of his.

Then Danny started the auto slowly and drove out into the lane.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SEARCH

When Crocker and Lonsdale entered the Hathaway home Josie O’Gorman briefly outlined to them the coming of Danny and of hearing the automobile. Crocker turned instantly and went through the kitchen into the courtyard and across to the old stable.

Here it was plainly evident to his practiced eye that not only had a machine come and gone, but at least three individual pairs of feet had plodded around the doorway. Not pausing to investigate the footprints further than to assure himself that one deep imprint was of a small and high-heeled slipper, Crocker strode back to the house. The immediate thing to do was to trace the car before the lowering storm broke in all its fury and completely erased the tracks.

When he reached the house he found Aunt Sally and Uncle Ben fussily scurrying about, trying to help and managing most successfully to be in everybody’s way.

“Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy,” groaned Aunt Sally, as she slipped an all-enveloping slicker upon Josie’s shoulders, “dat lightnin’ sho’ am de bad sign. I jes’ opine I ain’ nevah gwine fo’ to see ma lamb agin!” And then the woolly head of good old Aunt Sally was hidden by her huge checked apron, which she flung over it, and her body rocked and swayed with the moans and sobs that shook her.

Uncle Eben took special charge of his beloved master, the Colonel, bringing his big sou’wester and cheering Grandpa Jim with the helpful assurance: “Massa Jim, Ah knowed they’s somethin’ awful gwine fo’ to happen caze las’ night Ah dreamt of a white mule. Ain’t nevah knowed it to fail to mean death and destruction when Ah dream of a white mule.”

At last they climbed into the car, Crocker and Lonsdale in the front, Josie O’Gorman and Colonel Hathaway in the tonneau. The storm seemed just about to crash in all its fury above their heads and the lightning was sharp and incessant. By the powerful searchlight of the car they could easily trace the route of the machine they were pursuing until they reached the macadam road. Here the wind in all its previous fury had blow away all traces of the wheels.

Lonsdale stopped and Crocker climbed out to investigate the ground more closely. As he did so the unmistakable chug-chug of a Ford was heard evidently coming at full speed down the road.

Instantly alert, at Crocker’s command Lonsdale placed his automobile directly across the road. The Ford came on until almost upon the obstruction and then stopped with a jerk. As the searchlight played upon the new arrival, Josie with a sense of disappointment recognized Will White from the grocery store.

“Good heavens, man,” said Lonsdale testily, “were you trying to run us down?”

Will White laughed his slow, lazy laugh. “Naw, not quite,” he said, “but I was allowin’ as how Uncle Will and me might hit it home afore the rain.”

As Lonsdale backed the car out of the way, the Colonel’s ever ready courtesy came forth.

“So this is your uncle?” he asked, kindly nodding to the quiet elderly man who sat beside Will White, his face perhaps a trifle pale.

“I’m named for him,” vouchsafed Will, his drawl was must pronounced. Then: “Are you in trouble, Colonel?”

Quickly the whole auto load reached the same decision. They would say nothing of their search to this village gossip unless they found themselves powerless. Then they would wake the town. So with a curt denial and a hasty apology for blocking the traffic, the larger car sped on.

Finally, Crocker stopped at a farmhouse and roused the farmer from his sleep by many bangs against the door.

The farmer came down cross and sleepy, but at least Crocker got from him the information that they had heard no auto pass that evening. “And only a fool would be out a night like this,” added the man as he slammed the door.

The rain was now beating down and in a minute it was falling in such torrents that the road could not be seen an inch ahead. The roar of the thunder came the moment the zigzag flash was seen gashing across the sky, and even as they gazed in helpless awe, they saw a giant oak ripped limb from limb by the lightning.

Josie O’Gorman shrank back and hid her face. Colonel Hathaway, drawn and gray at the thought of his beloved grandchild out in all the horror of the elements, breathed a prayer for her safety. The two men on the front seat tried in vain to light cigars, and vigorously cursed the luck that brought this storm which would wipe away all traces of the runaway car.

The roadway was now a veritable river, the water surging down from the hill above and whirling about the wheels of the car. It was impossible to stay where they were, so with infinite care, Lonsdale finally turned them about. Then splashing through the flood, feeling every inch of the road, they slowly made their way toward home.

Because of its fury, the storm spent itself quickly. It was with intense relief that they noticed the first signs of first abatement in the slackening of the rainfall and the lessening of the wind. The thunder was already rumbling in the distance, and a whippoorwill sang refreshed from a tree near by. Only the roaring floods along the highway and the stripped oak standing stark and naked in the gathering moonlight remained to show the destruction of that night.

As the searchers went more quickly now, the spirits of the occupants of Lonsdale’s car were more depressed than ever. Their search was absolutely fruitless.

Suddenly not far ahead of them they saw the faint gleam of the red light of an auto. Putting on speed they splashed along regardless of the smoothness or the roughness of the road. Then Grandpa Jim gave an exclamation of rejoicing.

“It’s Mary Louise’s car!” he cried.

Faster went the Lonsdale car, gaining, ever gaining on its object. Now they honked the horn repeatedly but the escapers evidently paid no heed. Though their speed did not seem to increase, neither did it slacken.

“Better not run a risk of their escaping again,” muttered Crocker, and leaning carefully over the side of the car he fired two shots into the rear tire of the machine. The effect was instantaneous. With a loud explosion, the car swerved quickly, slowed down and then came to a dead stop.

CHAPTER XV

A JOURNEY BEGUN

When Will White and Jim O’Hara realized that Lonsdale’s machine had driven on, their relief was unbounded.

O’Hara turned to Will White and said: “I know that you are doing this entirely for the sake of that boy of mine, but I trust that you will never have a moment’s regret that you have aided my escape.”

“It ain’t nothin’ a-tall,” commented Will, chewing his quid with energy. “It’s ben my hope that some time I could do something for Dan Dexter, and when he come to me this evenin’ ter tell me of his fix, why I sure was there to help with bells on.”

“It was splendid,” responded O’Hara, “and you were the one man of all others upon whom suspicion would fall last. All the same you ran a risk.”

“All the same, Dan Dexter ran some risk when he saved my life out there in No-Man’s Land,” returned Will briefly. And seeming to feel that the final word had been said, he turned his undivided attention to the road.

O’Hara, too, all this time had been peering anxiously ahead, fearing to see through the heavy falling rain the headlight of the approaching locomotive. It did not appear, however, and even through the wildest part of the storm the little Ford plunged on.

“You’ll let me off at the water tank,” directed O’Hara, by this time so restless that he could hardly remain seated. “I’ll climb on the train from there,” and his long fingers trembled as they gripped the handbag on his knees.

Slowly and steadily, nearer to the junction came the Ford, although to the impatient man each turn of the wheel seemed an eternity.

The storm had made every landmark invisible. They had no way of gauging where they were. Still the wheels kept turning, turning; and that was at least something.

Then above the storm, above the noise of the engine, even above the loud beating of the refugee’s heart, there came to him the shrill shriek of a locomotive.

“We’re late—too late,” he almost shrieked; for at that moment he realized as never before, all that his liberty—the chance to start life again and to repay Danny—meant to him.

But Will White, accustomed as he was to his surroundings, had seen what the older man had failed to notice—the hulking shape of the water tower to their left.

Turning sharply, he ran the car over ditches, shying at a fence, full speed right up to the very track. Here he stopped abruptly with the emergency brake.

He was none too soon. The huge snake of the Santa Fe Limited was crawling and writhing in its slow start for the distant desert. Without a glance behind, without a second’s pause, O’Hara leaped from the Ford, and in two steps he reached the handrail and swung onto the rear platform of the Limited.

His journey had begun.

As Lonsdale’s slowed up beside the punctured machine, Mary Louise popped her head out of the door.

“Well, of all things,” shouted the Chief of Police, as Danny Dexter’s head appeared beside the girl’s. “Why in thunder didn’t you stop when you heard the honking? The thunder hasn’t deafened you, has it?”

“Honking?” gently inquired Mary Louise. “Honking?” echoed Danny in dignified inquiry.

A grim smile twitched the corners of Lonsdale’s mouth as he looked at the softened, preoccupied expressions of the two of them.

“Yes, honking,” he mimicked them; then hastened to add, “but only honking loud enough to raise the dead.”

At this point Colonel Hathaway managed to extricate himself from the robes and the sou’wester which engulfed him, and had come around to Mary Louise’s side. At sight of him she gave a little cry of joy and concern.

“Oh, Grandpa Jim, dear Grandpa Jim, you’ve been out in all this storm to hunt me,” she said, as she flung her arms tenderly about his neck.

The Colonel surreptitiously wiped away a couple of tears, and then patted the top of Mary Louise’s head.

“There, there, lassie,” he said quietly, as Mary Louise continued to burrow her head in his shoulder; “we have you safe and sound again.”

Then turning sternly to Danny, who stood rather white and very much mud-bespattered, he said, “What have you to say for yourself, young man?”

Mary Louise’s head came up with a jerk. All through this silent drive at Danny’s side she had been revolving in her thoughts just what she would say to clear Danny and turn suspicion from his uncle. Her testing time had come sooner than she expected, but she was ready. She stepped between Danny Dexter and her grandfather as though to protect the former.

As she did so, a fleeting vision crossed her mind of the broken old man out somewhere in the night. Had he caught his west-bound train? She wished she knew the answer.

“Grandpa Jim,” she said, distinctly and without effort, “let me tell you all about it; for I’m the one that Danny saved.”

As she spoke they all gathered around her in the road, regardless, in fact, unconscious, of the mud and wet. Josie drew nearest and slipped her arm through Mary Louise’s, as she talked.

“I couldn’t sleep when I went upstairs to-night,” continued Mary Louise, “so I sat at the window and finally went into the garden. There I saw a light in the garage, and thinking that my car was safe I ran toward it. As I reached the door a very tall, dark man jumped out and told me to keep quiet. When I started to scream he put his hand over my mouth and lifted me into the car and started off.

“The next thing I knew Danny jumped out from the roadside onto the running board. The big, dark man didn’t seem to want to fight, just to get away. Putting on the brake he jumped out and ran off in the dark,—that way,” added Mary Louise, and waved a hand indefinitely eastward.

At this point Crocker and Lonsdale lost all interest in the tale of Mary Louise. Their man was escaping east on foot.

“Will you drive Colonel Hathaway and Miss O’Gorman home with you?” crisply ordered Crocker of Danny. “We’ll continue the search for O’Hara.” He and Lonsdale leaped in the Chief’s car and were off.

Colonel Hathaway turned to Danny with a word of thanks. “You may have saved her life, my boy,” he said. At which, let it be recorded, Denny had the grace to blush.

But as for Mary Louise, she never did have one regret for that fib she told. In fact, as Danny helped her back into the automobile and his warm fingers closed upon her little hand in a sudden quick pressure of gratitude, the conscience of Mary Louise troubled her not at all. She had done the right thing. Both her heart and her mind told her so.

CHAPTER XVI

AUNT SALLY ENTERTAINS

As the returning search party came within sight of the Hathaway home, they saw that it was brilliantly lighted and the fat, comfortable shadow of Aunt Sally could be seen waddling back and forth in front of the kitchen window.

“Hurrah!” shouted Josie. “Aunt Sally sure is on the job and we won’t go hungry!”

They knew her surmise to be correct the minute they opened the door, for the smell of frying chicken and delicious coffee was wafted to their nostrils.

To Danny, who had eaten nothing all that day, and who had hastily consumed only a few hard, dry sandwiches the day before, the odor was like a breath of heaven. Hurrying back to his old tower room, he flung off the mud-stained livery with loathing, and gloried in a piping hot tub. Then he quickly slipped into a neat, well-tailored suit of quiet brown. It was the first time Mary Louise would see him really dressed and, boyishly, we wanted very much to have her satisfied.

When he entered the dining room a few minutes later, Mary Louise was also entering from the hall, and from the soft blush with which she greeted him one would surmise that Mary Louise was satisfied. As for herself, Mary Louise had never looked so lovely. Her soft, dark curls, still a bit damp from the rain, had been caught at the top of her head and held there by a narrow band of pink. It gave her quite the look of a little woman, or perhaps it was the startled, wistful and yet happy expression of her lovely eyes, under which lay violet shadows, that caused the old Colonel to realize with a start that Mary Louise had suddenly grown up. She had slipped on a quite grown-up garment, a soft and clinging tea gown of shell pink chiffon, and she entered the room a little wearily and very shyly.

