“You were a devil! Even now as I look at you, you laugh and jibe!” The shadow upon the floor here swung its arms threateningly. “But laugh away. I have won, and it is my turn to laugh!”
Here the shadow slid along and up the wall; peering around the edge of the door, Pendleton saw a man with massive, stooped shoulders and a great square head, covered with thick, iron-gray hair; and instantly he recognized him as the man whom they had seen that night in the doorway of Locke’s workshop. The stranger was standing just under the portrait of Hume; he gazed up at it, and his big shoulders shook with laughter.
“What a mistake to make,” he said, still in French. “How was I to know that the old devil once called himself Wayne!”
He reached up and took the picture from its hook; with thick, powerful fingers he tore the backing away, and a flat, compact bundle of papers was disclosed. The picture was thrown upon the bed, and the man stood staring at the papers, a wide smile upon his face.
“So this is the secret, eh? Well, Locke will pay well for it, and it will be worth all the risks I’ve taken.”
He was fumbling with a coat pocket as though to stow them away, when there came a swift, light rush, the packet was torn from his hands, and Edyth Vale was darting toward the hall door and the stairway beyond.
But despite his bulk, the man with the stooped shoulders proved himself singularly swift. In two leaps he had overtaken her; dragging her back to the center of the room, he snatched the packet from her in turn. Regarding her with calm, pitiless eyes, he said in English:
“I am sorry, mees, that you have come, eh? Eet makes eet mooch harder for me. And I am of the kind that would rather be off quietly, is it not? and say no words to no one.”
Edyth Vale, pale of face, but with steady eye, returned his look.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I am sorry to do anything,” spoke the stranger. “I do not know you, and you will onderstan’, will you not, that I can’t leave you behind—to talk?”
As he spoke a flashing something appeared from the girl’s pocket; he lifted one huge paw to beat her down; but a clenched hand, protected by a corded buckskin glove, thudded against his jaw; his knees weakened, and he sprawled upon the floor.
“Jimmie!” gasped Edyth Vale. “Jimmie Pendleton!”
“Oh, Edyth—Edyth!” was all the man could say. He slipped his arm around her, for she was tottering; and as he helped her to a chair, Ashton-Kirk quietly entered at the hall door.
“Miss Vale,” said he, “good evening.”
Without waiting to note if she even gave him a look, he bent over the fallen man and snapped a pair of handcuffs upon his wrists.
“A very pretty blow, Pen,” said he, admiringly. “Beautifully timed, and your judgment of distance was excellent.”
He slipped the fallen papers into his pocket and continued: “Keep an eye on him, for a moment.”
Then he stepped swiftly through the hall; a moment later they heard him throw up one of the windows overlooking the street, and a whistle shrilled through the night.
“Paulson is on duty,” said the investigator, returning. “He’ll be here in a jiffy.”
Sure enough, they soon heard heavy steps upon the stairs; and then Paulson and a fellow patrolman appeared in the doorway. Astonished, the policeman gazed at Ashton-Kirk, who nodded to them smilingly, then they turned their gaze upon Pendleton, who was speaking soothing words to the white-faced girl, who, now that the danger was over, clung to him tremblingly. But when their eyes centered upon the manacled stranger who was then dazedly struggling to a sitting position, Paulson asked:
“Who is this?”
“This,” answered Ashton-Kirk, “is M. Sagon, a fellow lodger of Antonio Spatola, formerly a very close friend of the late Mr. Hume, and once a resident of Bayonne, in France.”
XXV
Approaching the Finish
Pendleton spent the night at Ashton-Kirk’s; and after breakfast he wandered into the library, a newspaper in his hand and an inquiring look on his face.
The investigator was seated in his usual big chair, buried to the knees in newspapers, and making vigorous inroads upon the Greek tobacco. Fuller was just leaving the room as Pendleton entered, and nodding toward the disappearing form, Ashton-Kirk said:
“There is some rather interesting news. I have had Locke, as you perhaps know, under observation for some time. Last night he took the train at Cordova, and Burgess followed him. When he reached the city, he went directly to Christie Place and was seen lurking about in the shadows.”
“Humph,” said Pendleton, “what time was this?”
“Perhaps about . Burgess, so Fuller tells me, never lost sight of him. He acted in a queerly hesitating sort of way; finally, however, he seemed to form a resolution and went to the door of the Marx house. He was about to pull the bell, then paused and tried the door instead. It was evidently not locked. He seemed both surprised and pleased at this; he lost no time, however, but went in at once.”
Pendleton sat down.
“What do you suppose all this meant?” he asked.
“Well, we can’t be too sure,” replied Ashton Kirk, “but I think it probable that he, also, saw the news of the withdrawal of the police in the papers. Perhaps he came to Christie Place with the intention of informing Sagon of the opportunity that then presented itself. Or it might be that he had hopes of somehow overreaching his companion in crime.”
“His lurking about would seem