It seemed to the surprised Danny that there had never been any one so lovely in the whole wide world before.

“Bless ma soul,” Aunt Sally was fussing as she placed one wonderful dish after another upon the table in true Southern style. “Bless ma soul, Aunt Sally knowed as when dey brung the little missy home dead or alive she would be hungry.”

The platter of chicken, fried to a perfect brownness, was placed before the Colonel, and the voice of Aunt Sally called through the butler’s pantry, “Eben, you lazy ole niggah, bring in de candied yams.”

Uncle Eben did so, just as Josie came bouncing down the stairs fastening the final hook to the crumpled linen dress as she came. “Oh, dear Aunt Sally, how perfectly delicious everything does look, and I never, never before ate dinner at two o’clock in the morning.”

Just then the honk of an auto was heard outside. This time both Mary Louise and Danny were aware of the disturbance, so evidently their sense of hearing was not permanently impaired. In a moment the door opened and two tired, disgusted and discouraged men entered.

But the insidious aroma of that coffee of Aunt Sally’s seeped even through their depression, and with a “God bless Aunt Sally,” Lonsdale and Crocker both decided that life was probably worth living after all.

It was in fact a very happy party which gathered around the table at the places Mary Louise had assigned to them, with a new little touch of dignity that became her well.

Directly after dinner Aunt Sally insisted on taking Mary Louise off to rest, and with a sleepy little “good-night” to them all, Mary Louise was led away and tucked in bed as tenderly as when she was a little child.

With her departure the room seemed very queer and empty, and Danny suddenly realized how tired he was himself. So with a good-night to the Colonel he was off to his tower room and to the soundest of deep slumbers.

Not so with Josie O’Gorman. She was on a job and until her work was finished she would need no rest. As Crocker was pulling on his gloves preparatory to leaving she faced him squarely.

“Is there one bit of use for either you or me working on this case any longer?” she inquired. “If there is, I’m willing to stay and help, but if there isn’t, I guess there’re more important things for both of us in Washington.”

“You’re right, you are,” agreed Crocker most definitely. “I hate like the devil to give up the case but the man could hide here in the dunes indefinitely, and I haven’t time to wait.”

“Of course,” added Josie, “the auto theft solved itself; they didn’t really need me.”

“I’m not so sure, you gave them confidence and courage when they needed it,” said Crocker, kindly, and reaching out a huge hand in friendly farewell, “you’re a game youngster and I hope I run across you often.” And Crocker strode down the front stairs to the waiting Lonsdale.

Josie turned back into the hall, glancing at Danny’s cap that had been left on the hall tree, and at the little parasol of Mary Louise’s leaning near it. A whimsical smile flashed over her face.

“Well,” she soliloquized, “I’ve not made very much out of this case, but at least I’ve detected one thing—and that is the way the wind blows in that quarter.”

With an all-inclusive glance at the parasol and cap she fled up the stairs.

CHAPTER XVII

THE BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST

The sun was away up in the sky and was flooding her room with a warm radiance when Mary Louise awoke. The soft twitter of the birds and the clip-clip of a lawn mower next door came in through the windows. Stretching her slender body and yawning prodigiously, she clambered out of bed. The breeze was softly fluttering the curtains, and a tiny moss rosebud which had climbed that high, tapped alluringly against the sill of the open window.

Mary Louise decided that it was a very wonderful world to be out in, and that she would hurry and get dressed. In a short time she entered the dining-room to tell Aunt Sally she would have her breakfast.

Suddenly she stopped short in sheer amazement at the table. Then the recollection came to her. To be sure, to-day was her birthday! How like Grandpa Jim to plan this surprise for her, and how like Aunt Sally to carry it out so beautifully! The huge round mahogany table was covered with a cloth of exquisite lace. In a low basket in the center of the table, dozens of pale pink rosebuds were clustered together, their graceful little heads bobbing in all directions about the handle of the basket. A tiny rosebud nestled at all of the eight plates, to give a dainty welcome to each young girl invited to Mary Louise’s birthday breakfast.

Out in the garden Mary Louise caught a glimpse of her grandfather and Josie O’Gorman walking arm in arm along the garden paths, and out she rushed to them.

“What a perfectly beautiful surprise,” sang Mary Louise as she caught up with them.

“Happy Birthday!” they both called out to her as in one breath.

Then the guests began to arrive. Irene came first from the house next door, her wheel chair coming easily over the gravel path. She gave Mary Louise a very tender birthday kiss, and pressed upon her a large box filled with delicious home-made candy.

“Aunty Hannah and I made it for you this morning, dear Mary Louise,” she said.

“How lovely!” cried Mary Louise, her eyes asparkle with excitement and delight, and running to the gate, she met the other guests who were just arriving. Each brought a little gift to tell their love for Mary Louise. Laura Hilton brought an ingenious toy automobile with a uniformed tin driver very erect at the wheel.

Aunt Sally appeared at this moment to ask them in to breakfast, so the laughing, happy girls went in, their bright-hued gowns making a veritable rainbow about the table.

“And now,” cried Alora, leaning across the table, “we’ve waited just as long as we possibly can; tell us all about the automobile.”

“Yes, and the thief,” added Lucile Neal, eagerly.

Mary Louise most wisely held her peace. Instead of explaining she turned to Josie O’Gorman saying, “Goodness, don’t ask me to tell you when we have a regular unraveler of mysteries there to spin the yarn for us.”

“To be sure,” exclaimed Phoebe Phelps. “Josie, be careful to tell us every single word.”

So Josie, nothing loth, told her own version of the missing car, that version being just what Mary Louise wished it to be. So the recounting was highly satisfactory to all.

As they talked and exclaimed, Aunt Sally served one delicious course after another, and the happy, healthy girls enjoyed it all.

As they left the dining room and strolled out on to the wide veranda, resting in the wide and roomy swing or in the lounging cretonne chairs, Josie said, with regret in her voice: “Girls, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go back to Washington on the next train.”

“Oh, Josie,” wailed Mary Louise; “must you really leave on my beautiful birthday?” But realizing it was useless to try to dissuade her, she added: “Well, anyway, we’ll all pile into the car and take you to the station.”

“Yes, luckily we’ve got the car to pile into,” echoed Josie.

So with a great deal of laughter and much chatter the Liberty Girls adjourned to the garage.

After Mary Louise had safely deposited Josie on the train for Washington and her friends at their houses, she turned the car slowly toward her own home. Somehow she did not want to return just yet. Of a sudden her heart was strangely heavy.

She had had a perfect birthday, she told herself, so what more could she possibly want? That she did want something more, however, was quite obvious, or why should two fat tears start from her eyes and go bouncing down the smoothness of her cheeks.

Mary Louise was not surprised to find that she was crying. It would never do for Grandpa Jim to think her unhappy when he had been so dear to-day, so she turned the corner and started quickly for a country road.

Anywhere, just any place where she could be alone and think.

“Grandpa Jim never, never has forgotten my birthday,” thought Mary Louise, as her car spun along the macadam. “Oh, why couldn’t Danny have remembered just this once,” and two more tears were added to the collection.

This fact rather startled Mary Louise. Could that be the reason she was crying? Because Danny had forgotten her? In her amazement Mary Louise slowly stopped the car at the entrance to a grassy lane.

Instantly she realized it was the very lane where Danny had come to her the night before and where she had been so glad to see him. Rather dazedly she climbed out of the auto and wandered slowly down the lane. Just to reach the spot where she and Danny had been together, and just to be alone and think—that was what she wanted.

Her bright pink gingham was as fresh and sweet as the wild roses it brushed in passing, and her cheeks were flushed a rose hue too. The flower-wreathed Leghorn hat she wore made deeper shadows in her eyes. But Mary Louise knew nothing of all that.

To the lad who ten minutes before had flung himself upon the ground, her slow approach down the lane was like the coming of an angel.

He jumped up quickly and went to her. Mary Louise was startled by the unexpected movement and as she glanced up quickly she saw Danny approaching.

“Mary Louise,” said Danny simply, “I’m glad you came here before the day was over. Yes,” he explained, as Mary Louise’s eyes questioned him, “I haven’t forgotten it’s your birthday, and I want to wish you all the happiness in the world; you deserve every bit of joy there is.”

“Oh, no,” said Mary Louise, with a happy little flush, “but I’m glad you thought of me, Danny.”

“Of course, I did,” said Danny, and then added rather shyly as he held out a little package, “Mary Louise, I know that to-day is your birthday, and I want so much to give you what I cherish most. May I?” And Mary Louise said he might. Mary Louise opened the package and found the most wonderful birthday present any girl could have,—the Distinguished Service Medal of her hero.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MOTOR TRIP

Mary Louise flung back the wide hall door and danced into the room, tossing her hat on a nearby chair. She had had such a happy birthday, and she so loved Happiness! The tingling of the telephone in the study caused her to turn into the room and pick up the desk telephone.

“Hello,” she said, her joyousness still singing through her tones. Then in breathless amazement, “Why, Josie O’Gorman, didn’t you take the train?”

“No,” answered Josie, “just as I was boarding the train a dispatch came saying that O’Hara had been spotted on the westbound Santa Fe Limited. Crocker had wired the authorities to get him at Albuquerque.”

“Oh,” stammered Mary Louise, feeling quite lost and dizzy at the thought of this misfortune to the man who had raised Danny and cared for him. “Isn’t there any hope—I mean danger, of his escaping?”

“Not a bit,” came Josie’s voice. “We’re playing in the very best of luck. Probably right now they are arresting him.”

Mary Louise choked back a great sob that rose persistently in her throat. “It’ll be just fine to have you come back, Josie,” she said, remembering her loving hospitality even in her distress. “I’ll send the car for you,” she added, as she hung up the receiver.

Then Mary Louise tumbled into a little crumpled heap on the floor by the couch and buried her curly black head in its great pillows. “Oh, it isn’t fair; it isn’t fair,” she wailed. “Danny would have paid back the money. Danny’s uncle never meant to steal! If his oil well was only out of Mexican hands, everything would have been all right anyway.” And Mary Louise’s small fists beat the pillows to give vent to her emotions.

Suddenly the telephone peeled out again, quite briskly this time.

“Yes,” said Mary Louise, feeling with her free hand for a handkerchief as she balanced the receiver with the other. The voice that answered her was Josie’s, and as Mary Louise heard her she let the tears dry upon her checks, for Josie was both angry and excited—an unusual thing for the clever, active girl.

“Mary Louise,” she cried, “it’s the very deuce! Just as the train slowed up for Albuquerque, that man O’Hara leaped from the car window and has completely disappeared! It’s an outrage!” she raved on. “But we’ll get him yet. Crocker and I are both taking this west bound train that comes in a few minutes, so I won’t be back after all. Don’t worry, Mary Louise, we’ll get him yet,” Josie consoled. “We’ve got our dander up now and we’re on the job ourselves, and we’re going to finish it.”

Then Josie hung up the receiver and dashed to the ticket window.

Mary Louise, left alone, felt a great throb of gratitude. At least O’Hara was safe for the time being. Now she must run instantly and tell the news to Danny. However, the “instantly” extended into a moment or two, while she made sure that her brown eyes were not tear-stained, and that her little nose was powdered and quite presentable. Then she ran out into the garden to hunt for her adopted soldier.

She had not far to seek for he was visible through the open window of the garage, busily polishing the car which was in dire need of his ministrations.

“Come here, Danny,” she directed, perching herself upon the bench just outside the building.

Nothing loth, Danny threw down the chamois and rolling down his sleeves, came toward her.

“Danny,” continued the girl, “I’ve something rather hard to tell you.”

The lad suddenly went white.

“Tell me. Have they caught Uncle Jim?” he demanded, gripping her arm as though to drag the information from her quickly.

“No, no,” Mary Louise reassured him. “But they know he was on the train, and as it slowed down at Albuquerque he jumped off and disappeared. Josie and Crocker have both gone after him. I’m so sorry,” she added, her hand touching his, which still gripped her arm with unconscious force.

Danny’s fingers relaxed and he returned the warm handclasp of understanding and sympathy. “I know you are sorry, and it helps a lot.”

Then he jumped to his feet and squared his shoulders. “But now I must do something. I must help him.”

“Sit down again,” commanded Mary Louise.

“Don’t you see, Danny, we can’t do anything till we first think out our plans.”

“You’re right, of course,” reluctantly admitted Danny, as he sank down on the rustic bench. Even in his confusion, that comforting little “we” penetrated his tired thought.

“Now, first,” continued Mary Louise, “where is your uncle likely to go on foot?”

“Well,” replied Danny, thinking out his ideas as he said them, “I imagine he’d strike out for the border. You see, he’s lived down there a lot. He made his money in the oil wells there, and if the Huns in Mexico hadn’t tried to stop England’s oil supply, he’d have had the money to make good his deficit and all this would never have happened.”

“How could he live and cross the desert alone!” inquired Mary Louise.

“That’s what’s driving me distracted,” cried Danny, pacing up and down the garden path. “If he once got near his old stamping ground, he could find friends to shelter him. He’s done favors for every man within a hundred miles of his place. If I could only be around the country there, I know he’d find it out and would get word to me! But how to get there when I’ve told your grandfather I’d help him through the summer.”

Utterly distressed and undecided, Danny leaned against the door and gazed off at the far horizon. All in a breath an inspiration came to Mary Louise. Her eyes glowed like stars and her little hands stretched out to Danny in joyous appeal as she ran towards him.

“Listen,” she cried, “for months we’ve so wanted to take a trip, but of course the war has cut us off from Europe, and I couldn’t drive the car so very far. Now, Danny, we have you to take us and you’re going to drive us touring through the West.”

A quick flush of hope and delight spread over Danny Dexter’s expressive face. Mary Louise noticed it and rejoiced.

“Yes, yes,” she cried, her plans growing and expanding with each moment. “Grandfather will be more than glad to get away, and we’ll take Irene McFarlane with us. Think what it would mean to her!”

“But,” argued Danny, “we might have to spend some time in the desert, if Uncle Jim should need us. It would be disagreeable for you, wouldn’t it?”

“No, no, I just love the desert,” contradicted Mary Louise; “I love the glow of the sand and the mystery of the distance. Why, Danny, I hope we stay in the desert! Is it a bargain?”

Mary Louise turned a sparkling face up to him and Danny Dexter could resist no longer. “If your grandfather agrees, it’s a go,” he admitted, and then and there they joyously shook hands on it.

Colonel Hathaway, turning a corner in the garden path, was greeted by a call from his lovely granddaughter as she came flying toward him.

“Grandpa,” said Mary Louise, tucking her arm cozily in his, and starting slowly to pace the walks with him. “Do you know, Grandpa Jim, I very, very much want to take a trip. We haven’t gone away together for so long!”

“I myself am ready for a journey, dear child, but have not felt it right to use our busy railroads for unnecessary travel,” replied the Colonel.

“But, dearest grandfather,” coaxed Mary Louise, “we don’t have to travel by rail or by boat either. With Danny to drive us we can go wherever we want. Had you thought of that? Please let’s take a wonderful trip in our motor car!”

Colonel Hathaway paused in front of a huge bed of purple pansies and gazed down fixedly at them. Perhaps he was gaining inspiration from their thoughtful little faces. More then anything in life he loved to please his charming granddaughter, and as for himself, the monotony of this quiet life had begun to pall on him. He rather liked the idea of a bracing motor trip.

“Where would you suggest our going?” he asked Mary Louise.

“Oh, Grandpa Jim, out West by all means,” she answered.

Her grandfather hesitated only a few minutes longer and then said, “I think a western trip would be enjoyable, and if we’re going to start, I think the sooner done the better.”

“So do I, dearest,” cried Mary Louise, “and don’t you think it would do Irene just worlds of good if we would take her with us?”

“We might walk over and discuss the matter with the Conants,” said the Colonel. “The whole plan pleases me mightily. It will do us all good, I firmly believe.”

By this time Colonel Hathaway was “firmly believing” the plan to be entirely his own, and in his case, to decide was to act. So it happened that within two days a very happy and expectant little party was gathered about Mary Louise’s car. The car itself looked eager and ready for the trip, and proud to carry the trunks and tires securely strapped upon it. The Conants had been most grateful and delighted to have Irene go, and she was now comfortably settled on the back seat surrounded by pillows, with her crutches tucked out of sight beside her.

It was very early in the morning; the faint glow of the sunrise was spreading over the sky, as the car quietly slipped out of the yard and started on its adventures. Mary Louise, seated in front beside Danny Dexter, turned to smile at the Colonel and Irene and to wave a last good-bye to Uncle Eben and Aunt Sally. Then turning their faces straight to the west she and Danny started trustingly and determinedly on their errand of mercy.

CHAPTER XIX

THE ESCAPE

It was not difficult for James O’Hara to realize that his presence on the Limited was discovered. The rolling of the porter’s eyes in his direction and the interested glances of the train men, as they took especial occasion to glance at him was enough to tell that fact to this man, keyed up as he was from sheer excitement. He sat very tense and stared out of the window, every faculty alert, his body straight and rigid.

When he did act it was with tiger-like agility and without an instant’s forethought.

As the train neared the Albuquerque station, a women across the aisle raised her window to lean out and see more clearly. She had no time to make a further move. O’Hara had leaped across the aisle, and brushing her aside, had flung himself through the window of the now slowly moving train.

It was done so quietly and so quickly that it was a few seconds before the occupants of the car realized what had happened. A hue and cry was then immediately raised. The whole car, which up till now had been the usual poised and indifferent gathering, turned loose into a veritable bedlam.

As the train stopped at the station the passengers piled out one after another to gaze across the sand by the tracks and watch the fleeing man. But their amazement was great when, strain their eyes as they would, they could see no trace of any man. The only sign of activity was the flying dust of a distant automobile, so they turned their attention to the officers who had been waiting for the refugee and were now hastily mounting ponies to ride in pursuit of the fleeing man, undoubtedly hidden somewhere in the sagebrush.

As the horsemen vanished in the cloud of dust, the tourists, once again their normal and conventional selves, turned their full attention to the most conventional but utterly abnormal Indians of the Harvey Eating House.

For a moment O’Hara was stunned by his fall to the ground, but shaking himself and finding no bones broken he rose and started for the narrow sand road, still too dazed to know just what he did. Subconsciously, he heard the hum of a motor and turned aside to let it pass, but a voice hailed him, speaking in the perfect accent of a cultured gentlemen: “Can I give you a lift?”

Scarcely noticing the magnificent car which slowed up beside him, O’Hara, swung open the door of the tonneau and leaped in. Even as he did so the car gained speed, until at fully forty miles an hour they were speeding farther and farther into the desert.

The man at the wheel did not speak a further word. His whole attention was engrossed in keeping his powerful machine in the rut of the narrow road that stretched itself interminably out into the sand of the desert. The sun was glaring fiercely down upon them and the sand reflected its intense heat. O’Hara leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The rush of air, hot as it was, revived him and he felt relaxed and quite indifferent as to where he went.

The car plunged at its terrific speed and yet the little roadway, the far horizon, the gray of the sagebrush and the cactus never changed. It seemed to stretch on, gold and drab, into infinity. The sun sank gradually in the West, until it hung a great red ball of fire, just balancing above the dim silhouette of the foothills. Still O’Hara dozed and the driver of the car continued his unceasing and perfectly controlled speed.

Presently, however, the driver turned abruptly and addressed O’Hara.

“I saw your leap through the car window.” He spoke with peculiar distinctness, a clearer English than O’Hara was accustomed to hear.

By this time the fugitive was fully awake and himself again, and he noticed with keen interest the splendid physique of the man addressing him. His shoulders had an erect bearing that instantly reminded one of long military training, and his face was highly intelligent, though the mouth and eyes were indefinably cold and cruel.

O’Hara waited quietly while the man continued:

“You see I knew you were escaping from something; I could at any time deliver you to the authorities. But I also know that you are quite intelligent. I have many business interests in Mexico and I need a keen, intelligent agent to attend to them for me. If you fail me, there are always the authorities, remember. If not, you’ll find this work both pleasant and lucrative.

“We are staying out here on account of my wife’s health. Her condition is improved, but we still fear a moist climate, and of course I remain with her. Do you accept this work? Will you keep your own counsel, or—” and the cut of a knife was the tone of the man “—shall we return to Albuquerque?”

The first impression of distrust of the man deepened into conviction with O’Hara, but no choice seemed open to him. So with a strange foreboding in his heart and with a sense of toils encircling and strangling him, he accepted the position.

CHAPTER XX

THE DESERT BUNGALOW

The sun had set and the brilliant gold and rose of a marvelous desert evening was flooding the sky. Against this flame of color appeared the outlines of a shack or bungalow surrounded by the few outlying buildings. As the automobile rapidly drew nearer, the door was flung back and a woman stepped out to meet them.

Even in the quick glance that he had of her before the automobile stopped, O’Hara realized she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Very tall and superbly formed, she carried herself with a hauteur and coldness that instinctively reminded him of the man in the car. Her hair was of a Saxon fairness, and waved back from her forehead in exquisite undulations. As she spoke, her accent too, was more perfect than O’Hara often heard, and her tone was crisp and impatient.

“I thought you would never arrive.” She addressed herself entirely to the driver of the car and showed absolutely no curiosity in, or even consciousness of the passenger in the tonneau. “Is there any mail or news whatever, Henry?” The man whom she called Henry handed her a large package of mail. Much of it, O’Hara noticed, bore a foreign postmark. The woman took it without a word and turned languidly into the shack.

O’Hara’s employer stepped out of the car, and motioned him to do likewise. Instantly from the side door of the house a small Japanese slipped quietly out and, entering the car, drove off to a shanty evidently used as a garage.

“Follow Jo and he will direct you to your quarters,” the stranger said, motioning toward the softly disappearing Japanese. “My name is Brown and I shall not need you further this evening.”

He entered the house and in the lighted interior he could be seen bending over the beautiful woman as she sat absorbed with her mail.

O’Hara followed Jo into a large roomy kitchen which composed the entire space of one of the outbuildings. A huge Mexican woman was just taking up the dinner and she gave a low grunt as they entered. Jo motioned to a white enamel table set for two, which was placed in a corner underneath a window. O’Hara made mental note that this Brown was evidently expected to bring someone back with him.

He had no time for further thought, for at this point a huge, burly man, with a face like a bulldog entered and sat down at the small table. Another grunt from the Mexican woman somehow made O’Hara understand that his place was opposite the newcomer. So, having noticed a basin and towel just outside the door, he gave himself a good cleaning up and then entered, seating himself opposite his dinner companion.

For several days life for O’Hara went along in a very humdrum way, though always under the surface he could detect the current of unrest. He had a large airy room which he shared with the burly man who was named Tom Whalen. His days were spent in small activities about the place and in caring for the car.

The Jap was in constant attendance on his master or mistress, either serving their meals or assisting at some variety of clerical work at which they seemed constantly occupied. But there was no request for O’Hara’s presence in their cabin, and he could only await their pleasure.

Neither the man called Henry Brown nor his beautiful wife had left the place for many days. She seemed content to remain within the huge living room, which, as O’Hara could see through the window, had been decorated with the soft grays and creams of Indian blankets, with here and there a splash of scarlet in a brilliant rug. All about were couches with innumerable pillows, and at every conceivable point a softly shaded lamp was placed. It was an alluring room and when the cool evenings of the desert came upon them, O’Hara often watched from a distance the flames leap and crackle in the broad stone fireplace.

The couple in front of the blaze certainly did not feel the beauty of the spot; they usually sat apart, as indifferent to one another as to their surroundings. The woman always gowned herself as exquisitely for the evening as though in a fashionable hotel. It was evidently second nature to her to always look her best.

O’Hara glanced in as he passed the living room one evening. She was leaning back idly in a reclining chair in front of the fire, her full white throat in startling contrast to the dead black of her evening gown. She had ceased her constant figuring and was listening to her companion as he leaned forward talking eagerly, with now and then a quick gasp of emphasis.

The watching man felt a strange sense of foreboding as he saw a cold, cruel smile twist the lips of the woman, and as he caught the quick nervous closing of the fists of the man who was speaking. He paused a moment longer, watching with intentness the peculiar, almost hypnotic loosening and clenching of those hands that rested upon the knees of the man.

Suddenly O’Hara felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and he was jerked away from the window. Turning quickly, he encountered the bulldog person of Tom Whalen.

CHAPTER XXI

A NEST OF CONSPIRATORS

Since his arrival O’Hara had felt that Tom Whalen was watching him. In his short walks out into the waste a few miles from the place, he knew that he was always followed by this burly giant. Even in the night watches he had been wakened by the consciousness that this man was peering at him intently and suspiciously.

Not only so, but every attempt of O’Hara’s to get a note or message sent to his nephew, Danny Dexter, had been futile. The Japanese was the only one who had left the place. He had the habit of slipping quietly away in the huge motor car, especially toward evening he was wont to start, and usually his path lay in the direction of the border, far to the south. Often O’Hara lay awake into the small hours of the morning, disturbed by the steady stare of Tom Whalen and listening for the hum of the returning motor car. He was never quite sure of hearing it, but always when the morning came there was Jo, the Japanese man-of-all-work, servile and alert and quiet as ever.

There was evidently no hope of any message reaching Danny from that quarter.

As time went on, O’Hara’s perplexity, instead of diminishing, became deeper and more acute than ever. True, there had been no visitors to the ranch, and as far as he could see, there was little likelihood that his presence in this remote spot would be discovered. In this respect Providence had been kind to him. What disturbed him most of all was the sepulchral silence of the place—the air of mystery that seemed to brood over the lives of the few inhabitants. Hour after hour O’Hara pondered the matter, but the mystery was still as clouded as ever. No summons had yet come to him from the bungalow occupied by Brown and his beautiful consort, nor had he been able to penetrate the reserve of the scowling Tom Whalen or the sleek, cat-footed Jap.

O’Hara’s mind was still in a state of turmoil, when, a few days later, an incident happened that shook his equanimity to its very foundation. The day in question had been hot and sweltering, and in O’Hara’s case, had been followed by a sleepless night. After hours of tossing about, he had risen from his couch, making his way through the darkness to the unlocked door. Flinging it open, a flood of pale moonlight poured into the room. A silvery sheen enveloped the slumbering buildings of the ranch, making them stand out in ghostly silhouette against the moon-lit background of sandy waste. As O’Hara softly closed the door behind him, a deep continuous snore from the opposite side of the room informed him that Tom Whalen had fallen into a profound sleep, and was likely to remain dead to the world for some hours at least.

The clean, crisp night air caused the blood to tingle in O’Hara’s veins. He surveyed the peaceful prospect a moment, then started on a brisk stroll among the various outbuildings, stopping now and then to fill his lungs with the glorious desert air.

Passing the odd-looking garage, he noticed that the doors were flung wide open, as though Jo, the Jap chauffeur, expected to return with the car before morning. He had retraced his steps to the door of his sleeping-room, and was about to woo sleep for a second time when the distant chugging of a motor car sounded on his ears.

“That’s only Jo,” he said to himself. “I wonder what the close-mouthed Oriental does on those lonesome night trips?”

But his own question caused him to smile. Jo’s night excursions were certainly mysterious, to say the least, but not more so than a hundred other things about the ranch that had risen to perplex him. Indeed, he was obliged to confess to himself that he had found out next to nothing about the real life of the strange group in which he was placed.

By this time the motor car had drawn much closer to the ranch. The steady chug-chug of the escaping gas, magnified tenfold by the vast impressive silence of the night, fell on the ear of the listener like a succession of sledge-hammer blows on a blacksmith’s anvil. O’Hara crept into a convenient patch of shadow, and waited for the car to pass on its way to the garage. But before coming into his angle of vision, the huge machine swerved abruptly to the right and made directly for the ranch-house.

Curious and interested now, the concealed man cautiously stepped forth from his hiding-place and peered round the corner of the building. The machine had come to a stop at the door of the Brown bungalow. Straining his eyes, O’Hara was able to make out several blank shapes that descended from the tonneau and noiselessly entered the house. A fraction of a minute later the chugging recommenced as the car was driven over the quarter-mile that lay between the house and the garage.

As O’Hara stood in the shadow, reflecting on the import of what he had seen, a strange feeling came over him—a sense that important events were impending in which he was somehow involved. He was about to dismiss the thought as an idle fancy when he noticed a tiny flicker of light which same through a slit in the drawn curtains of the ranch-house. Suddenly a daring thought gave him pause. Should he attempt to carry out the hare-brained plan that had gripped him so suddenly? Dare he do so?

For several moments he stood lost in reflection. Then, James O’Hara did a curious thing—a thing that might well have aroused a spectator’s curiosity, had a spectator been there to observe it. Though already lightly clad, he noiselessly entered the room where the giant Tom Whalen still lay breathing heavily. Hastily disrobing, he garbed himself in khaki shirt and trousers, which were almost mustard-color from many washings, and left the room again as quietly as he came in. Softly but swiftly, he made his way to the rear of the building, keeping in shadow as much as possible. Then, striking out on hands and knees in a direction at right angles from the beckoning gleam of light, he stopped when he had put a distance of about a hundred yards between himself and his starting-point. The moon continued to beat down on the yellow sands as the creeping figure, visible only as a dark retreating mass against an amber background, suddenly dropped flat on the ground and was lost to view. The khaki costume was now no longer distinguishable, but blended perfectly with the sand, which stretched out for miles on every side in little flats and hillocks.

Resting in this position a few moments, and raising his head now and then to ascertain whether he had been observed, O’Hara started to crawl slowly through the sand in the direction of the bungalow. Fifteen minutes later he had gained the side of the building whence the flicker of light had come.

A thrill of satisfaction gripped him for a moment as he realized that thus far his plan had been successful. And now, as he was considering what further measures to take, the sound of voices engaged in earnest conversation floated out from a window just above him.

A deep voice that quavered with suppressed emotion came to his ears, and a tremor passed down O’Hara’s spine as he realized that his employer was speaking.

“Listen to me, Schwartz,” the commanding voice was saying. “I tell you, this thing must be done. Understand? It must. The Mexican government is friendly to Germany, and would like nothing better than kicking the hated Yankees out. Villa is with us, and will do what we say. But he must be paid. It will take money—lots of it. But later on we will get it back with interest—yes, double interest, and triple interest. Germany must line her pockets, too. The time to do it is now. Later, we will not have so good a chance. Why, man,” and here the voice held a confidential note, “the Fatherland is interested in our success. We are simply carrying out instructions!”

“Ach!” ejaculated the awed listener. “Ve must all help der Vaterland. Ve must all be good Chermans.”

These sentiments must have fallen on grateful ears, for Brown’s next words were uttered in a friendly tone that warmed the heart of his confederate:

“Schwartz, you are a true son of Deutschland. It is men like you who must again make the Fatherland great!”

The pleased Schwartz drank in the words of appreciation eagerly, emitting meantime an enthusiastic “ja! ja!” of assent.

“Millions of dollars are to be had in Mexico,” continued the speaker. “Mines, oil lands—everything. But the hated, money-loving Yankees have gobbled up everything they could lay their hands on. But we have found a way to beat them. Our German friends, who have suffered so much in this hated country, have given us ample funds. We have much influence with the government at Mexico City. Simply pull the wires—the thing is done! Our ambassador will see to it. But there is much work for all of us. Never shall it be said that Germans accepted the leavings of Americans. Rather will we all go down in destruction!”

As this conversation was proceeding, a tense-muscled man stood outside beneath the window, listening with bated breath to every word that fell from the plotters’ lips. James O’Hara was deeply stirred.

American rights were menaced. So much was plain from the words of the conspirators. That American lives would be endangered, if not lost, was almost certain.

Again and again, as the plot was more fully developed in his hearing, the concealed man struggled silently with himself to keep down the rising flood of anger that threatened to explode and reveal his presence to the Germans. He was a lover of his country, though, by an unlucky stroke of fate, a fugitive from his country’s justice. By every consideration of manhood he was bound to uphold the honor and dignity and safety of America. He was an American citizen, and these were the obligations that citizenship imposed.

O’Hara fought down the angry outburst. He realized that his best course of action lay in keeping cool. The thing to do was to learn all he could about their plans. Then would he be the better prepared for action when the time for action arrived.

Meanwhile, in short, rapid sentences, Brown was conveying his instructions to the other, who was plainly a subordinate figure:

“First, you must deliver these papers to Herr Schmidt, the German consul. He will supply you with the necessary funds. You will then meet Villa’s representative at the designated spot. You will convey my instructions to him, and urge immediate action. You will in turn receive his latest report. I will send for this in a week’s time. I have here on the ranch an escaped criminal named O’Hara. He knows nothing of our work. He suspects nothing. You are to deliver the sealed papers to him in Mexican Juarez, and arrange to have him sent back over the border. Now, we understand one another. Do not fail.”

The interview was over.

A few minutes passed without any further sounds from the interior of the house.

Then a slight chugging sound informed O’Hara that the motor car with its Jap chauffeur was again on its way to the house, doubtless to carry the German emissary toward the border. The front door opened, a single dark figure glided out, the tonneau door closed, and the huge machine rolled rapidly away. Then, silence.

Quivering from the astounding adventure through which he had just passed, O’Hara made his way back to his sleeping-room. He hastily shed the few light garments that covered him and sank into bed, but the amazing events of the night were too recent to allow any hope of sleep.

In the quiet of the night, as he reviewed his experiences from the day of his arrival at the ranch, O’Hara was able to understand many things that hitherto had seemed to border on the mysterious. The remembrance of his first meeting with Henry Brown, the military bearing of the latter, the careful diction with just the merest trace of a German accent, the nightly comings and goings of the Japanese chauffeur, the aloofness and secrecy that characterized the actions of every member of the ranch from the very beginning—all these things, when analyzed in the light of the conversation he had overheard between Brown and his visitor, lost their cloak of mystery and became links in a chain of evidence that held fast at every point.

The more O’Hara thought of it, the more certain he became that he had stumbled across that long-sought-for outpost of German intrigue that was beneath so many of the Mexican troubles. For many months Uncle Sam had known of the existence of such activity, but diligent search had failed to trace it to its source. Throughout the war, reports poured into the government concerning the operations of a crafty German band that was engaged in sowing seeds of hatred against the Americans. Though the armistice had brought a decided let-up in this activity, there was still evidence of a deeply-laid plot to injure the United States and libel its aims in the Latin republic.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CAVE

The morning of the next day O’Hara went about his chores as usual, at the same time keeping a sharp lookout for any suspicious signs that might betray the further plans of his employer.

About three-thirty in the afternoon he was just leaving the kitchen when he was surprised to hear the voices of Brown and Tom Whalen raised in rather an excited discussion.

“Yes, Jo had definite word that the officers suspected O’Hara’s presence here,” said the voice of Brown.

“Oh, let ’em catch him then,” replied Tom Whalen gruffly, “I’m tired of watching him anyhow.”

“Keep still and attend to your own part of this business. The man will be useful. I need him and desire to have you hide him. Do you understand?”

The very tone was a command, and to the great interest of O’Hara he saw Tom Whalen straighten and salute. Then O’Hara slipped again into the kitchen and now he emerged noisily.

The men turned to him and as they did so, Brown said in a low tone, “Put him in the cave.”

Then he spun on his heel and departed. He had no sooner left than the startled eyes of O’Hara made out a cloud of dust on the far horizon in the direction of Albuquerque.

“Come on,” exclaimed Tom Whalen, hurrying his huge bulk toward the garage, “or the devil take you.”

Wondering, O’Hara easily kept pace with him and paused beside the garage. Tom Whalen had by now removed the top of the hole where the huge gasoline tank was buried, and to O’Hara’s amazement, the tank was revealed to be empty. Whalen slipped carefully into the tank and O’Hara followed as directed. Whalen then pressed some hidden spring in the metal and the sides slowly revolved, leaving an opening large enough for a man to slip through. His guide ordered O’Hara to step through the aperture, and with a shiver of apprehension, but helpless to disobey he did so. Then the man handed him a lantern somewhat resembling a miner’s lamp and the wall swung back slowly.

O’Hara stood perfectly still in the darkness. The air was dank and musty but there was means for allowing fresher air to enter, for it was not breathless. Slowly he flashed his lantern about the place. The walls of the small room in which he stood seemed to be made of adobe. He searched the sides most carefully, there was nothing to break the absolute uniformity of line until the lantern’s rays reached the third side, the side through which he had entered. Here faint and far away, he could discern up through a small hole the dim light of day.

About a foot out from this wall, standing sinister and black, was the only object within the room, a huge iron safe.

The light of O’Hara’s lantern passed carefully over it and then went on to the fourth wall. The lantern flickered and then beamed steadily upon the gleaming wall. With a shiver of amazement, O’Hara realized that here in this desert spot, in his beloved country, the floor of the garage reached down a full twenty feet of solid concrete emplacement!

Astounded beyond measure, he recalled the many reports he had heard about the huge concrete emplacements supposed to have been built by the Germans during the war, and even before the war, in various parts of the United States.

He had not believed these reports at the time. They had seemed too incredible. He had considered them figments of imaginations that had been fired by the fears and excitements of war. No, such things were too fantastic for sane, sensible Americans to believe. It was impossible that our country would be betrayed by those whom she had welcomed so heartily to her shores.

But here in this desert spot, for an unknown purpose, stood tangible evidence that these reports were true. They were not idle fancies. And, so, it must likewise be true that America did harbor base creatures who would sell their adopted country’s honor for gold and silver, men who sought to injure her, and lower her prestige in the eyes of the world. Very well, it would be America’s duty henceforth to ferret out these creatures. It would be her duty to strip them of the possessions and privileges that a generous country had showered on them with a profuse hand.

Again and again these reflections kept running through O’Hara’s mind, as he explored every nook and cranny of the curious subterranean hiding-place. He wondered what criminal plan had dictated the construction of this great gun emplacement. Where did Brown intend to get the enormous gun that such a base would accommodate? These questions were too deep for solution. Perhaps the future would supply an answer.

O’Hara looked at his watch and found it had been about twenty minutes since he saw the dust of the approaching automobile. He figured that the officers were just now arriving at the place, but of course no sound could penetrate to his dark hiding place. Wishing to save the oil, he turned out his lamp and sat down on the hard sand of the floor. He placed his shoulder against the back of the safe so that he would be facing the one ray of light which struggled in from the hole above, and settled down to wait.

Thus it happened that he was entirely invisible when the opening in the wall suddenly revolved again. Thinking merely to remain quiet until Tom Whalen called him, O’Hara made no move. He heard the sound of two voices, one undoubtedly that of Jo the Jap, the other with an Irish accent.

“Sure,” the latter was saying, “I’m after helping ye turn the trick. Begore, I hate the English, but niver a cint have I seen yit, and the money will be welcome,” and there squeezed through the opening a small, red-headed, freckled-face Irishman, wearing a detective’s star.

“I’ve saved ye from suspicion time and agin,” he grumbled, “and now I come with the crowd to-day fer pay, and shure, I’ll be after gettin’ of it.”

The Japanese had been carefully covering the tank, and now he turned softly toward the safe. The combination came quickly and deftly to his fingers, and O’Hara could hear the safe swing back. Then from the comments and remarks of the Irishman, he judged that the latter was being given a portion of his ill-gotten gain.

“All right,” he now said in a pronounced brogue to the quiet servant, who as yet had spoken no word; “I’ll be after hurryin’.” He then added: “Raise the door quick; sure and I can’t be missed.” Then as he evidently tucked away his money in his pockets, he added a sentence which made O’Hara’s breath come quick: “It’s a hen party we be after havin’; there’s two gurrls joined the chase and a lad along with ’em. It’s shrewd and wide-awake they be, I’m tellin’ ye!”

While he was speaking, the Jap crowded quietly to the trap door of the tank and cautiously glanced around. “All right,” he whispered, and the Irishman extinguished his light and followed him.

Quick as a flash O’Hara crawled around the safe and reaching in the open door took out a package from the lower shelf. Instantly he was back, and then the Japanese returned. He closed the door of the safe and leisurely turned and secured the lock. Then quietly as ever he slipped up the secret entrance.

When he was positive the man had gone, O’Hara sat for a moment almost stunned by the hope that Mary Louise and Danny had come again to save him. Then he lit his lamp and flashed it upon the package in his hand. It was just such a package as he had hoped to attain. Sheet after sheet of documents relating to the Mexican lands and oil wells, one or two translated into code. With great care he placed them, equally divided, in the two inside pockets of his coat. Then again he settled down to wait and to plan his escape. For now O’Hara realized clearly that even if he were arrested, he must hand these papers to the government he loved.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RIDE AT NIGHT

The long, delightful days of summer stretched before the happy tourists in Mary Louise’s car. Every day seemed to beckon them on to further adventure, and each evening found them further along in their journey, weary and eager for rest, but expectant of the morrow. Often Mary Louise and Danny spoke in low tones to one another of the kindly man they were hastening to help. They had much to say in these days of happy, intimate companionship—much to tell each other of their hopes and aims, their likes and dislikes. They were very young and filled with the joy and wonder of mere living, and though often they were longing to know of O’Hara’s safety, still their spirits could not be dampened, and their happiness soared very high.

To Colonel Hathaway, the changing scenes and the changing personalities along the way were like a tonic.

The old gentleman was a born traveler and always took the rough places with the smooth, so that he made a splendid companion with whom to take the road. On this trip he was thoroughly enjoying the ecstasy with which Irene greeted every lovely scene they passed. Her cheeks were taking on a healthy flush that made the dear friends with her very glad, and day by day they all could see how she was gaining strength.

So on they went as day by day their car carried them across uplands and through valleys, now humming for miles through waving fields of grain, and again running through the lowlands near some river bed. One State after another they left behind as the days sped by, and always some new beauty lay before them.

Old Uncle Eben carefully forwarded all their mail, and each day Danny and Mary Louise watched eagerly for some word from O’Hara. But each day they were doomed to disappointment. The letters which came frequently from Josie, however, kept up their hopes mightily. Crocker, it seemed, had returned East disgustedly, but Josie was each day scouring the country in some new direction. One day when they had reached a spot not far from Albuquerque Mary Louise opened a letter from Josie, as she was rocking on the wide veranda of the hotel in the twilight.

Josie had scrawled on bright pink paper:

“DEAREST MARY LOUISE:

“If you only knew how happy and glad and generally rejoicey I am to think that you and Grandpa Jim and Irene will be with me in two days! I’ve been hot and homesick ever since I came, but now I do believe it’s going to be worth while to have stayed.

“There’s a small ranch out about forty miles from here. It’s the mystery of the countryside, though there’s nothing ever seemed wrong with it, and O’Callahan, the little Irish detective, swears there’s nothing wrong. You see, they have two men besides the ‘Boss’—one, a huge, criminal-looking creature, and the other, a little Jap. The other evening I motored out that way and when the boss and his wife were out in front I saw through my field glasses that three men entered the kitchen!

“Now that looks strange to me. O’Callahan has always scoffed at our going there as nonsense, but to-morrow, willy-nilly, Josie O’Gorman is going out to that place and ferret out that man. Who knows when you come on the next day my work may be done, and oh, won’t I jump at the chance of going on with you on your perfectly grand trip?       Devotedly,

“JOSIE.”

Mary Louise silently handed the letter to Danny who sat on the veranda steps at her feet. Danny Dexter glanced over the letter and then up at Mary Louise. Their thoughts were evidently alike for both exclaimed in unison: “We’ll have to travel to-night.”

“And start immediately,” added Mary Louise.

Then without further pause, Danny leaped down the steps and out to the automobile to prepare it for the long and sudden trip before them.

“It’s seven now,” thought Danny, glancing at the auto clock. “With luck we’ll get there by two to-morrow morning. It won’t really be so bad, and the moon is full.”

In the meantime Mary Louise had hastened to her grandfather. “Grandpa Jim, don’t put on those comfortable old slippers. I’ve received a letter from Josie. She expects to catch her forger to-morrow, and,” she truthfully added, “I feel sure we will be needed.”

The Colonel was instantly solicitous for Josie, of whom he was especially fond and whose activity he admired immensely.

“But,” he objected, “can we possibly make it through the night; and what about Irene?” Mary Louise flung her arms about her grandfather’s neck. “I knew just how game you would be!” she declared. “I’ve been thinking about Irene. The wife of the proprietor seems very kind, and I’m sure she’ll start her safely on the train to Albuquerque in the morning.”

Her surmise proved to be correct, and half an hour later the automobile started off.

So it happened that next morning as she entered the dining room of the hotel, Josie’s joy quite flew away with her, as she beheld the tired but victorious faces of her three friends beaming up at her.

“Why—why—you blessed people! How very dear of you to come and go with me to-day,” she stammered. “With Mary Louise to help, I just can’t lose that man again.”

Josie clapped her hands in enthusiasm, and then dug with such unbounded energy into the grapefruit at her plate that her “dear friends” blinked and ducked with great agility.

“Grandpa Jim must go to bed this minute, but we’re ready to go right away,” directed Mary Louise. A few minutes later she kissed the kindly Colonel and watched him mount the stairs. Then turning, she joined Danny and Josie O’Gorman who were already climbing into the waiting auto.

O’Callahan was at the wheel with a tall policeman seated beside him, while Josie, Mary Louise and Danny were seated in the tonneau. Both Mary Louise and Danny must have dozed after their long night ride, for they woke with a start as the automobile slowed down in front of the Brown bungalow.

As Danny stepped from the car he stooped and quietly picked up a small gold pencil half buried in the sand; he knew the pencil and the monogram “J. O’H.” O’Hara had dropped it as he left the automobile that first day and had failed to find it when he searched for it. Clearly then, the uncle that he loved was here and in sure danger.

All that Danny could do was to keep still and watch. And watch he did to no avail. The place was searched from top to bottom. The Browns were graciousness itself, accepting Josie’s apologies for intruding with amusement.

“You are afraid some man is hidden here?” the woman had inquired of the girls, a faint sneer upon her beautiful mouth.

“I shall have to ask you to let us investigate thoroughly,” returned Josie decidedly, and the woman smilingly stepped aside.

Then she shrugged her shoulders. “You see we have no secrets,” she said.

CHAPTER XXIV

MARY LOUISE LOSES HER SLIPPER

When the party had about given up the search, Danny at last found an excuse to get Mary Louise by herself in the shadows of the small garage.

“Let’s sit down a moment by this queer old tank,” he said, “for I’ve something most important to show you, Mary Louise.”

Danny handed her the small gold pencil with its monogram “J. O’H.” Startled, Mary Louise took it from him. “Why—why—Danny, then it is certain that your uncle has been here, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Danny grimly, “and it’s certain he was here yesterday if Josie saw three men!”

“Mary Louise,” he added, “I don’t like this place at all. I can’t tell you how distressed I feel about Uncle Jim. Why, any person on this spot—that beautiful woman included—would kill as indifferently as they’d tell lies!”

Mary Louise was white with horror and her hands were clasped in despair. She was digging with the heel of her little pump into the packed sand as though to tear up the secret of O’Hara’s whereabouts.

Suddenly a strange thing happened. Her toe caught in a running root and pulled the pump from off her foot, and then, wonder of wonders, the pump completely disappeared! Amazement was written wide upon the faces of the two as they stood up to hunt for it. But look as Danny might, with Mary Louise hobbling after him as best she could, there was not a single trace of the missing slipper.

“I sympathized with Cinderella,” ruefully remarked Mary Louise, as she very carefully placed her stocking foot upon some twigs crossed loosely on the ground.

Then she gave a little scream of fright. Her foot had broken through the twigs and she sank to the ground caught in a good-sized hole.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Danny, as he helped her to get her balance again.

Instantly, however, his attention was attracted to the opening Mary Louise’s fall had uncovered. It seemed to be a carefully excavated hole and they could see no bottom to it.

“No wonder,” said Mary Louise, “that my slipper completely vanished.”

Just as she spoke they both leaned forward tensely as a quick flash of light came directly in their faces as they gazed down. It came again as they leaned near.

Quick as a flash Danny leaned over the opening. “Uncle Jim?” he called, his voice trembling with shock and excitement.

“Good boy, Danny!” came O’Hara’s voice, muffled by the earth, but sounding strong and hearty, to Danny’s great relief. “You saw the flash of my lantern?”

“Listen!” quickly continued the voice from the cave. “I’m safe enough, so don’t worry, but I have some important papers to deliver to the government. Danny, I must get them off to-night. Is there any way you can return and meet me?”

As Danny stood in thought, Mary Louise touched his arm. “Couldn’t we take you almost here, Danny?” she asked; “Just so they wouldn’t hear the engine. It’s dark to-night, and you could hide in their big motor car perhaps.”

“It’s like you to think of it,” said Danny, admiringly, “and of course I can.”

He repeated the plan to O’Hara below.

“That’s good!” the man said eagerly. “We’ll have to run some risks of course, but it’s our best plan. Now mark me carefully.”

Danny leaned even lower to the opening.

“When they let me out, I’ll put these papers under the back seat of their car. The Jap is evidently ignorant of the fact they put me down here, and does not suspect that anything is missing, so he won’t be especially watchful. Then you hide in the back of the car. Each night he goes upon some errand southward. Ride with him a way and then roll out and wait for your own car. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” answered Danny.

“Then hurry off,” ended O’Hara.

“But,” wailed Mary Louise, “Can’t you fish me out my slipper, Danny? They’ll all wonder where it went.”

Danny looked around and saw a long pole leaning against the garage.

“Uncle Jim, will you put the slipper on this stick?” he called down, and in a moment it was balanced to the surface.

Without further speech Mary Louise put it on and the two started slowly, with seeming indifference, back to the house. Almost immediately the party clambered again into their waiting auto and started back for Albuquerque.

Poor Josie O’Gorman was feeling pretty blue and discouraged, and she surreptitiously wiped away a few tears from her blue eyes. But soon she was her splendid, cheery self again, and said to Danny and Mary Louise, who sat beside her: “In my business, now and then, we have to learn to be good losers. I want to be a good sport, and I do admit that this time I’ve been beaten.”

Then her face was lighted up with joy as she turned to Mary Louise and said—“And now I’m ready to finish up your wonderful trip with you.”

For the first time in her life Mary Louise felt that she could not tell Grandpa Jim what she was going to do, and she did not like the feeling. But to Mary Louise, as to most American girls, her love of country was the first thing in her life; so after seeing her grandfather comfortably settled at a game of rummy with Irene and Josie, she bade all three good-night and quietly slipped out of the room and down to the hotel corridor.

Danny was waiting for her with a heavy wrap and carefully bundled her up in the seat beside him. Then swiftly they started off.

The evening was cool and crisp as are all desert nights, and they were grateful that there was no moon. Danny and Mary Louise sped along uplifted by their patriotism and the thought that they were helping Uncle Jim. The miles fairly flew beneath the wheels and almost before they realized it they saw the distant lights of the Brown ranch. A mile farther on Mary Louise slowed up the car and Danny jumped out.

“Now I’ll drive round about slowly to the south,” said Mary Louise, “and good luck to you, Danny!”

Danny Dexter pressed the little hand she held out to him for quite a while. It was hard for him to let her vanish alone into the desert. However, it was their duty which lay before them. So, finally, he turned away, and Mary Louise proceeded southward at a brisk pace for a mile or two. Stopping the car, she settled down to her long wait, alone in the vastness of the desert night.

Danny stood straining his eyes after the departing machine, until he could no longer hear the hum of the motor. Then he turned and quietly ran toward the dark group of buildings.

CHAPTER XXV

A SUCCESSFUL RUSE

As he neared the ranch the light which had been gleaming in the kitchen was extinguished. Danny paused, and saw the Mexican cook go to her quarters and close the door. Then he crept on close to the main bungalow.

Here lights were lit in each of the rooms and he saw preparations for hasty departure. The tall, blond man was ordering the Japanese to some activity. Just what, Danny could not make out, for the man spoke in German. Sure then that he was not watched from that quarter, Danny slipped close against the bunk house. Creeping in, he saw by the faint light that was burning that O’Hara and the burly man named Whalen were the only occupants. O’Hara seemed asleep, but the other half lay upon his bunk awake and watching him.

Danny Dexter had not planned his moves but he was ready. He flung open the door, and with a quick, cat-like leap, he was upon the man. Huge and powerful as Whalen was, Danny caught him at a disadvantage. Before he could regain his balance, O’Hara roused from his feigned sleep, sprang upon him, seizing Whalen’s arm, and freeing Danny so he could seize the towels which hung near by and gag the man’s mouth before he could make a sound. Then as O’Hara held him still firmly, Danny bound Tom Whalen’s arms together, then his legs.

Without another look at him, Danny and O’Hara slipped into the darkness.

“Have you the papers?” whispered Danny.

“I put them in their auto,” answered O’Hara. “Didn’t dare keep them; they search me every night.”

Quietly they glided on to the garage. The door was open and they entered unobserved and crawled down in among the robes in the tonneau of the car. Here they settled down to long and tedious waiting, and now in quick, jerky sentences, old Jim O’Hara recounted the striking chain of events that led up to his present position.

However, the two men were pleasantly disappointed in the length of their hiding. Scarcely had they concealed themselves than the Japanese appeared and climbed into the car without a backward glance toward the tonneau. Softly, they hummed out of the garage and turned to the southward.

When they had gone about a mile, Danny quietly pressed O’Hara’s arm and without a sound unlatched the door of the machine. Then as it noiselessly came open, Danny Dexter slipped out onto the ground. A few feet farther O’Hara did the same. Both lay absolutely still until in the distance they heard the Jap swing to with a slam the open door, and they knew as he continued on his journey that he was entirely without suspicion.

Danny took an electric torch from the pocket of his coat and flashed it here and there. He was answered by a similar flash not very far to the west and soon Mary Louise drove up to them and reached out eager hands of welcome.

“Oh, you are safe and here so quickly,” she cried, a little catch in her breath as she realized her plucky vigil was now over.

She moved over to let Danny have the wheel and O’Hara stepped into the back.

“Danny,” whispered Mary Louise, as she leaned toward him confidingly on the return trip, “do you think it will be necessary for Uncle Jim to leave the United States now? After risking his life the way he did to secure those papers, don’t you think the government would be lenient in his case?”

“I hope so,” said Danny in a low tone. “As you know, all Uncle Jim wants is a chance to make good and rectify his old mistake, and I hardly think they will refuse him that.”

“They shouldn’t,” said Mary Louise with conviction. “It would be mean if they did.”

Danny glanced sideways at the girl, whose brow showed a few tiny furrows.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your interest in Uncle Jim,” Danny said. “I want you to know that we have both talked the matter over, and I have persuaded Uncle Jim to remain in Albuquerque until the government has acted in the case of Henry Brown and his treasonable outfit. He will certainly be needed as a witness if the government apprehends them and they are brought to trial.”

“I can be of some assistance to him, too,” said Mary Louise. “After I tell Josie O’Gorman all that has happened, I know she will feel very different about your uncle. Maybe she can interest her father in the case, and no man in the department at Washington has more influence then John O’Gorman.”

As the two young people sat conversing in low tones, heads close together, a soft smile played about the corners of James O’Hara’s lips. Did he see in the charming tableau before him a reflection of his own lost youth? Perhaps. Out of the dim past, recollections of his own youthful romance may have arisen, luring his mind to years long gone by.

Danny and Mary Louise kept up an intermittent fire of conversation as “Queenie” sped along the sinuous roadway that led to Albuquerque. Now and then, the lovely girl, her face wreathed in smiles, would turn around and address a word or two to the quiet man in the rear.

In less than an hour’s time, the little machine, under Danny’s practised hand, had reached the outskirts of the busy New Mexican town, which now lay wrapped in night. A few minutes more and the car drew up at the hotel entrance. After a final few minutes of hurried conversation and a chorus of “good-nights,” Mary Louise darted into the entrance and ran straight up to her room. Ten minutes later she was in the depths of slumber.

Danny, left with Uncle Jim in the Hathaway car, met a twinkle in the older man’s eye that caused him to blush profusely.

“My boy,” said O’Hara, “you have been mighty fine to me. I don’t know what I could have done without you. Nothing, I’m afraid. You deserve a great deal from life, Danny. I’d be the first to admit it. But the chap who wins Mary Louise will be overpaid,—even you, my boy. She is pure gold. I hope you will win.”

Danny had tried to interrupt his uncle’s speech several times, but it was useless. The older man laid an affectionate hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Say nothing about it,” he said. “Words, after all, are but feeble things. It is life alone that counts.”

There were a few minutes of silence before either of the two spoke again. Then O’Hara resumed:

“I want to say just one more thing, Danny, and that concerns my oil well, or, rather, your oil well, for I mean to turn it over to you. When I am free of this trouble, I expect to take personal charge of the well. A few months’ production will suffice to pay all of my debts. Then the well is yours. You will find, my boy, that you will have enough, and more than enough, to live in plenty.”

Tears stood in the young man’s eyes as Uncle Jim made his generous offer.

Then he said:

“No, no, Uncle Jim! I couldn’t think of it! If you will let me take half of the work and responsibility, I’ll share the proceeds with you. But on that condition only, Uncle Jim!”

“Well, well,” said O’Hara. “Have it your own way. We’ll draw up a partnership agreement. There’ll be more than enough room for both of us, I’m sure.”

“Uncle Jim, I don’t think we ought to lose a minute in rousing the government authorities. Brown evidently has scented danger, though from what source, I don’t know. He was making preparations to leave when I looked through his window. What do you say, uncle? Shall we chance it?”

“You are right, as usual, Danny,” replied O’Hara. “Let us go at once. I need not reveal my identity to-night. There will be time enough to-morrow or the next day to tell the full story of how I happened to be on the ranch. Then we will see if there is such a thing as mercy for one who has been weak.”

Danny glanced at the kindly, weather-beaten features of his uncle, and vowed that he would leave no stone unturned to help the good old fellow regain the honor and respect that had formerly been his.

Then, turning the machine in the opposite direction, he fairly flew over the deserted streets until the municipal building was reached. Rapidly ascending the steps of the building, Danny and O’Hara fairly rushed into the office of the police magistrate.

Half-sitting, half-lying, in a large, commodious, upholstered swivel chair was the single individual the office contained. This bestarred person was giving vent to a capacious yawn as the two men hurriedly entered the room. Rubbing his eyes and staggering to his feet, the officer looked at them as though uncertain of the reality of their existence.

“What’s the matter?” he finally exploded.

And then, as Danny, prompted from time to time by O’Hara, recited the main outlines of their evening’s experiences, and finally produced their bundle of papers as evidence, amazement and consternation was written in every feature of the man’s countenance.

“Jehosaphat!” exclaimed the astounded officer.

A minute later and the three were motoring furiously through the crisp night air in the direction of the home of Mr. Southwick, the Federal officer for that district.

CHAPTER XXVI

A GOOD NIGHT’S WORK

In record time the little machine drew up before a substantial building located in one of the residential sections of town.

Alighting, the three men proceeded at once to awaken the government agent. But it was ten minutes before they succeeded in gaining entrance into the building and were ushered into the beautiful library by Mr. Southwick himself.

As chief of the local division of the Department of Justice—that great department at Washington which fought the agents and spies that Germany had placed in America—Mr. Southwick had distinguished himself during the war in his own state, and indeed his name was a familiar one throughout the whole Southwest.

A large man physically, he towered well over six feet as he stood before his three nocturnal visitors, clad in a dressing-gown of variegated pattern. A glance at the man revealed the secret of his success. Strength and determination were written in every feature of his massive leonine countenance. His piercing gray eyes were set deeply in his head, which was crowned with a shaggy mane of iron-gray hair. It was plain to the beholder that this man was to be respected as a friend, to be feared as a foe. Obviously, he was one of those mortals who seemed destined to be a power in any field in which he chose to turn his abilities.

When America was finally drawn into the Great War, it was he who was appointed by the government to fight the enemy’s propaganda in the border states. The appointment was in itself a high tribute to the man, for on every side his post was recognized as one of the most difficult that the country afforded. His name had become a terror to the few enemy sympathizers who were left in the state, and his reputation sufficed to keep these few from any overt acts of destruction.

Motioning Danny and O’Hara to a seat, he turned to the policeman and went at once to the heart of the matter:

“I suppose something extremely important must have induced this midnight call. I am ready to hear you.”

The policeman pointed a finger toward O’Hara and said:

“This gentleman is the one to tell you about it.”

Mr. Southwick turned toward O’Hara with a look of inquiry.

O’Hara met it squarely. Then, searching a moment for words to put the matter succinctly, he said:

“Mr. Southwick, I have evidence in hand which shows that you are harboring a traitor in your midst. You may know the man. His name is Brown—owner of a big ranch near the city. Without telling the story of how I happened to get there, I’ll simply say that I finally managed to escape with these papers. I arrived in Albuquerque about an hour ago with my nephew here, and we decided to come to you immediately. Here are the papers. I think they will establish the truth of what I have just been saying.”

The chief reached for the bundle of papers, but said nothing, nor indeed were the onlookers able to discern any expression of surprise on his face as he listened to O’Hara’s disclosure.

He untied the papers, and spreading them out on the desk at which he sat, he glanced through them hurriedly. When he again looked up, Danny and O’Hara could see that he had already arrived at a decision.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this bundle of papers contains enough evidence to put a dozen men in the penitentiary if we can lay our hands on them. We must immediately gather in as many of these traitors as we can. Burns,” he addressed the policeman, “go out and locate every detective and officer that you can. Have them meet at my residence in half an hour. There’s not a minute to be lost. I will get in touch with several men from my own office. In thirty-five minutes exactly we will start for Brown’s ranch with as much of a force as we can organize.”

“Sooner if possible, Chief,” suggested Danny. “We left the ranch almost two hours ago, and something was in the wind then. It looked like they were planning to leave. They may be gone now.”

Burns had left to do Mr. Southwick’s bidding, and the next half hour sped by in hurried preparation.

From time to time a new arrival swelled the little group of men who were waiting patiently for the minute of departure. Burns was evidently successful in rounding up his men.

Finally, five minutes before the time of departure, two big motor cars rolled around the corner and stopped in front of the house. A moment later, Burns came up the steps, puffing from his exertions.

Mr. Southwick appeared, and after assuring himself that every man in the party was fully armed, he led the way to the waiting automobiles. The two men at the wheel, who were members of Mr. Southwick’s office, appeared to have received their instructions already. Doubtless, their chief had informed them of the nature of the job to be done.

Danny and O’Hara were loath to leave Mr. Southwick and his aids, now that the expedition was about to set out. So, after a hurried word with the government official, they again boarded Mary Louise’s little machine and started with the others for the distant ranch.

For a considerable distance, the three machines sped over the road that Danny and O’Hara had already traveled earlier in the night. To prevent the quarry from escaping, in case the pursuit were discovered prematurely, Mr. Southwick decided to steer a course far to the southward. About five miles from the ranch a wide detour was made, and after an hour of rapid driving over bumpy, dusty roads, the party drew up and halted at a signal from the leading machine.

Gathering the force around him, Mr. Southwick said:

“Now, men, I hardly need to tell you that this venture is a dangerous one. We are dealing with desperadoes, and they will fight for their lives. I have been thinking over a plan of action, and I think the best thing to do is to divide ourselves into three groups. Burns, you will command the first group, and when we get within a half mile of the ranch, you will turn to the left and approach from that direction. Maitland, I’ll put you in with Mr. Dexter and Mr. O’Hara. You three will take your position on the right. I’ll take the center and go straight north. If escape is attempted, you must shoot. Under no circumstances must we allow these traitors to escape. Shoot, if necessary. Take no chances, but be sure that bullets are necessary before you start in. Each man will have to take care of himself. And remember, no matter what happens, you are doing no more than any loyal American citizen is expected to do.”

Approval was written on the faces of the assembled men, and when Mr. Southwick put the question, “Is everybody ready?” their response was unanimous.

A moment later and the three machines were again in motion.

The ranch was now very near. The moon shone down with crystalline clearness as the various buildings, separating themselves from the background, appeared to the spectator only as towering black objects.

“Spread apart, men!” commanded the leader of the party.

Instantly the machines in command of Burns and Maitland swerved in opposite directions.

Danny was at the wheel of Maitland’s machine. Knowing the lay of the land, he put on full speed, and was soon leading the others by a comfortable margin.

As their machine bore down on the ranch, Danny and O’Hara realized that their course would bring them just to the rear of the Brown bungalow.

Closer and closer drew the raiding party.

Suddenly, as their eyes were fixed on the prospect ahead, the sleeping camp seemed roused to activity. Silhouetted figures dashed here and there. It was evident that the noise of the oncoming cars had been heard and the alarm sounded.

The first clear indication of this came in Danny’s quarter.

Before the three men had time to form a definite plan, a loud chugging announced the presence of Brown’s huge car in the immediate vicinity. Evidently the occupants of the camp had determined on flight, and, even now, were prepared to dash for the open.

Suddenly the big car rounded the corner of the bungalow, and instantly picking up speed, darted away to the southward.

“Stop that car!” shouted Maitland. “Shoot low! Don’t let him get away! Aim for the tires.”

A fusillade of shots rang out as O’Hara and Maitland poised their rifles an instant and started to pump bullets at the dark retreating mass.

Another volley, and another.

There was a sudden snap as a bullet found its way into one of the rear tires of Brown’s car. Then a baffled cry of rage rose on the air.

Swinging the little machine around at an abrupt angle, Danny started toward the other car, now arrested in its flight. As he pulled up a short distance away, a shot rang out and he heard the whistle of lead as it winged its way past his left ear.

“Down, men!” he shouted. “Crouch down!” And suiting the action to the word, the three men sought protection in the depths of the machine.

As they were preparing to return the fire, they heard the noise of Mr. Southwick’s machine as it approached from the opposite side. That redoubtable official had heard the sound of the shots, and as he came up, he took in the situation at a glance.

“Surrender!” he called out. “Surrender in the name of the Government of the United States!”

What feelings that voice inspired in the hearts of Brown and his confederates may never be known. But it must have sounded to them like the voice of doom, for now their consciences must have told them that retribution was at hand. They had dared to be traitors, and had sought to betray a great free country. For gold, they had sacrificed honor and respect, and now, gold had failed them, as gold always does.

Again Mr. Southwick’s voice boomed out:

“Do you surrender?”

There was no answer, but three dark figures stepped from the car, and with hands raised high in the air, moved into the open.

Instantly, Mr. Southwick, attended by the men in his car, moved forward to meet them. O’Hara and Maitland, followed by Danny, also joined the group.

His features distorted with hate and chagrin, Brown stood before the stern government official. At his side stood Tom Whalen, sullenly defiant, and Jo, the little Jap chauffeur, who, with oriental calmness and imperturbability, surveyed his captors without moving an eyelash.

In the meantime, the third machine had already reached the ranch.

Jumping from their machine, Burns and his companions quickly searched the outbuildings of the ranch, and finding nothing of consequence, sat down to await the arrivals of the others. While they were thus engaged, the sound of purring automobiles in the distance suddenly ceased, and the sound of shots, carried on the still night air, fell on their ears.

Instantly alert, and without waiting to start their car again, the four members of the party rushed across the ranch in the direction of the firing. As they swung around the corner of the bungalow, they were astonished at the spectacle that confronted them.

Three menacing revolvers were pointed at Brown and his companions, who had been marched to the side of the bungalow at Mr. Southwick’s direction. There, arms in air, they stood, uneasily moving from side to side as they awaited the further commands of the government official.

With a hurried “At your service, sir,” Burns and the three detectives joined their superior.

“Search these fellows!” commanded Mr. Southwick.

The men jumped forward, and while leveled revolvers continued to insure the good behavior of the three captives, Burns and his agile-fingered helpers went to work, turning their pockets inside out, and removing everything that they came across.

In a few minutes they had exposed a veritable arsenal—revolvers, a half dozen boxes of bullets, wicked-looking knives, and a considerable amount of American and Mexican money. Brown’s inside pocket yielded a bulky packet of papers, and this was immediately placed in Mr. Southwick’s keeping.

While this scene was being enacted, Danny and O’Hara, accompanied by Maitland, had conducted a search of Brown’s automobile. Nothing was found in the front part of the machine, but under the tonneau seat a heavy wooden chest was revealed, locked and bolted on three sides. After they had transferred this to Mr. Southwick’s car, they returned to the group by the bungalow.

The eastern sky was now shot with faint streaks of light, which proclaimed the coming of dawn. Now, for the first time, it would be possible to make a thorough search of the premises.

As O’Hara came up, Brown glared at him as though seeing him for the first time since the arrival of the raiding party.

“So you’re the informer, are you?” he said, wrathfully. “A fine patriot you are! Your friends must be pretty bad off to get help from criminals.”

O’Hara was about to reply, when Mr. Southwick turned to the German, and said, acidly:

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to talk later, Brown. Just now, what we want from you is information. I have evidence that your wife was here last night. Where is she now? Speak the truth. Where is she?”

A sneer passed over the cold face of the man.

“If it will do you any good to know,” he said, “she is in Mexico by this time. Perhaps you’d like to catch her, too, eh? Yes, and maybe the Mexicans will help you. Suppose you try?”

Doubtless the man spoke the truth.

The stately woman whose beauty had so impressed O’Hara on his arrival at the ranch, was nowhere to be found. By this time the bungalow and its adjacent buildings had already been searched by the busy men.

O’Hara turned to Danny, who was standing at his side, and said in low voice:

“I can’t say that I am sorry for that, Danny. This is a terrible situation for a woman to be mixed up in, and somehow, I hate to see a woman in trouble even when she deserves it.”

Danny gave a nod of approval.

“That’s right, Uncle Jim,” agreed the young man. “I know exactly how you feel. I think every real man feels the same way. Somehow, we hate to think that a beautiful woman could be mixed up in anything so disagreeable as this. Well, we’ve got this man Brown, anyway, and he’s the real power behind the throne. At least, I think so.”

Meantime, Mr. Southwick was receiving reports from the detectives who were searching every nook and corner of the ranch.

“The ranch is deserted, sir,” said one of the detectives who had come down in Burns’s car. “We’ve gone over every shack on the place with a fine-tooth comb, and everything is just about cleaned out.”

Mr. Southwick turned to O’Hara.

“By the way, you mentioned something in my library about being locked up in a subterranean cavern. You said something about a safe being there, filled with documents of all kinds. Do you know how to reach it?”

“Yes,” replied O’Hara. “It is right under that big gasoline tank over there. There’s a secret trap-door, but Brown and his tools here are the only ones who know how to work the combination.”

Glancing at the three captives, Mr. Southwick’s eyes fell on the little Jap chauffeur.

“Come here, Togo,” he commanded.

The Jap obeyed with alacrity.

“I want you to show these men how to open that door. Understand?”

The little yellow man instantly donned a servile manner, as though he realized that the overlordship of Brown was over, and new masters must now be served.

Leading the way to the tank, he descended into the huge hollow, closely followed by O’Hara and two of the other men.

After they had made their way to the farther end of the tank, the Jap suddenly stooped and touched something that seemed to be one of the rivets that held the giant steel tank together. Instantly the steel walls moved as O’Hara had seen them do earlier, and the aperture leading to the cave opened up directly in front of them. The men marvelled at the ingenuity which had devised this hidden retreat.

O’Hara was the first to file through the opening and descend into the depths of the cave.

“You next!” said one of the detectives to the Jap, as the latter was edging to one side.

The oriental obeyed without a word, followed by the two detectives.

It was several minutes before the men were able to make out their surroundings in the dim light of the gloomy interior.

After O’Hara had ushered the men over the cave, and had shown them the huge concrete emplacement rising to a height of fully twenty feet, he led the way to the bulky safe which stood in the same position as before.

“Get to work, Jo, and open this up!” commanded O’Hara.

The Jap was at the side of the safe and turning the dial almost before the command was given. Finally, with a vigorous pull, the huge steel doors were forced out, and the interior of the safe was revealed.

Empty! Not a sheet of paper remained.

“They’ve stolen a march on us!” exclaimed one of the detectives in a disappointed tone.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said O’Hara.

He cast a look in the direction of the Jap, who stood by, as silent and inscrutable as the race from which he sprang.

“Where are all the papers that were here, Jo? You might as well tell us.”

“Papers?” he questioned, blankly.

“Yes, papers,” countered O’Hara. “The same papers that were here when you came down into the cave with that Irish detective from the city. Don’t you remember?”

Did the Jap’s eyes suddenly turn downward under O’Hara’s steady scrutiny? It was hard to tell in the gloom of the cave, but he uttered a quick “Yes, yes!” of dismay, and said in liquid tones:

“Papers! Yes, I know. Papers in Mr. Brown’s automobile. You find them in box. Mr. Brown take away.”

O’Hara turned to the detectives.

“This doesn’t surprise me, boys,” he said. “We’ve already got our hands on those papers. Before you arrived on the scene, we took a whole chestful of them from Brown’s machine, and put them in Mr. Southwick’s car. I felt pretty sure then that there wouldn’t be anything here for us when we came. What do you say about going back?”

“I’m ready!”

“Me, too!”

They filed from the cave in the order in which they entered, O’Hara opening and closing the entrance several times by pressing the neatly camouflaged button.

On reaching open air, the party rejoined Mr. Southwick’s forces which were still beside the bungalow.

The big man’s only comment, as O’Hara reported the result of the trip, was, “Just as I thought.”

Preparations were busily under way for the return to the city. The search of the ranch had been completed, and at Mr. Southwick’s order, the huge touring car of Brown had been mended and placed in readiness. In the tonneau of the car sat the crestfallen owner, and beside him was Tom Whalen. To prevent any attempt at escape, the two were handcuffed together, and an armed guard was placed over them.

The Jap was ordered into the front seat of the machine, and beside him was seated a second detective.

It was a tired group of men who raced over the long desert road to Albuquerque on the return journey. The early morning sun was beating down from the east, and the intense heat of the desert was making itself felt over the refreshing coolness of the night.

Mr. Southwick’s car led off, and was followed by Brown’s machine, which was carefully watched by the occupants of “Queenie,” the next one in line. One of Mr. Southwick’s lieutenants brought up the rear of the procession.

Early morning pedestrians on the streets of the thriving little town glanced curiously at the row of machines, and wondered at their presence at that hour. They would have been still more surprised had they seen the four machines draw up a few minutes later in front of the county jail. Luckily, the street on which this stood was still deserted.

After the captives were safely lodged behind bars, the raiding party separated in all directions. Mr. Southwick walked over to Danny and O’Hara, and slapping them on the back, said:

“We are greatly indebted to you two men. As one loyal American to another, I want to thank the both of you from the bottom of my heart. You have done your country a great service—greater, perhaps, than you know. Good luck to you, and I hope I may call on you later when we bring Brown and his assistants to trial.”

“You surely can, Mr. Southwick!” answered Danny.

As O’Hara shook hands with the famous official, the letter said, kindly:

“There may come a time when I can be of some help to you, Mr. O’Hara. If so, do not hesitate to call on me. You have my promise.”

“Many thanks!” answered the other.

And as the towering figure entered his machine, O’Hara turned to his nephew and said:

“Danny, do you think he knows who I am?”

“I think so, Uncle Jim. I have felt that right along,” replied the young man.

O’Hara sighed, and continued:

“I wonder what Mr. Southwick meant about helping me?”

“I don’t know,” responded Danny, “but I do know that Mr. Southwick appreciates what you have done. He is the kind of man who doesn’t say much, but I know he attaches the greatest importance to the raid we have just been through. You’ll have to admit, Uncle Jim, you were responsible for that!”

“It was little that I did,” answered O’Hara.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the young man. “You were behind the whole thing. We couldn’t have proven anything without that bundle of papers. Mr. Southwick knows that. The capture of Brown will be a big feather in his cap when the news reaches Washington, and he’s bound to give you full credit. No, Uncle Jim,” continued Danny, “I don’t think you need fear anything more. It looks like smooth sailing to me from now on.”

“Do you really think so?” In O’Hara’s voice there was a note of yearning that did not escape the younger man.

“Yes, Uncle Jim. Now, don’t worry!” he encouraged. “We’ve made a good friend. Mr. Southwick means what he says. I am sure our troubles are just about over.”

As the two men motored slowly through the streets in the direction of the hotel, a share of Danny’s optimism entered the heart of the older man, and a smile of childlike happiness stole over his saddened face.

CHAPTER XXVII

ON THE BALCONY

Early the next morning Mary Louise was aroused by a tapping at her door, and Josie burst into the room, followed by Irene, who came more slowly on her crutches.

“We just had to wake you up, Mary Louise,” cried Josie, “to tell you the exciting news. They sent out officers to arrest those Browns. They found his name was Heinrich Braun, and he’s a German up from Mexico. Who could imagine such a thing!”

Mary Louise leaned back on her pillows, and her eyes looked very large and lovely with their violet shadows.

“Josie,” she said, “I’ve got a confession to make to you.”

“I’ll bet it isn’t very serious,” laughed the girl.

“Irene, oh, Irene!” Mary Louise called out. “You stay and hear it, too!” The well-bred girl was almost outside the door before Mary Louise’s voice halted her.

Then, as the two girls sat on the side of her bed, Mary Louise told them the story of James O’Hara—the kindly, courageous uncle of Danny Dexter. She told them of the terrible mistake he had once made—a mistake atoned for time and again. She told how O’Hara happened to be on the Brown ranch and how he discovered its dangerous character. And lastly, she told of the amazing events of the previous evening, expatiating at length on the heroic part that O’Hara played in them.

When she had finished her recital, Josie burst out:

“Oh, Mary Louise, why didn’t you let me know about O’Hara sooner? I would never have caused him so much trouble.”

“Well,” said Mary Louise, “he had not proven his mettle at that time, and that makes a great difference, doesn’t it? But you see how everything has turned out for the best.”

As Josie sat on the bed, still almost unable to comprehend the amazing turn that events had taken, Mary Louise turned to her and said softly:

“Josie, dear, don’t you think it would be possible for O’Hara to arrange to repay that Boston bank in the near future, and go free in the meantime? I think he deserves the most considerate treatment.”

“I do, too!” spoke up Irene, whose admiring gaze had not shifted from Mary Louise since the latter started her narrative.

Mary Louise cast a look of gratitude on the sweet-faced girl, as Josie reflected in silence for a moment.

“Such things are done now and then,” said Josie quietly, “but only in the most extraordinary cases.”

“But this case is extraordinary!” urged Mary Louise. “Why, Josie, just think of the heroic way he managed to escape from the ranch! Even now, he is in danger of arrest because he chose to be loyal under the most difficult conditions! Could a man be anything but worthy who thinks more of his country than his own personal safety?”

Mary Louise was about to say more in behalf of Danny’s uncle when Josie placed her hand on the girl’s arm.

“There’s no need to argue O’Hara’s case further, dear,” she said. “I agree with you. O’Hara is a real American, and I promise to help him in every way I can.”

“I’m so glad!” sighed Mary Louise, and she lay back on her pillows.

“And I am, too!” added Irene, whose tender heart had been deeply touched by Mary Louise’s recital of O’Hara’s story.

“Then, we’re unanimous!” smiled Josie, and added, good-naturedly: “Have you noticed that it’s always unanimous when Mary Louise sets her heart on a thing?”

Mary Louise laughed lightly.

“Oh, Josie, how you exaggerate!” she said.

“Girls! Girls!” exclaimed Irene. “Here we are exchanging pleasantries, and we haven’t yet decided how we are going to help Danny’s uncle!”

Irene was the most practical-minded of all of Mary Louise’s girl friends, and she was never so happy as when planning some kind deed for others.

“What would you suggest, Josie?” asked Mary Louise, after a little silence had fallen on the group.

“Well,” said the girl slowly, “I think my best plan would be to get in touch with dad. He is still in Washington; at least he was there when I left several weeks ago. I might wire him about the case, and tell him to have Crocker patch things up with the Boston bank. I am sure dad would do it for me. What do you think of the idea?”

“Just the thing!” exclaimed Mary Louise, enthusiastically. “Your father is the very man! Oh, Josie, how can I ever thank you! I know Danny would like to hear about the plan, too. Won’t you see him and tell him about it? He can tell you more about his uncle than I ever could.”

“That’s what I’ll do,” said Josie, decisively. “I’ll get O’Hara’s whole story from Danny, and then I’ll wire it to dad. Father will receive it this afternoon, and we should receive an answer from him not later than to-morrow night.”

“That will be splendid!” said Mary Louise.

“Yes,” echoed Irene, “and just think of the happiness it will give Danny’s uncle to know that he is free once more to retrieve himself in the eyes of the world!”

Mary Louise smiled a glad smile, and thought to herself that Danny, too, would be overjoyed at the news, but she did not give her thought utterance. An unaccountable shyness came over her when she thought of Danny and the delightful night ride of the evening before.

Then the tired girl fell back on her pillow. The strain of the night before had told on her, so, sending her girl friends from the room, she turned over into a wonderful slumber that lasted almost through the afternoon.

About five, Mary Louise arose, bathed and slipped into her soft pink dressing-gown. Her grandfather entered her little private sitting room as she was turning from her mirror, and on Mary Louise’s assuring him that she was perfectly well and rested now, he seated himself in the one large chair the hotel room held.

Then Mary Louise threw a pillow at his feet and clasping her knees in her hands, she told him all of her adventure: the tale of O’Hara, the night ride and the lost automobile.

The Colonel tenderly smoothed her dark curls as she talked, and when she had finished, he told her of his pride in her in words which made Mary Louise’s heart glow.

“Have you seen Danny?” Mary Louise asked at last.

The wistful look did not escape the Colonel. Each day both esteem and affection had increased in him for Danny Dexter. So now he asked gently: “Shall I send him up to you after dinner?”

“Yes,” said Mary Louise, and suddenly hid her head on her grandfather’s shoulder.

So it happened that Mary Louise waited for Danny out on the balcony of her little sitting-room. She had flung a warm dark fur about her shoulders, and her soft and simple gown gleamed in sweet contrast to the fur’s richness. She was leaning against the railing as Danny entered, looking off into the loneliness of the desert.

The final glory of the sun was flooding the whole world with light, and the mystery of the vast sandy distances was upon her. Mystery was in her dark eyes, too, as she turned to greet Danny.

The blaze of light turned to the soft dusk of twilight as Danny stood and gazed at her. Then simply, naturally, and with an infinite tenderness Danny Dexter stepped through the door and took Mary Louise in his arms.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Other changes to the original publication have also been made as follows:

- Page 36

you clothe you men changed to

you clothe your men

- Page 57

and Washington messages supercede changed to

and Washington messages supersede

- Page 69

a rather conspicuous returned solder changed to

a rather conspicuous returned soldier

- Page 72

There as a brief silence changed to

There was a brief silence

- Page 76

and he spun the proferred card changed to

and he spun the proffered card

- Page 106

a feeling of reget changed to

a feeling of regret

- Page 175

enjoying the ecstacy changed to

enjoying the ecstasy

- Page 192

There was a few minutes changed to

There were a few minutes

- Page 213

machine, anad beside him changed to

machine, and beside him

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier, by L. Frank Baum and Emma Speed Sampson

Mary Louise Adopts a Soldier

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I MARY LOUISE CONSIDERS THE SITUATION

CHAPTER II BACK HOME

CHAPTER III DANNY DEXTER

CHAPTER IV DANNY CHANGES HIS UNIFORM

CHAPTER V DORFIELD GIRLS

CHAPTER VI A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE

CHAPTER VII A TELEGRAM

CHAPTER VIII THE ARRIVAL OF JOSIE O’GORMAN

CHAPTER IX THE MAN FROM BOSTON

CHAPTER X MARY LOUISE MAKES A DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XI THE EMPTY ROOM

CHAPTER XII DANNY DISAPPEARS

CHAPTER XIII FACE TO FACE

CHAPTER XIV THE SEARCH

CHAPTER XV A JOURNEY BEGUN

CHAPTER XVI AUNT SALLY ENTERTAINS

CHAPTER XVII THE BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST

CHAPTER XVIII THE MOTOR TRIP

CHAPTER XIX THE ESCAPE

CHAPTER XX THE DESERT BUNGALOW

CHAPTER XXI A NEST OF CONSPIRATORS

CHAPTER XXII THE CAVE

CHAPTER XXIII THE RIDE AT NIGHT

CHAPTER XXIV MARY LOUISE LOSES HER SLIPPER

CHAPTER XXV A SUCCESSFUL RUSE

CHAPTER XXVI A GOOD NIGHT’S WORK

CHAPTER XXVII ON THE BALCONY

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE