THE MONEY-MILER

Originally published in Flynn’s Weekly, October 4, 1924.

INTRODUCTION, by Vella Munn

The Money-Miler was the last story Homer Eon Flint sold before his violent and mysterious death in 1924.

Unlike some of his other works of fiction, quite a bit is known about this story’s checkered past. Flint initially submitted it to McClure’s Publishing, where he’d had other fiction accepted. Unfortunately, the publisher rejected it but added a note, saying, “If this were a novelette and all as good as the first five chapters, it would be a corker. The motive is very unusual, automobile thievery on a grand scale and a device for prevention of same. Squeezed up, only the gems left in.”

Homer wrote his wife that the letter came on October 24, 1923 and he spent all of the next day cutting the 65,000 word story down to 50,000.

“I took out bodily one of the three unsuccessful attempts to steal Del’s car, and removed tier after tier of dead wood; usually only a couple of words here and a sentence there; rarely a whole paragraph. Left all the repartee intact, of course; in general, I tried to cull out everything that might ever have been written before by anyone else in any kind of a story. Result, the yarn reads like a whirlwind; it is full of meat and nothing else. If there were not such a predisposition in its favor at McClure’s I’d send it to the Post.”

McClure’s didn’t buy the revised version, but another publisher did.

To give a bit of background, in August, 1923, financial circumstances necessitated a separation between Homer and his wife and three small children. When she was offered a teaching position in a remote community in California’s Sierra Mountains, Homer had no choice but to remain in San Jose. Days were spent repairing shoes in a local store; evenings and weekends were devoted to writing. In almost daily letters between husband and wife, the dream of reconciliation remained.

To their joy, in early spring of 1924, Homer was offered a stage-driving job that would allow him to see his family every day. Plans began for him to move to within eighteen miles of the small community.

As if that wasn’t enough excitement, the same week the job offer came, Homer received a letter from editor Bob Davis of Flynn’s Weekly. The publisher of the widely popular magazine wanted to buy The Money-Miler for $400, an astronomical sum at that time. On March 13, Homer shared the good news with his wife in a letter. With that money, Homer was able to pay off a medical bill and deposit $300 in the family’s checking account.

Less than two weeks later, the thirty-six year old author of such classic early science fiction as The Lord of Death, The Queen of Life, Out of the Moon, The Man in the Moon, The Emancipatrix, and The Devolutionist was dead.

Fortunately for today’s readers, his family safeguarded his body of work. The fragile original magazines containing his stories are in storage at the University of Kansas’ Special Collection. The rest, both copies of his published work and the manuscripts he didn’t have time to find a home for, have been entrusted to Wildside Press. Work nearly a hundred years old is being brought back to life. So are the questions about his mysterious death.

Chapter One

“Something to Your Advantage”

Within the salesroom, nobody took special note of the young man. Every day for a week or more, about this hour, he had paused to admire that car. They were familiar with his six feet of big muscled frame; he had always worn the same dressy flannel shirt, smart army breeches, and pig-skin puttees. They knew his chubby, smooth-shaven, undeniably homely but equally good humored face, with its pair of mild yet intelligent blue eyes. He wore the conventional chauffeur’s cap, set squarely atop a head of closely cropped reddish-brown curls; not canted at the rakish angle that most drivers affect. His employer might have been the owner of the city’s finest limousine. Unfortunately there was always something tucked behind the young fellow’s right ear, which had discouraged the salesmen from treating him as a prospect. It was merely a lead pencil; but it shouted to the world that if those riding breeches sat behind the wheel of anything, it was the wheel of a truck.

This was the first time he had ventured inside. Certainly the car justified him. The mere color scheme—a deep Indian red, with feather blue running gear and striping—was enough to catch the eye of anybody; if not, then the immensely long wheelbase, the huge tires, and the hood that fairly towered above them. So distinctive were the lines of this sport model roadster, its manufacturer had not troubled to put his name on radiator or hub caps. But the young man knew it to be the latest eight-in-line Gale, a hand-made product from a small concern across the bay in Oakland.

It was an overwhelmingly satisfying car.

The technical eye saw that it had brakes on all four wheels, a speedometer with a ninety mile range, an instrument board that kept tab on everything from gas and oil to degrees and seconds; the eye for comfort noted the deep and expensive upholstery of the single wide seat, the prodigious shock absorbers, the side wings and visor, bumpers front and rear, two spotlights and “Stop-Slow—Right-Left” warning light. An eye for caution might have scowled at the trifling canopy of olive drab duck, but would have beamed at the gleaming fire extinguisher; not to mention a compact little first aid outfit, tucked in a significantly handy pocket.

A near-by whistle split the air along the one o’clock line. Turning reluctantly, the pigskin puttees strode slowly away, to halt not far up the street alongside a five-ton truck. Before starting the engine, the owner of the puttees stood idle a moment. A dreamy stare came into his eyes as he contemplated the clear blue strip at the top of that brick walled canyon; his powerful chest heaved unmistakably. A regretful backward glance toward the salesroom with its enticing display, perfectly explained that sigh.

He shook himself alive. He shrugged his massive shoulders, and a humorous twist touched one side of his mouth, as though he were mentally poking fun at himself for his dreaming. In ten seconds the riding breeches were planted behind the wheel, the truck rumbling on its way.

A block or so farther on, the six-footer stopped in front of an ice cream and candy store. From the hack of his truck he drew forth one of those long steel cylinders of compressed carbonic acid gas which charge the water at soda fountains. Handling the burden as though it were a teddy bear he stepped easily into the establishment. The pencil behind his ear came into action as the proprietor signed the slip for the delivery. A few twists of a wrench, and the fresh tank was “hooked up.” But the big fellow was not yet ready to go.

On the counter stood a slot machine, of a type outlawed in certain cities. The truck driver dove into his pocket and unearthed a handful of small change, which he regarded rather seriously. But he selected a quarter and silently placed it on the counter. As silently the proprietor passed over live brass slugs, on the order of round Chinese “cash.” The driver proceeded to test his luck. Immediately he began to win. Slug after slug drew forth returns two, four, eight, twelve, and even twentyfold. In five minutes he had a double handful.

“Hey—my lucky day,” he jubilated in a low, agreeable voice, for the benefit of a totally indifferent proprietor. “First time I’ve won in a week. If I had any sense, now, I’d quit.”

He kept right on dropping slugs into the machine’s willing throat. Eight or ten disappeared without effect; it began to look hopeless for the double handful. At that psychological moment the telephone rang; and the proprietor, noticeably irritated, said:

“Office has been trying to get you, Stowe. Guess that’s them now.”

The winnings tinkled into the same pocket with the nickels and dimes. At the telephone, the low, agreeable voice spoke deferentially:

“Yes, sir. What is it?”

“There’s a special delivery letter here for you.”

“Special delivery! Where’s it from, Mr. Oliver?”

“Wait,” said the manager. “‘Box 145, San Francisco.’ Mailed at the main office this morning.”

“How’s it addressed, sir?”

“Warren W. Stowe, Esq.”

“Esquire! Thunder; sounds important! Say, will it be all right if I drive down that way pretty soon to pick it up?”

“If you make up the time later.”

“I will, sir. Thanks!”

The truck moved on with considerable snap. Once or twice Stowe took chances on getting himself disliked by the traffic officers. Trucks were supposed to keep strictly to the back streets at that hour of the day. Within the next half hour he had made no less than three deliveries before he reached the Post Street office of the firm.

From his features as he opened his letter, he hadn’t the slightest apprehension as to its-contents. On the contrary, his eyes sparkled with the little mystery of it. He eagerly scanned the single typewritten sheet of heavy, expensive paper. Across the top was a deeply embossed legend: “General British Consulate”; below which, on one side, the San Francisco address and date line, which showed that the note had been typed that very day. On the opposite side was printed, “Henry M. Tuttle, Special Australian Representative.” The message was brief:

DEAR MR. STOWE:

If you will call at my office, coming prepared to establish your identity. You will learn something greatly to your advantage. Immediate response is advisable.

Respectfully yours,

(Signed) HENRY M. TUTTLE

HMT:FK

The young giant wasted no time in speculation. Evidently there was more than a mere hint in the note. Without a word he handed the letter to the manager, who swiftly grasped what was wanted.

“I suppose I’ll have to let you off, Stowe,” his irritation entirely unconcealed. “Show a little speed, though.”

“I’ll make it snappy. Thanks. Mr. Oliver!” And his face beamed with the elemental happiness of the boy who has been told that he may go to the circus provided he rake the leaves off the lawn.

To the British Consulate was perhaps a score of blocks, requiring a transfer en route if the street cars be patronized. The pig-skins preferred the sidewalks, covering them at a rate in excess of thirty-eight inches per stride. There was a certain masterful swing to that stride of which he seemed totally unconscious; he was intent on making time. But for all his speed a great deal occurred during his walk.

Mr. Henry M. Tuttle glanced at his watch, reached for the telephone and called a number. He was elderly, white-mustached, of the type we all instinctively trust; the old-school gentleman. At the moment his eyes were twinkling.

“Hello. Is Mr. Warren Stowe there? Ah! Thanks He must be on his way here. Good-by.”

He secured another number. The twinkles deepened.

“Hello. May I speak to George Stowe? Hello, old chap; Henry speaking. The lad is on his way to see me now…I shall do my best. But you must agree to abide by whatever I find it necessary to tell him…Quite right, old fellow. Meet you at the boat tonight. Good-by.”

He pressed a button. There entered a briskly energetic young woman, small and astonishingly pretty. She swiftly seated herself and balanced a pad on her knee.

“Ready!” she spoke in firm, clear tones.

“‘Miss Florence Jones’—you will find her address in my book, Miss Kelly; somewhere above Van Ness, just off Sutter—‘My dear Miss Jones, I have been instructed by the Australian government to advise you that your father—whom you knew only by name—died recently in Sydney. It appears that his true name was Stowe, not Jones; also, that before marrying your mother he had a first wife—also deceased—by whom he had a son named Warren. It will come as a surprise to you to learn that you have this half-brother living.’

“Got that? Paragraph. ‘If you will get in touch with this young man at once, bringing proofs to satisfy him as to your identity, he will give you further details, particularly in the matter of your share of your father’s estate. Very truly yours.’ You will kindly locate Mr. Stowe’s home address and insert it in this letter, Miss Kelly.”

“Yes, sir. Shall l send this by special delivery also?”

“Yes. One more thing, Miss Kelly,” as the unbelievably good looking girl rose to go. “I am leaving for Australia on tonight’s steamer, as you know. I shall be busy, here, for an hour or so and then will go home. When you finish with that letter, bring it to me to sign; then take it to the office and mail it yourself. And, Miss Kelly, you need not bother to come back.”

“Thank you, sir.

“You misunderstand.” His tones were Siberian. “Your position in my employ is at an end.”

Not a twinkle now.

“Why, why, Mr. Tuttle—I don’t—”

“I will make out your check for the entire month in lieu of notice. As for my reasons, you are welcome, I’m sure! There have been far too many leaks of important information lately! You alone have been in a position to permit those leaks. I really can’t afford to keep you any longer.”

Astonishment and anger faced him. The girl was all the prettier for the fire in her eyes, the high color in her cheeks; a spirited, independent figure if ever there was one.

Her voice choked with indignation.

“That’s just not so! I never—I’m not the kind to talk about business affairs outside of office hours! Whoever says I—”

“That will do. The subject is closed, so far as I am concerned. There will be no discussion, no argument. Kindly send Tommy in as you go out.”

For a moment the girl stood, wrestling with a desire to relieve her feelings. Then she groped her way out, having abruptly found that relief in a rain of angry tears.

It was a wondering but intensely alert and docile office boy who, a moment later, entered the little enclosure.

“Close the door, Tommy.” The icy tones were gone; the twinkles had miraculously returned. “I am expecting a caller presently—a Mr. Warren Stowe. When he comes I wish you would show him in here through that side door, not past Miss Kelly’s desk. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll remember. Side door!”

“Also, Tommy, remember this: When you go back to your place, right now, you will leave this door slightly ajar; this one here, which opens next to Miss Kelly’s desk. Leave the door open about half an inch so that she can hear all that goes on. And there is half a dollar, Tommy. As soon as you have shown Mr. Stowe in by the side door, you may take the rest of the afternoon off and attend the ball game, if you wish. Don’t fail to show up on time tomorrow morning, however, as usual. And tell anyone who inquires that I shall return from Australia in about six weeks.”

“Yes, sir! I won’t—I mean, I will, sir! Thanks!”

The boy went out, carefully leaving the door ajar as instructed. From the other room came sounds of spasmodic sobbing. Mr. Tuttle, strangely enough, merely chuckled to himself.

Meantime, the husky truck driver had reached the building. The masterfulness which had marked his stride, vanished as he entered; it was his usual easy going, deferential self that was directed to Mr. Tuttle’s office. No sooner did he approach the railing than Tommy leaped to head him off.

“Mr. Warren Stowe?”

“Yes. I’ve a letter—”

“Mr. Tuttle was expecting you. This way, sir!”

Stowe had a glimpse of a bowed head, a handkerchief being wielded, and that was all he saw of H. M. T.—F. K. He found himself at the side door, which Tommy swung wide for him. “Go right in, sir!”

And Tommy, half dollar sizzling in his pocket, hurried away.

Chapter Two

Forcing a Fortune on Him

“Be seated, Mr. Stowe.”

The young giant took the only other chair in the tiny office. For all his unassertive manner, he was obviously at his ease; he crossed his legs, perched his cap atop his knee, and waited for the older man to speak, a procedure which brought approval into the eyes of Henry M. Tuttle.

“You are able to prove, I presume, that you are the person to whom this letter was addressed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How?”

“Why, by answering questions, I expected.”

“Could you establish your identity in any other way?”

“Yes, sir; but it would involve bringing a lot of people around to see you, to tell what they know. But if it’s necessary—”

“No doubt the questions will suffice.”

He proceeded to locate a large envelope, containing a number of papers, to one of which he referred as he queried:

“How old are you, young man?”

“Twenty-five.”

“When is your birthday?”

“October 1.”

“And—where were you born?”

“Right here in Frisco—on Devisadero Street.”

“But you do not live there now?”

“No, sir.” He gave an address in the Richmond district. “I just room there—it’s a private residence, old friends.”

“What other members are there in your family?”

“None, now. My mother died when I was just a kid; and my father—”

He stopped, and his eyes became very stern and hard. The Australian noted and gave vent to a soundless sigh. “Ah! About your father, Mr. Stowe—I suppose you would recognize a photograph of him?”

“I have one in my room, sir, with the face turned toward the wall.”

Seeming not to notice the fierceness of this remark, Mr. Tuttle took five photographs from a drawer and spread them out on the desk before his big framed caller.

Unhesitatingly the young man picked out the picture of a handsome, debonair chap with a small black mustache, a picture manifestly made a generation before. Mr. Tuttle was satisfied.

“It is evident enough, Mr. Stowe, that it does not give you much pleasure to discuss your father. However, if I am to be quite sure that there is no mistake, I must ask you to tell me why you feel that way about him.”

For just a moment the six-footer considered. Then, with averted eyes, he deliberately stated: “My father ran away from us when I was a year old. There was another woman involved—also, he was in bad with the law, on account of embezzling several thousand dollars from his firm. My mother made certain about the other woman before getting the divorce—about two years later. And when I was between four and five, my mother—my mother died from pneumonia contracted in the packing house where she was earning our living!”

If his manner had been fierce before, it now was savage. Yet the outburst lasted but a few seconds. Presently his face was serene again. Mr. Tuttle resumed:

“I think you have settled the thing beyond any reasonable doubt. Now, let’s see; how about other relatives? Aunts? Uncles?”

“None that I ever heard of, sir. I was raised in a Home of Benevolence, down country, after mother died.”

The Australian glanced again at his papers perfunctorily and then spoke in an exceedingly gentle tone. But there was a curious gleam in his eye which did not seem to belong. “You need not—er—hate your father any longer, my boy.”

The big fellow stiffened. “Dead?”

“Yes.”

There was a little silence. The Australian ventured a glance at the other’s face. It was softer now. Said Mr. Tuttle:

“However, you are mistaken if you think that you are so entirely alone in the world. I am happy to inform you that your father had issue by—by that other woman. You have a sister, my boy—a half-sister.”

The six-footer jumped with surprise. “A sister? Sure?”

“Quite.”

“Where is she? How’d it happen I never heard of her before, I’d like to know! What’s her address?”

The Australian, smiling, held up a restraining hand. “Not so fast, young fellow! I am glad to see you so elated at the news, but there are other things to be taken into consideration. For instance, your father’s estate. Have you any idea what it amounted to?”

“Oh, I know he was well off. Wrote me a lot of letters.”

“Which you never answered. I know, young man. And I can’t blame you, really. But George Stowe was an old friend of mine and he told me everything; he honestly regretted what he did and earnestly desired to make amends. He—er—died wishing that you had answered those letters.” A pause for effect; then: “You see, he not only repaid all the money he had embezzled, with interest, but he accumulated by strictly honest means the very considerable fortune which is now to be yours and your sister’s.”

“I want to know about her! What can you tell me, sir?”

“Not very much.” Young Stowe did not catch the flicker of the other’s eye towards the partly opened door. “It appears that this other woman did not get along very well with your father. She left him, taking the infant daughter, and came back here to San Francisco. I have just succeeded in locating the girl. She is a stenographer.”

He paused. Was there a sound from the other room? “Her mother is dead too, my boy, and the young woman is supporting herself. Presumably she also has turned down your father’s attempts to make amends. I am afraid that is all I know.”

“She is younger than I am?”

“About twenty. I am sorry to be so indefinite, but the detective agency has just now given me its report. I have not even seen the girl. Her name is Florence.”

This time there was a sound from past the door. It seemed as though someone had gasped. The younger man craned his neck inquiringly, but Mr. Tuttle appeared not to have noticed. He went on:

“You may count it odd, Mr. Stowe, that the Australian authorities did not communicate with you direct. However, your father and I were, as I have said, very old friends; he simply deeded everything to me, prior to his death; he had an antipathy to inheritance taxes. Perhaps you would like to see the deeds?”

“I’m satisfied to have you state the proposition, Mr. Tuttle.”

“I appreciate that, I’m sure. To begin with, there is quite a sum involved. It is all in cash, or practically so; your father converted all his holdings into United States government paper. I have it now on deposit here, in the Anglo-American Bank. It amounts to a little over half a million.”

“Five hundred thousand?”

“Dollars, not pounds. Something like twenty-five thousand in excess of that figure to be precise. All taxes have been paid; as for my compensation, that was provided for long ago by private understanding. The money is clear of all claims and it goes to you as soon as you have complied with certain conditions.”

The young man shook his head. “I don’t care for George Stowe’s money.”

Henry Tuttle looked as though he were not in the least surprised at the answer.

He observed tranquilly: “It is no longer your father’s money, my lad. It is yours—and your sister’s.”

“She can have it all!”—cheerfully.

“You really would like for her to have it?”

“Sure. Been earning her living, you say? Sure!”

“That is generous of you. However, as you must have gathered, your father left the disposition of this money entirely in my hands. It rests with me, whether she may have it all. And I must now inform you that I cannot allow such a thing. Frankly, my boy”—the gentleness coming into his tones again—“I rather hoped you would drop your rancor, now that your father is in his grave!”

Warren Stowe looked as though he had been accused of something shameful. He spoke apologetically:

“Well—of course—if you put it that way—What are these conditions you speak of?”

“First, you are to assume a sort of guardianship over your sister. There is no red tape involved; you merely assume responsibility for her welfare. A peculiar arrangement, you think?” He paused, then spoke with peculiar distinctness:

“A letter is now on its way to the young woman. I have directed her to call upon you, not me; she is to bring proofs of her identity, and you are to use any means you may see fit to employ to satisfy yourself as to the genuineness of her claims. This part of the matter rests entirely in your hands. If she acts promptly upon receipt of the letter you should hear from her within the next few hours.

“The rest of the conditions are, as I have said, largely a matter of my own personal judgment. I shall begin, if you please, by asking you a few questions.”

“Go ahead, sir!”

“You have been making your own living for how long?”

“Ever since I was sixteen. Nine years.”

“Have you had any difficulty to speak of?”

“In making my living? No!” And the young giant laughed as though the question were absurd.

“I thought as much. In fact, I knew it; I ought to tell you that your father kept himself well informed as to your welfare; if you wouldn’t write to him yourself, his detectives did.”

Mr. Tuttle glanced at his memoranda again. “You finished grammar school, took a course in an auto trade school at night, while working as an office boy; entered the army and was kept on this side during the war, because you had developed a knack for tuning up the eight-cylinder engines; then, back to San Francisco, where you were employed as a salesman in an auto supply house, afterward in the same capacity by some three or four dealers in pleasure cars; from time to time, making short excursions into various enterprises, but always returning to the automobile business; finally, when the Supple-Six agency went to pieces, you took up your present employment as a seven-dollar-a-day truck driver for the Coast Carbonic Acid Gas Company.”

“Well. I must say—I didn’t know that detectives were so efficient!”

“You see, your father paid well to be kept informed. I think you will have to admit that he was deeply interested in your welfare. For instance, he wanted to know what sort of habits you had developed: the agency reported that you had no personal habits that could be called vicious. He was informed that you were none too careful in the choice of your associates, but on the other hand, you appeared to be little influenced by those who might be called dubious. It pleased him to know that you were doing considerable general reading and were picking up a very good all around education. In fact, my boy, there is only one thing that did not please him—just a single item in the entire series of reports.”

The big fellow stirred uneasily in his chair. “I think I can guess what that was, sir.”

“I will save you the trouble of baring your weakness. Your father would be extremely pleased, I think, to know that you are honest with yourself about it. Yes, that is the real point of this whole interview, my boy; the fact that, during these years, you have earned a goodly amount of money and yet have not been able to hold onto a dollar of it!”

Humorously the six-footer reached into his pocket and produced a handful of coins. Not until he saw the washerlike brass of the slot machine slugs did he remember them; then he flushed.

“I guess—sir—this is corroboration and explanation all rolled into one.”

“But you never worry about money, do you? Small wonder, my boy; you know that you are competent and that you can always earn a comfortable living. You remind me of that old wheeze about the chap who said that if he were to be born again, he would like to be half Irish and half Jew; because, as he explained, an Irishman is always happy as long as he has a dollar and the Jew always has the dollar. Yes, it is a good one. Unfortunately you are American born, of American parents.”

“And so you think—”

“That a time will come when a dollar won’t make you happy. You have come from ancestors of ambition, my boy. Your father was a true financier; your mother of noble and determined mind. With such a heritage, it is a burning pity that you have made so little of yourself.”

Certainly the young man’s cheeks were burning as the plain spoken Britisher went on: “All of which is to prepare you for my conditions.

“They amount simply to this: You are to prove to my satisfaction, young man, that you are able to hold on to money!”

Young Stowe nodded stiffly.

“You wouldn’t trust that money to me, until I show myself able to—to resist temptation?”

“For your own good as well as the money’s. Cash, my boy, is simply the result of other people’s labor; nobody has a right to squander it. Now, of course I appreciate that you have spent the money which you yourself named, in ways which were not in themselves harmful to you. This slot machine habit is merely the more crude method by which you have parted with it. Some of your speculations were almost safe enough to be classed as investments; that airplane company stock, for instance. And as for what little card playing you have done, and betting on the ring, and the like, there is no denying that these activities were a great deal better for you than excessive drinking, or running after women. So I am willing to risk quite a bit on you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“To be specific, I mean to salt away your five hundred thousand in bonds, temporarily. The twenty-five thousand surplus I propose to turn over to you immediately for you to use as I shall direct. Here is a check for it.” From among the papers in the envelope, he selected a slip. “It is yours as soon as you decide to qualify for the estate.”

The big fellow fingered the check. It authorized a great back to pay him twenty-five thousand eight hundred and thirty five dollars and fifty cents on demand. He turned it over curiously. The other watched him with a slight smile.

“Young men, you do not value money! That much is plain as day. And it is also plain that it would never do to turn over half a million to you as long as you hold that attitude toward money. That is why I have gone to such pains to work out this plan. If I am not hugely mistaken, my lad, it will make you value money! As much as you value life itself!”

The six-footer caught something of the other’s intensity. He leaped forward eagerly.

“Make me value money? How?”

Mr. Tuttle selected another slip from the sheaf of papers and laid it on the young man’s knee. It was a check for an even hundred thousand dollars.

“That’s what will turn the trick, my boy. Now, listen.”

Chapter Three

Fifty Dollars a Mile

“Assuming that you will take hold,” explained the Australian representative, “I shall require that you immediately cash both of these checks. There is sufficient currency right here in these offices to do this. I arranged for it beforehand. With the twenty-five thousand you are to equip yourself with all dispatch and to start at once on your travels.”

“Travels?” Stowe’s interest jumped at this. “Where am I to go, sir?”

“Anywhere you wish, so long as you remain within the State of California. You are to go by automobile; your first concern upon leaving me should be to equip yourself with as fine an automobile as you can find ready at hand!”

“I know the car!”

“That Indian red Gale around on the Row, eh? You see that I have been keeping close tab on you. Yes, that would be just right for the purpose. You will find it an ideal season of the year, too, for the California highways. That much of the proposition certainly should be to your liking.”

“Well, what’s the rest of the terms?”

“Next, you should dress the part. The car is the car of a millionaire; you must behave like one. You must provide yourself with the most elegant of personal outfits, and wherever you go you must spend money freely—not lavishly, you understand, but with the freedom of the luxury loving man of means, who yet does not squander for the mere love of recklessness. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir! What else?”

“I shall require you to start out with your speedometer registering zero and come back with it pointing to ten thousand miles, not less. During all that distance you are to comport yourself in the manner of your new station in life—with an income of many thousands a year from your bonds. Under no circumstances are you to exercise frugality, much less stinginess.”

“That sounds mighty easy!”

“You forget that I stipulate you must also cash that hundred thousand-dollar check. You must get currency—one hundred yellow backs. You must carry that amount with you at all times during your ten thousand miles of traveling on the highways of your State; and you must return that sum to me, intact, at the end of the trip!”

Stowe chuckled excitedly. “Some test, Mr. Tuttle! If I win—it amounts to exactly fifty dollars a mile, doesn’t it? And to get that I’ve got to carry those hundred yellow boys around with me—keep from spending ’em, and return ’em just as they come to me?”

“It need not be exactly the same currency you start out with. I insist simply that you repay this loan I am making you. If you fail to do this—if you cannot hold on to that sum—I shall take it for granted that you could not take care of the larger sum. I shall simply deduct what I have loaned you and dispose of the balance as I see fit.”

“Say—I can do it and not half try, Mr. Tuttle.”

“There are additional conditions, however. For instance, you must agree not to apply to any one for protection—not even the regular officers of the law. You must undertake to protect yourself alone!”

“Why”—puzzled—“I don’t see! What’s the reason why I should be in danger of getting robbed?”

“Because”—leaning forward impressively—“you are to act the part of a wealthy man; and, further, because I happen to know enough about the underworld of this State to be positive, young fellow, that every crook in it will be interested in you!”

“Whew! Some adventure you’re cooking up for me!”

“I shall spare you only one thing—publicity. You will not have to contend with any more newspaper notoriety than you yourself may arrange for. Whatever attention you receive at the hands of those who may fancy your valuables, you will bring upon yourself.

“You may wonder why I am deliberately running you into such personal danger. The reason is simple. At the present moment, young man, you haven’t an enemy in the world.

“In fact, that’s one thing that’s the matter with you. I imagine it could be traced to that big body and excellent health of yours; you have never resented mistreatment, because you were so strong. What I plan, my lad, will provide you with an exceedingly nasty bunch of enemies—just exactly what you need!”

“I get you. All right; it’s a go!”

“You must not even carry insurance upon your valuables!”

“Naturally.” But for all the light tone, one could see that he was jolted somewhat.

“You don’t resent my terms?”

“Why, if it were not for the terms, sir, I’d refuse outright. I never had any intention of accepting anything from my father. But this way, I’ll earn what I get; and I guess I’m entitled to what I earn. I wouldn’t let you give it to me, but I’ll take it in pay.”

“You seem to have little doubt of yourself.”

“Well”—relaxing a bit from the semi-heroic attitude he had unconsciously assumed, “l know my weakness. It isn’t going to be easy to resist the temptation to speculate with all that cash on hand! And I can’t run away from it, can I? All that mileage in this one State! And no insurance allowed, either. Oh, well, I’ll try anything once.”

Said Mr. Tuttle:

“It is all designed, young man, to make you trust your luck less and your will more.” With which he drew two typewritten papers from the packet. One was a copy of the other; and it set forth a legally worded agreement whereby one Henry M. Tuttle undertook to deliver to “the party of the second part,” one Warren W. Stowe, five hundred thousand dollars in certain specified bonds, on condition that the other perform certain unspecified but understood “services” to the satisfaction of the “party of the first part.” Mr. Tuttle signed these and turned them over to Stowe for his signature.

“Mainly for your protection in case anything should happen to me. I have given complete instructions to my regular counsel, who will know how to question you in such an event. I may add that you will be under surveillance to a casual extent, but the detectives will be directed never to interfere, no matter what happens—regardless of the peril to you. Their reports will serve to check up yours; this, however, solely to satisfy those lawyers, for I shall be content to take your simple word for it. I think I know you well enough for that.”

He gave one copy to Stowe, who put it away in a painfully flat wallet. Then the older man got his endorsement on the two checks; after which he was gone for a minute or so, returning with two compact packages.

“The twenty-five thousand and odd, you understand, is to be spent as you will. You are at liberty to spend the hundred thousand, too, if you wish. There is nothing to stop you—except that there are five dollars in the bank for every one I have loaned you.

“I think that is all. You may start as suits your convenience; but of course, the quicker you run up that ten thousand miles, the sooner you come into your legacy.”

“I’ll be on my way inside of twenty-four hours!”

“Then—how careless of me! I nearly forgot this.”

As he spoke, the Australian opened a wall safe which stood by his desk, took out a flat metal box, unlocked it, and removed a black velvet bag. Untying the silken cords, he turned the bag upside down and shook out a quantity of glittering jewelry, as though it were so much hardware.

“These were your father’s. He was fond of display—a rather vain man, because of his good looks. Now, this diamond stud is worth about five hundred pounds; the ring if anything, a bit more. He would wear nothing but the finest. I am afraid you will count the watch hopelessly out of date; however, it costs a handsome sum in Switzerland, and has an alarm, a split second, and keeps chronometer time. The chain is made of Australian nuggets; you notice the tint. As for the pendant, it must have cost him more than all the rest put together.” It consisted of a single, plainly mounted diamond of the first water.

“These are for me?”

“Part of my conditions, young man. You are to wear them at all times on your little trip, in plain view of every thug in the State. Have you a gun?”

The question coming so suddenly on the heels of the instructions, made the six-footer jump despite himself. Then he laughed and returned the finery to the bag, which he pocketed. “I’ll put them on as soon as I have the clothes to set them off.”

“Quite so. And, now, if you don’t mind the hint—I sail at eight tonight for Sydney.”

“Certainly, sir!”—rising—“I hardly know what to say, except a measly little thank you.”

“Even that is not really necessary. Your gratitude will be more appropriate if, and only if, you show yourself able to take care of that money. Not to mention taking care of your sister. I think I said you could expect to be hearing from her any hour now. Let me see—did you say that you had a gun or not?”

“I’ll attend to that at once, sir, if you really think it advisable.”

“Advisable; and perfectly legal in this State for a traveler to go armed. Get a good arm while you are about it, too. I believe that really is all. Here’s my hand, and I wish you all luck in the world, young man!”

“I thought you wanted me to depend less upon my luck, sir, and more upon myself?”

“Nevertheless, you are going to need all the luck in the world, my boy, unless I am greatly mistaken. Good-by!”

“Good-by! I’ll see you again, ten thousand miles from now!”

Stowe was passing through the railed enclosure, as he made the final “Adios.” He did not see, or notice if he did see, the girl with the averted face at the typewriter. Mr. Tuttle waited until the six·footer was out in the corridor, before he turned to his secretary. He spoke with studied coldness.

“Are those letters ready for my signature, Miss Kelly? Very good. There. Kindly post them as you go. Be sure to get that one to Miss Jones into the main office at once, so that it may reach her this afternoon. Here is a check to cover your services. You will leave your keys with the janitor. Good-by.”

He turned and paced toward the corridor. The girl sat with flaming cheeks and downcast eyes. Her hands trembled with anger, but she said not a word, aloud. To herself she whispered:

“Just wait! You just wait! I’ll show you!”

When she had controlled herself, she quietly rose and slipped into a natty jacket, put on a hat which looked like twenty dollars somewhere on Geary Street, but which cost a dollar and a quarter, plus some skillful finger work, picked up the letters, and marched for the door. She deliberately slammed it so that anyone who heard might assume that Florence Kelly was good and mad; which was just what she wanted people to think—that and no more. When she gave the keys to the janitor, before getting into the elevator, she took pains to seem as angry as though she did not have, right in her hands, the means to appease that anger.

She hurried straight to the main post office. For all she knew or cared, those detectives she had heard Mr. Tuttle talking about might be watching her, too. But they could not know that the address on the letter for “Florence Jones,” was her own.

As quickly as the street-cars could carry her, she proceeded to the drab boarding house which had been her home ever since she had come, an orphan, from the little town up country to make her way in this “City of Miracles.” At that hour her landlady chanced to be out shopping, which saved explanations. Florence let herself into the house and without proffering a word to the Swedish girl who saw her come in, retrieved her hat and took a seat in the front room downstairs. She was none too soon. Within a minute or so a motorcycle stopped at the curb, and a gray-capped young fellow ran up the steps.

“Is Florence Jones here?”

“Yes. I’m expecting a letter!”

“Here y’ are.”

If the carrier noticed her nervousness, he probably attributed it to the usual excitement over getting a special delivery letter. Just to make sure, however, Florence ran down the steps after he had left and looked both ways to see if any detectives were in sight.

The thing was done. For all she knew, she had broken a Federal law; but they couldn’t possibly punish her worse for this than she had already been punished for something she hadn’t done.

In the safety of her room, she sank breathlessly on to the bed and wondered. She did not realize that she was whispering to herself.

“Gee, what would papa and mamma think, if they knew! I guess they do know, at that. But—aw, what do you expect of me?”—as though someone unseen had accused her of something. “Think I’m going to limp all over this darned city, without a reference, looking for a job? What’d I get—huh? Anything a decent girl would have?”

She paused, struck suddenly with another doubt.

“Poor kid; I wonder what she’s like? But then, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She got out the letter and took comfort in the way it was worded:

“Your father, whom you knew only by name—true name was Stowe, not Jones. It will come as a surprise to you to learn that you have this half-brother living.”

Florence Kelly-Jones sighed with relief.

“There’s no way for her to find out; this letter was the only link! And Mr. Tuttle’s going to Australia. Anyway, didn’t he tell him that she had turned down all of the old man Stowe’s offers, before? Wait till the trip’s over and I get something to work with; I’ll slip her a handout now and then anonymously. Do her more good, probably—”

A new idea mode her stare hard at herself in the mirror. The alarm gave way to as sudden a sigh of relief.

“Why, sure it’s safe! So long as he thinks I’m his sister—Anyway, Mr. Tuttle said plainly he isn’t that kind.”

She was seized with a great fit of giggling.

“Here’s where Florence Jones loses a brother she never knew she had! And little Flo Kelly acquires one! Also a long rest, here in Frisco, while the aforesaid brother goes on his little trip. And some of the real long green, when he gets back. Tainted? Why, I can help him invest his half million, can’t I? Guess I’m entitled to some pay for that.”

She gasped, as one more thought popped into her mind. What in the world kind of dress was she to wear when she presented herself to him? Horrors!

Chapter Four

Sitting on the Red Demon

Stowe was no different from the rest of us, in that the possession of that hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of paper aroused a feeling of intense importance. Had he not been in a hurry to get everything done, he probably would have strutted a little. As it was, he held his head even higher than customary, and he leveled his glance at passers-by in a thoughtful, far-seeing, entirely unnatural manner, such as would have made Mr. Tuttle smile.

The first thing was to get a pistol. He did remember about the truck load of undelivered gas, however; and half way to city hall, he dropped into a telephone booth and advised his superior that he would no longer be in the employ of that concern. He expected a storm of protest, but the manager, being an astute person, had put two and two together and was really prepared for some such eventuality. Still he had to say something.

“Quit us flat, with all those customers howling for deliveries! It isn’t like you at all. You must have fallen into something soft.”

“Sure did Mr. Oliver.” The usual deferential note was almost entirely absent from the low, agreeable voice. “Can’t tell you now, though. Of course, I expect to forfeit what’s coming to me this month—about eighty-five, I figured it. Will that make it right with you for having to break in a new driver?”

“I suppose it’ll have to.” As a matter of fact, the manager had already phoned to the employment bureau of an auto trades school and had entered a request for immediate assistance, contingent upon just this. Then, in a burst of frankness: “It’ll be a long day, though, before we get a man as dependable as you’ve been—up till now.”

“Dependable! You talk as though I were some old-style truck.” Stowe’s voice laughed; yet it was thoughtfully that he said “Good-by” and strode away toward the city hall. Mr. Tuttle’s merciless analysis of his weakness had got under his skin. So people considered him “dependable,” did they? He had always been an employee; he had never been his own boss, until this very hour. He began to wonder just how profitable his services had been to his various employers, anyhow: just how much of an easy mark he had shown himself in those years. He who, with not a spare dollar in his pockets, had never questioned his wages or his working conditions—the same man, with a fortune tucked inside his shirt, was feeling resentful of the past!

In a moment he saw the humor of it and was chuckling at himself; and a moment later, realizing that this very attitude of his—his willingness to smile whenever the joke was on him—was precisely the thing that had kept him from getting anywhere, his face straightened into very thoughtful lines. At the clerk’s office in the city hall he was able to get what he wanted—a permit to buy a revolver—with almost no delay. A deputy who knew him vouched for him. But he did not make the purchase itself until considerably later; there was no sense in carrying the weapon around at this stage in the game. However, he took the precaution to separate the packet of bills which comprised the twenty-five thousand into several small rolls, so that he could pay for what he wanted without displaying too much. Then he hunted up a tailor.

“Utterly impossible,” he was told promptly, when he opened his negotiations with the demand for completed work within twenty-four hours. Who was this person in a truck driver’s garb to ask such a thing of a firm that paid thirty dollars rent for each hour it remained on Market Street?

“I’m willing to pay liberally for night work,” said Stowe. He was not at all self-assured in the face of this very superior clerk. “Expense is no—”

“Ah, no doubt. I’m afraid you scarcely realize what you ask, however. Our firm does not put its label on anything that is hurriedly done. A suit from Markley’s is a suit from nowhere else. Er—I wonder if you are acquainted with our range of prices, sir?”

“Nothing less than a hundred, I believe?”

“Quite so, my dear sir.”

“Well, I’m willing to pay exactly double. And I shall want three or four suits.”

He said it in such a mild way, small wonder the clerk thought him a sublime kidder, or else slightly cuckoo—the clerk’s language, understand. Stowe noted the indecision and saw the reason. He, too, had sold things to people who looked insolvent. There was just one thing to do. He pulled out one of his rolls.

“Suppose I make a five hundred dollar deposit. You just have some of your tailors drop what they’re doing until they’re through with me.” Not until after the words were out of his lips did he realize the coolness with which he said them, as though he spent five hundred dollars every minute or so. The clerk stood half stunned as he went on: “You’ll find me a profitable customer in the future, if you give me the special attention I want right now.”

“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Of course, we can make exceptions now and then. Just be seated!” And checking a desire to run, the clerk hurried to break the news to the manager, who in turn was galvanized into sudden action, which was speedily transmitted to some three or four gentlemen of the needles and shears.

Stowe found himself surrounded by tape measures and samples. With rare good sense, he did not try to think at all; he simply put his fate in their hands. He said: “I’m starting at one tomorrow afternoon for a little trip. Going to be away several weeks—in an auto most of the time, but there’s no telling where I’ll be or what I’ll want to wear. Got to be ready for any occasion, see? Now, fix me up! All I insist upon is that you don’t give me anything green—I hate green suits; also, that you make darned sure the cloth will last me a while. I’m hard on clothes.”

“Yes, sir; precisely!” the manager kow-towed. “Palm Beach suit; full evening dress; Tuxedo; sport suits—two; business; a top coat,” he rattled off, to someone with a pencil. “If time is so pressing Mr.—er—Mr. Stowe, you probably would like us to attend to the haberdashery, as well.”

“All right. Shirts—oh, you know what. I’ll leave everything to you—even the ties! However, guess I’d better buy the shoes and hats myself. Tell me what I ought to have.”

He was provided with a formidable list. By now it was nearly three thirty. It suddenly occurred to him, with a terrible pain in the region of his diaphragm, that perhaps the automobile which he had counted on might have been sold! He dashed for the phone, got the agency, breathlessly demanded:

“That Gale still unsold?”

“Yes, sir. Who is it, please?”

“Its new owner! Don’t sell it until I get there—take me about five minutes!”

He ran outside, hailed a taxi, and speeded for the Row. But he might have known that the car which he had admired for so many days would not likely be snapped up on such short notice. There had been many would-be purchasers, and a demonstration or two, but no semblance of an order. When he rushed into the place, he was greeted rather conservatively. As before, he had to show some money before he was taken seriously.

“Spot cash! What’s your lowest figure?”

“Well,” slowly, eying the roll in Stowe’s hand, “we’ve been asking eight thousand. It’s a handmade product, you know—factory’s across the bay; and with all that equipment—”

“Spot cash, I said. No contract!”

“Seventy-eight hundred, and not a cent—”

“Sold.” He knew that the salesman would have dropped another couple of hundred to make the sale, had he held out for it: when he himself sold Supple Sixes he’d done the same. But Mr. Tuttle would disapprove of any dickering.

“If there is anything further you would like, sir, in the way of alterations—within reason—”

“All she needs I think is to have the pedals adjusted to these legs of mine.” Stowe was at the wheel now, fondling the serrated rosewood. “Just fill her up with the three essentials, if she hasn’t got ’em already, and make me a present of one of those service coupon books, and I’ll put out of here.”

But before all formalities were concluded and everything arranged to Stowe’s liking—such as the license application, and the stowing away of extra supplies, sundries, and spare parts, enough to equip a young machine shop, in the spacious boot beneath the rear deck—the young fellow saw he would have to make the remainder of his purchases the following morning; it was almost six. Astonishing how time can fly under such circumstances.

“One thing more,” said he, standing back and scowling at the car to hide his pride. “A San Francisco plate under the license.”

It was put on. He spent more than the eight thousand, after all.

The moment he touched the starter he realized that, for all his experience with cars of so many makes, here at last was something superlative. The engine took hold in a flash, its exhaust thrumming softly with a faint musical drone that somehow reminded Stowe of a great pipe organ he had once heard; powerful, subdued, potential with accomplishment. Gently, almost holding his breath, he let in the clutch.

Low gear? Not the slightest use for one! He could have chortled at the top of his voice, as the long red beauty glided into the street. Carefully he experimented with the throttle, finding that he could run the car at the pace of a toddling child, and in ten seconds be moving at the speed of a race horse. It seemed as though its makers had somehow got hold of the raw material into the metals, so responsive was that mechanism to every demand.

Stowe deliberately tried to stall the engine, and found that it simply could not be done. And as for the brakes, those four great bands worked as though they held a quantity of gravity itself which could be poured out upon the earth by a touch on the pedal, for there was never a hint of sliding. Best of all, some would say, the car did not possess the usual auto horn, with its cheap raucous snarl; there was a deep-toned chime, blown by air from a special compressor, whose music hummed beneath every other sound and gently warned, yet did not scare into fits.

It occurred to him that the possession of this expensive toy amounted to the same thing as wearing his father’s jewelry. He drew up in front of a pawn-shop on Kearney Street and invested in a fine six-shooter; a new one, it was, with a long, blued-steel barrel and a rosewood grip. The caliber was thirty-eight; it shot what is called the “Special” ammunition, powerful and accurate, yet not so heavy that the gun need be burdensome. At the pawnbroker’s suggestion, Stowe, after loading the weapon, thrust its muzzle into the fob pocket of his trousers, purposely tearing the lining so that the gun could go on through as far as the pocket would permit. The belt held it upright. “It won’t be in your way, and nobody will notice it there like they would if it was in your hip pocket.” He could not guess that his customer knew firearms almost as well as he knew cars. “But you better pull out the gun and put it on the seat—if you expect trouble.”

As he got under way again a wave of recklessness surged into his mind, urging him to show San Francisco what a little speed was like; to breeze into the town’s biggest café and startle folks with prodigal spending; to behave, in general, as rich young fools are supposed to behave. But he shook himself free of the temptation, reminding himself that Mr. Tuttle would probably be told of such actions and that they would weigh against him. Besides, he began to feel a certain responsibility for the portentous packet beneath his shirt. In a very sedate fashion, he drove the Gale up to the curb in front of his favorite restaurant where sixty cents had completely satisfied his appetite for hundreds of meals. Time enough for meals that mounted into dollars when he was dressed the part. All that he ate, in addition to his usual order, was an extra dish of ice cream.

For an hour or more he played with his new car, testing it out on each of San Francisco’s most formidable hills, driving it at twenty miles an hour over cobblestones, loitering through traffic at an almost imperceptible pace, finding fresh cause for delight each time that the engine sprang to meet the summons of the accelerator. Not until then did it pop into his mind, with a suddenness which made him jump, what Mr. Tuttle had said about his sister:

“She ought to be getting in touch with you inside of a few hours.”

Almost in a panic, the young man made the best time the law would allow out to the house in the Richmond district where he roomed. It was eight by the time he got there. He pulled up at the curb, ran up the steps, and was about to run through the hall to the kitchen, there to accost his landlady, when that dignified personage hailed him through the portiéred door of the front room.

“Mr. Stowe! Somebody here to see you. She’s been waiting half an hour.”

Chapter Five

“Why Not, Sis?”

Florence had gained her good opinion of Stowe solely from hearing him speak and from admiring his bigness. Now, she instantly decided that no matter how far from perfection his features might be, the general effect was distinctly agreeable. And his eyes were kind. She had made no mistake.

Stowe saw as pretty a girl as he could remember. Like most easy-going men, he preferred the beauty of vivid coloring and independent manner, of alert eyes and determined chin; the soft, clinging type did not appeal to him. Florence wore a smartly cut coat over a narrow skirt, lending vigor to her poise.

“Brother!” she cried hesitantly, and stepped forward, half extending both her hands. What would he do?

It caught him unawares. He had had no idea of what to expect; had formulated no greeting. His hands were slow to rise from his sides; she dropped hers, frustrated, and stood there uncertainly.

“Gee,” he stammered. “I—why, I hardly—this is not—” He saw that he was acting like a dunce and shook himself together. “You don’t want to think I’m not glad!” he cried. “I’m tickled stiff!”

“It is quite a surprise,” said she awkwardly.

“Man, but it suits me! I can hardly believe my eyes! You—my sister?” He laughed and grabbed one of her hands. “Florence—the name fits, too. Come over here and sit down. Gosh—I’m raving. Never mind. A lot of things have happened to me today—strangest imaginable. But—you talk first, sister!”

She laughed at the jumble, but came and sat beside him on the old divan which was Stowe’s landlady’s especial pride. It was almost a repetition of the one in her own rooming house. Well, thank heaven; he was no better than she was, anyhow.

“There’s not much to tell—Warren,” she said. “I never knew about you until just a little while ago, when I got the letter—”

“Same here; Mr. Tuttle told me this afternoon for the first time.”

“You were expecting me to get in touch with you? Then why—”

“Oh, say; I’m sorry to seem so inconsiderate and thoughtless, but I really had a lot to attend to. You’ll understand when—But tell me about you!”

She proceeded with what she knew to be a hopelessly conventional tale of her experiences as Florence Jones since coming from Australia with her mother, now dead; trembling voice—and the life she had led while earning her own living. Except that she mentioned a certain store instead of Mr. Tuttle, she did not draw a great deal upon her imagination; it wasn’t necessary. In fact, she finished by saying:

“And what do you think, Warren; this morning—this very morning—I was told that the store was going to dispense with my services! Gee, but I was down in the mouth—before this letter came!”

She was rather eager to display that letter; it had such a convincing look. But Stowe only glanced at the envelope and tossed it aside. It dawned upon Florence that there was to be no ordeal of questioning; that the simple fact of her being there, together with the appeal of her personality, had been all that was necessary. If it occurred to Stowe to put any questions, he chose to leave them all unspoken. What was the use? This was exactly the sort of a sister he wanted. He wouldn’t have risked a single question for fear he might lose her.

He told her what she already knew; the details of his father’s fortune, the entrusting of the whole matter to Mr. Tuttle, and the Britisher’s stringent but highly rational requirements. It was no effort for Florence to simulate interest; she exclaimed appropriately over the size of the estate, its division into two portions—the twenty-five thousand to be spent, the rest to be held on condition that the loan be returned at the end of the trip. She declared that it was a shame for him—Warren—to be hedged about so. But Stowe assured her he was convinced that Mr. Tuttle was right about it; some such test as this was entirely right and proper.

“But I told Mr. Tuttle I’d be under way inside of twenty-four hours. Sooner I reel off the ten thousand miles, the quicker I qualify. Also, I’ve a notion I’d better get out of my own home town as quickly as possible, because news of this sort is likely to leak out, if I stay. Mr. Tuttle promised me there’d be no regular publicity; but he warned me to expect all sorts of attempts to get my money—legitimate or otherwise. No use to run into temptation prematurely, is there?

“So that’s the reason why I’ve been so busy.” He told about his purchases. Florence had to turn her eyes away to hide what he might see, when he casually mentioned the prices and variety of the suits he had ordered. When he began to describe the Gale, however, he stopped short.

“It’s right out in front! Come on, Sister!”

It developed that she did not know how to drive; in fact, had had few auto rides within her San Francisco experience. She wanted to know about everything, from the first-aid outfit to the automatic windshield wiper. Stowe thought it best not to show how sprightly the car could behave when pressed, but contented himself with smooth, leisurely, easy driving on streets as wide and roomy as Van Ness Avenue, while they went on with their comparison of notes.

Florence found herself somewhat at a loss in one vital respect. Before making the call, she had rehearsed one little speech after another, the purpose of which was to lead up to the delicate subject of “Florence Jones’s” financial status under the new arrangement. Had Stowe proved to be an ordinary sort of man, she could have applied the right psychological twist without his knowing that the subject had been opened. But this brand-new, self-acquired brother of hers took her so overwhelmingly for granted, gave her every confidence so absolutely without reserve, she had no peg of misunderstanding upon which to hang a hint. It was by the sheerest accident that she hit upon a remark that did the trick.

“How long do you suppose this tour will take you?”

“I’ve no idea. If it were only a third that distance, I could rush it through in a single week, and then spend a month getting over it. But ten thousand—I might as well take it easy. Honest, I don’t know. It won’t be less than three weeks; and it might last three months. Depends upon how much excitement there is and what there is to see and whether the money holds out. Anyway—

“Say, that reminds me, Sis.” From then on he called her nothing else than Sis; as though they had been brought up together from childhood. It thrilled her to know that he liked her so well at first sight. Surely there couldn’t be anything so very bad about her—and about her masquerade—if his instinct had been so completely satisfied! “That reminds me. There’s no need for you to wait on my return from the trip. I mean, your—your—what’s the word I want?—your share of the estate.

“You get the idea that I’m a sort of trustee until you’re of age? Well, it’s plain as day to me that you know as much about taking care of money as I do, or more. However, it appears to be up to little Willie to do all the qualifying. You’ve got to hope and pray that I make good! If I do—but now, with your welfare to bear in mind, as well as my own—I see where it’ll take some crook to make me part with this little package.”

Right then and there, in a quiet street just off the avenue, he brought the car to a stop at the curb, dove into his shirt and produced the hundred thousand. Without the slightest hesitation he placed it in her hands for her to count and marvel at.

“However, I feel this way about it, Sis: this is just as much yours as mine, and Mr. Tuttle told me that there was nothing in the world to keep me from spending this as well the twenty-five; nothing but the five hundred thousand in the bank, that is. So, if you say the word, we’ll split right now.”

“What?” she faltered utterly overwhelmed. This was beyond her wildest dreams.

“Why, sure. He was just as much your dad as mine, wasn’t he? I’ve got no right to insist on risking this coin on the chance of winning the rest. It’s true that I’ve been darned careless of what I’ve earned, and you’d be only justified in preferring not to let me endanger the whole loaf when a fifth of it is right in our hands. Let’s see; half of a hundred is fifty, and with half of the twenty-five, makes sixty-two thousand five hundred that by rights is yours. Want it now?”

He had said it easily and naturally, because it was his nature to speak frankly any fact that struck him as being true—a characteristic, Mr. Tuttle would have said, which the proposed tour was expected to cure him of permanently. Nevertheless, Stowe secretly hoped that this delightful, ready-made relative of his would have enough faith in him to want him to make the attempt.

“I—this is so—so sudden,” stammered Florence, breaking into a laugh as the old bromide came out unawares. “Such an awful lot of money! Put it away, Warren. Somebody might see it.”

“Don’t you want to divvy now?”

She thought deliberately before replying. The thing she had aimed at was right before her; a word and the prize was hers. But to say that word meant that she was bringing her old standard of morals to an end. It was dishonesty; the very hugeness of the amount brought the fact home to her as nothing else could. She had told herself, all along, that since she was intending to help this man with his investments later on she would in that sense be earning whatever she got. But if she took this now, she would go her way and he would go his. And she would never be able to justify herself.

Anyway, did she want to do anything that would harm this big, kindly, clean looking young fellow who was actually a total stranger, but who had accepted her exactly as represented? True, if she took her share now—and nobody could say she didn’t have need of money—then she could hide herself away; there would be nothing left to face. But as for parting from this self-acquired brother—She was silent a long time, so long that Stowe misunderstood.

“Oh,” spoke he softly, “I didn’t dream that perhaps it wouldn’t look—fair to you. I took fifty-fifty for granted like. But whatever you say goes, Sis. Anyhow, a woman needs more than a man. I can always get along. Now, you just name whatever strikes you as being right—considering all the years you’ve had to work for a living.”

It was all she could do to keep from bursting into a shameful flood of tears.

“It—it isn’t that. You’re more than l-liberal, Warren. I was just wondering—just wondering—” She fairly gasped as a tremendous idea popped into her head. Stowe looked at her, startled, and then he got it.

“Why—oh, man—say, that’d be great! Why not, Sis? Why not?”

“You really mean the same thing I’m thinking? To go along with you on this trip?”

“And keep me from spending our pile! Sure! I might have known you’d be sport enough to see me through! Oh, man!”

What could she say to that?

Chapter Six

On the Road

There were countless things to be attended to. First of all, Stowe had to dispatch a radio-gram to Mr. Tuttle, aboard the Sydney-bound Marsupial. There was no telling—perhaps the Australian would refuse point-blank to permit a companion on this qualifying, probationary expedition. Had he not used the word “alone”? Ensued a delay of many hours, during which Mr. Tuttle serenely appreciated the advantages of having passed the three-mile limit. It would never do, of course, to acquiesce too promptly; Stowe must have no hint that this thing was coming about exactly as the old conspirator had planned. It was nearly midnight when the reply finally did reach the big fellow at his room. He immediately telephoned to Florence:

Have no objection to your sister accompanying you. However, must oblige you to take not less than three months for tour. My respects to Miss Florence. Good luck.

Tuttle

To this Stowe made grateful response, stating that he would not attempt to get away quite as soon as he had promised, on account of the additional preparation involved. Mr. Tuttle replied that he had expected as much, and for him, Stowe, not to waste any more money on such messages. Evidently the matter was quite closed so far as Mr. Tuttle was concerned, until the end of the five figure mileage.

Before retiring for the night, Stowe drove down to his tailor’s for a fitting. He carried his six-shooter on the seat beside him during the drive, just to get used to it. Much to his own surprise, he afterward got a fair amount of sleep; and early after breakfast he ran around to Florence’s address.

As he glanced up at the number of the house he recalled that it was the same he had read on the envelope of Florence’s letter; not that he was in the least concerned, but simply because his memory linked the two facts automatically. It served to bind in his subconscious mind the knot of conviction which the girl’s attractiveness had looped. And as for Florence—as she ran down the steps to jump into the Gale, her manner was as natural and unforced as though she wore no mask whatever. In her mind was no fear of discovery; why should she be apprehensive, with the letter her only required proof of identity and no publicity to arouse the attention of the “real” Florence? Nothing but a miracle of coincidence could upset her program now.

The ultrafashionable Stockton Street emporium to which Stowe immediately drove did not open until nine. At one minute after nine, the manager of the suit department was accelerated to high speed by a repetition of the means by which Stowe got results elsewhere. Of course, it was quite impossible what these two young folks wanted—impossible, but still, why not an exception now and then? It took the sight of a thousand dollar bill, however, in this place where dollars and cents did not figure; only tens and hundreds found a place in the vocabulary of these experts in feminine luxury.

But Florence chose with rare judgment. Now that she had committed herself to the sporting chance of seeing Stowe through his probation, she was determined to make no slips. What she wanted, she speedily compelled the insistent modesties to realize, was something at once becoming, stylish, obviously “class,” yet not extravagantly high-priced. In vain was she assured that the most stunning effects were very simple to the eye, yet came high because of the art involved.

Florence knew all that “line,” as she told Stowe. She had copied many a Parisian “creation” with her own hands, just by studying the show window displays. She knew just how much hokum was built into those models whose prices ran so nonchalantly into the neighborhood of a thousand dollars. With a carefully phrased expression or so, which showed the modest that the customer was too “wise” to be trifled with, Florence got the situation on a friendly footing, and from then on she met no resistance.

Still, after every dress was ordered—each to be altered to fit, and to be ready by five thirty that night—and after Florence had reveled in certain items of very personal adornment which not even her new brother was allowed to appraise; and after the momentous question of suitable hats had been disposed of, no less than three thousand dollars and three hours were gone, never to return.

“It’s worth it, though,” Stowe assured her as she gasped in dismay at the sight of the total. “We’ve got to put up a real front, or Mr. Tuttle’s detectives will report to him that we’re trying to dodge the attention of the sharks. Come on, we’ve got to get shoes.”

Like Stowe, Florence secured an assortment of footwear that would suit her assortment of clothes. Black satin pumps for the evening gown, white kid for the afternoon frock; brown and black oxfords; a pair of each, for the two street suits; some high-laced boots, a light green in color, to go with the knickerbockered outfits she was to wear in the car; not to mention bedroom slippers and moccasins, or a pair of patent leather pumps which she just couldn’t resist. Along with these, more silk hosiery than she had dreamed of owning in a lifetime.

Stowe’s footgear was only an item or two less. He allowed Florence to go with him when he selected his hats—which, as anybody knows, means that she selected them. There were four, including a prodigious thing which fitted into a sole leather case; something he had never worn before, but which he would just have to get used to, the same as that swallow-tailed coat. He wished that he was slimmer and more aristocratic looking. New rich was what he was, and new rich every initiate would know him to be—his sister, too—wherever they might go.

It was a belated but much appreciated lunch. “Not dinner, Warren, any more,” as Florence had reminded him—to which they seated themselves in a cafeteria just west of Third on Market. As yet they confined their expenditures to simple items—their total bill came to barely over two dollars. For Stowe, the best thing about the whole meal was the dainty but spirited creature on the other side of the table. He could not know how much of her gayety was simulated to cover a certain trepidation, lest some acquaintance of hers happen by and “queer” things. She was trying to maintain a steady flow of wit, so as to be ready for emergencies. None arose, however.

Trunks remained to be bought: two of them, auto size, but of the wardrobe type; for they agreed that it would be a nuisance to have to ship things by express, and willingly delegated most of the two running boards to the trunks, which could stand on end. Suitable clamps and straps had to be installed for these; also, a rack was rigged on top of the rear deck, to accommodate their several hat boxes and hand bags. The car was pretty well cluttered up with leather goods by the time it was all done. And the afternoon was nearly gone.

There was none too much time in which to make the remainder of their purchases—toilet articles deluxe, books, a few articles from a sporting goods store; a watch, two rings—one of them a little beauty of an emerald in a platinum setting—a bracelet, a lavalliére, and a necklace for Florence—and to pick up their new garments from the two outfitting houses. Then, home to pack; Stowe to his own room, Florence to hers; after which a supper hastily eaten in Florence’s landlady’s dining room—the last, she fervently hoped, that she would ever have in that place, for if there were another, no Warren Stowe would likely eat it with her.

And now they were off. The sensible thing to have done, of course, would have been to wait until morning. But Florence had had quite enough of that trepidation; she had quickly agreed when Stowe impulsively proposed that they begin their run by night. The sooner out of San Francisco, the better. And the farther away they could get before their new status was appreciated, the more likely that he could hold on to that hundred thousand.

Florence was wearing for the first time the olive drab knickered suit with the green boots. It set off her sturdy, well rounded figure to a degree that Stowe openly and frankly admired, in terms which made Florence thankful for the blush concealing semi-darkness. Heavens, but these men were plain spoken!

In less personal terms she admired the figure that Stowe cut in his new traveling rig. In his own eyes he was slightly ridiculous; utilitarianism had been his motto, not fashion. The roomy knickers of that coarse woven, towel-like material, struck him as being easily soiled and wasteful of goods. The coat wasn’t so bad, being good old Norfolk, for all the gaudy facing on the pockets. He felt like a figure on the comic opera stage. His own taste in ties went to the somber shades, not to these flamboyant color parades which the outfitters had selected.

Still, he had to admit that the ensemble appeared in keeping, not only with his powerful frame but with that racy, aristocratic car. He was obeying his father’s old friend. And because Florence appeared so much at ease in these habiliments of luxury, Stowe quickly came to feel unconcerned.

It was chilly, and both wore heavy mackinaws, bought at the last moment. The ventilators of the hood were left closed to keep the cockpit warm. Truly snug as two bugs in a rug, they started forth on the tour. It was not until they reached the corner of Market and Van Ness, however, that either of them gave the slightest thought as to which direction they would take. Stowe brought it up with a jerk.

“Which way, Sis?”

There was a wide choice. Down Market Street to the ferries and thence across the bay would open up a variety of routes: north, east, or south; coast range, the great central valley, or the more distant Sierras; a dozen or more well marked and travel warmed highways invited with competing attractions. In the opposite direction—westward—travel would be somewhat hampered by the Pacific Ocean. To the south, however, the way was open for a straight run as far as the Mexican border, if one desired.

“If we take the ferries,” said Florence, “we’d lose a lot of time. It would be after nine before we could leave Oakland; later still if we took the Sausalito or the Vallejo boats.”

“Down the peninsula for us, then. Besides, we can make better time; I’ve already been over this road as far as Salinas.”

“So have I—in the train. We won’t mind if we don’t see any scenery.”

The speedometer, faithfully reckoning the miles which the Gale had already run on the city’s streets, pointed to sixteen and four tenths. Stowe made a note of this; Tuttle might be a stickler for the exact mileage. Then, with a curious little tremor of excitement akin to that which the pioneers of forty-nine must have felt when they cut loose from civilization to begin the long trek to the coast, Stowe drove across Market Street, negotiated a turn or so, and found himself on Mission Street, the main outlet to the south.

Traffic was still fairly dense; it was just about eight. Stowe drove with becoming care until they were outside the city limits, and even then was careful to heed every sign and regulation. The asphalt passed beneath the Gale like so much glass, so far as mere feeling went; but the powerful headlights made every little hollow in the pavement show up like a pit under a magnifying glass. Through the cemeteries they hummed, exchanging the usual grim jests about avoiding a permanent residence.

To neither of them did it occur that they were traveling the famous “El Camino Real”—the King’s Highway of the old Spanish padres; also known to the motoring public as the Pacific Highway. Your Californian refers to it as the “Coast Road.” To Warren and Florence Stowe—for of course the “Jones” belonged now to the past; permanently, Florence hoped—to them, the celebrated route was merely a means to an end: that they might put San Francisco as far behind as possible.

Stowe opened the windshield a trifle. The moist night air stung them to exuberance. The engine felt the difference, and purred even more felicitously than in daytime. Each felt supremely alert and awake. It was glorious, this freedom; one who has never worked for wages cannot appreciate that exhilaration. Theirs were the spirits of untrammeled youth, free from the bondage of everyday life. Florence forgot every fear that she might be unmasked; Stowe laid off the heavy band of responsibility which the hundred thousand dollars had laid on his shoulders. From time to time he broke into snatches of what a very polite person might call song. From time to time Florence, with a bluntness permissible and expected in sisters, urged him to whistle. They laughed and joked and enjoyed every minute.

Before they realized it, the highway was making the wide swing into the old, old town of Santa Clara, and thence along the famed Alameda—with scarce half a dozen of the original trees remaining along its borders—into the one-time State capital, San José. “Fifty miles,” Stowe read from the speedometer. “And we’ve got ten thousand to go. That’s one half of one percent. Giddap!”

Once out on the Monterey Road, Stowe decided to risk a little speed. He knew the traffic officers to be reasonable here at certain hours; and it was now nearly nine-thirty. A touch more pressure on the accelerator, and they were going at fifty miles an hour. Florence closed the windshield so that she could get her breath; but she had little to say now; there was the speed to be enjoyed, and Warren did not want to talk, either.

To the ex-truck driver, the pace was terrific, for all that his car behaved as steadily as a ship. It had been several months since he sold autos and demonstrated them. But he was to find that all his former confidence would be his after a few hours’ experience. He rejoiced to see the town of Gilroy, thirty miles below San José, slip behind him in a little more than half an hour.

And then, very naturally and obviously, both of them began to feel thoroughly tired. It was nerve exhaustion, rather than muscular. Halfway through the winding San Juan Pass, a few miles out of Gilroy, Florence jumped with a fright as the Gale lurched almost off the road. Stowe said nothing; he was ashamed to admit that he had dozed for an instant. But a little later, still in the dangerously sharp curved pass, when a careening automobile crowded with singing, bootleg-drinking revelers swung recklessly to the wrong side and forced Stowe against the white painted railing, Florence spoke her mind.

“Don’t you think you’d better go slower, old dear?”

“I don’t dare. I’ll go to sleep if I do.”

So Florence opened the windshield again, and the beating air revived him. There were no more close calls during the rest of the run into Salinas, which they reached long before eleven. Stowe brought the car to its first stop since leaving San Francisco, within the dim entrance of what appeared to be the little city’s most prominent garage. A yawning attendant directed them to a near-by hotel. Forgetting his new status for the moment, Stowe was about to park the car for the night, intending to walk over to the hotel, when Florence reminded him of what was expected of him by a vicious jab of her elbow in his ribs.

So he backed out, drove to the hotel, and calmly waited outside until the clerk took notice. A drowsy boy loaded himself down with such paraphernalia as seemed needful for an overnight stay. In the lobby there was only a traveling salesman to stare at them. The clerk greeted them with seemingly overdone cordiality, being doubtless under the impression that they were bride and groom; but he gave no sign of what he may have thought as Florence—since Warren’s fingers were stiff from the long spell at the wheel—wrote for the first time, “Warren Stowe,” and directly beneath it, “Florence Stowe.” She did it very steadily considering. But it was the six-footer who found the voice to say, as easily as he would once have asked for “an inside, without”:

“Three room suite. How about breakfast, Sis—shall we have it brought up?”

“No. Let’s get it outside for once. I’d love to see this quaint little place.”

As for the Gale, Stowe merely tossed the ignition key to the clerk and turned his back on that. The clerk, who was up to a good deal, but had never been called upon to handle just that situation before, had to drive the new car hack to the garage. His tone, as he cautioned the sleepy attendant about caring for the accouterments, was distinctly caustic. Also important.

He did not know that shortly after he left the garage a thin, black mustached man slipped unobtrusively into the place, gave the Gale an apparently casual but actually keen scrutiny, then slipped as unobtrusively away and presently joined another man, also black mustached, but heavily built, who was sauntering along a dark side street near the hotel.

“It’s the bus, all right,” said the thin one. “The chief had it doped out right. Wonder who tipped him off?”

“We should worry, Bo. Come on; we gotta grab some sleep, or we’ll be on the blink tomorrow.”

But this interesting pair, for all their curious knowledge, were oblivious of a third man who strolled into the hotel, glanced at the book and strolled out again without uttering a word; nor that this third man was responsible for a message which was picked up by the Marsupial’s wireless, a message which caused Mr. Tuttle to chuckle with deep satisfaction. He, too, had figured that they could get farther away from San Francisco by that route. But he knew no more about the black-mustached two than they of him.

Chapter Seven

Skinny Butts In

The two men with the black mustaches who had shown so friendly an interest in the Gale could just as well have had two hours more of sleep than they allowed themselves. Their breakfasts had been undergoing digestion for some time before Warren and Florence wandered out of the hotel in search of food. Also, it would not have improved the tempers of the waiting pair had they been able to compare the Stowes’ breakfast with their own. From grapefruit to strawberries and cream was a matter of much dignity, un-counted courses, and a check that left little change from a five dollar bill; for, of course, nothing but the most exclusive establishment in town would satisfy Mr. Tuttle’s demands. The watchers had another long wait after the twain had wandered back to the hotel. For Stowe had said, once within their suite:

“Time to consider this game a little more seriously, Sis. We’re marks; no getting around that. No telling how soon we’ll have to deal with pirates of one kind, or another.”

Florence was feeling happy and content. She shivered at the thought of any kind of conflict.

“Can’t we dodge trouble? For a day or two, until we kind of get used to this, old dear?”

“Just what I was thinking. Where’s that guide book?”

They studied the possibilities. Westward a few miles lay the renowned Del Monte Hotel, and Monterey, and the Seventeen-Mile Drive; all of which both distinctly longed to visit. But neither felt quite up to mingling with the exclusive ranks, as yet. The newness of their garb would have to wear off.

Where best to do that wearing? Southward along the Coast Highway would take them to Paso Robles, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles; a single day’s run if they chose to speed it. But there was the likelihood that, on such a frequented route, they would quickly be spotted by the genial men and women of the get-rich-quick clan.

“Wonderful thing, elimination,” said Stowe. “East it is. Ever see the Pinnacles? Neither have I. We can go through the mountains into the San Joaquin Valley, and the only people we’ll meet are the inhabitants, plus a few tourists like ourselves.”

But when they wandered into the garage, along about nine o’clock on that bright, cool May morning, Stowe was inspired to inquire of the attendant:

“How far to Los Angeles?”

Sure enough, a minute or so after he and Florence got under way, a grimy but swift looking Barker Six roadster drove up, and a heavy-set man with a remarkably well-shaped mustache wanted to know if his “friends,” driving a Gale, had already left for Del Monte. Upon being told that the destination indicated was Los Angeles, he expressed surprise and thanks, then hurried to pick up a certain slim-framed gentleman who was waiting up the street.

However, the Gale was in no hurry. Presently the Barker had reached a comfortable position in the rear, where it wouldn’t be noticed; and there were still twenty odd miles to go southward before the Gale could turn off to the Pinnacles. Perhaps it wasn’t much of an inspiration, after all. Stowe and Florence were too deep in enjoyment of the Salinas Valley to notice. Spring had dipped the surrounding hills into forty lakes of forty kinds of green. Lining the road was crowded every sort of farm, from peas to alfalfa and artichokes to blossoming apricots. For once, the perfume of nature beat back the odor of gasoline. Nobody had any idea what time it was when the little town of Soledad thrust out its sign directing them to the Pinnacles.

The Barker Six was careful to go right on through, just as though its occupants had no interest whatever in the Gale. But after going a mile or so farther south, the Barker retuned, and followed the plainly visible criss-cross imprints of the Gale’s five-inch shoes; for the going was no longer paved. It wasn’t necessary to keep the new car in sight; better, for a while, to let the windings of the road through the hills give Stowe a chance to forget about pursuit. They passed a town-bound rancher or so, but otherwise had the way to themselves.

“So they thought they’d shake somebody, did they?” grunted he of the stocky build. “Guess they’re packing something worth our while, Skinny, my child.” And Skinny averred that the other had, indeed, said a mouthful.

Stopping only to pay toll at a gate presided over by a solitary “rider”—for this was a private road, through cattle range—Stowe made the twelve mile run at an easy but steady pace. The green-clad bills, soon to become so brown and dry under the summer sun, affected both him and Florence to an unsuspected degree. It was all so soothing, to the brain as to the eye. Impossible, almost, to suspect a lurking danger anywhere.

Presently the jagged splinters of the Pinnacles swung into sight ahead, and in a little while the Gale stopped alongside one of the strangely formed rock heaps. Nearby, a parked motorcycle with two saddles indicated the presence of others. It was this fact which caused the Barker Six to come to a halt some hundreds of yards away, just out of sight in a twist of the road, to await developments. No interference was the sound, sensible motto of those who wore false mustaches.

The Stowes did the caves in rather swift time, for it made them uneasy to think of the unguarded car and their belongings. Then they hurried out and drove on. They entered no more caves; but took a lot of photographs, hid their names beneath a small stone, and in general behaved like the rest of us and stayed just about as long. And they ate lunch there, at that.

The whole afternoon was ahead of the Stowes as they resumed the route to the east. Nothing had happened to give them the slightest uneasiness; the two young fellows of the motorcycle had turned out to be as harmless themselves. It was in the blithest of spirits that Florence and Warren picked out the road past San Benito, up this valley, and over to the next, and thence steadily but meanderingly south and east.

The long springs of the Gale made easy going of the highly indifferent surface. They knew that night would fall long before they could reach any large San Joaquin city, but they didn’t care at all. Even when, in making the deepest of the score of fords along that creek-lined route, the water splashed into the cockpit Florence only shouted with delight; while the big fellow at her side merely grinned again with satisfaction at the travel-proof qualities of that superb machine.

The two in the Barker bided their time. From point to point, the road passed the pumping stations of a great oil corporation; plants where the crude oil was given additional impetus for its journey through the pipes to the refineries on San Francisco Bay. It would hardly do to pull anything too near one of those pump crews, much less in the vicinity of any ranch house. It was mid-afternoon before the man known as Skinny opined that the locality was sufficiently untenanted, the road appropriately surfaced, for what they proposed to do.

Stowe heard their horn and considerately hugged the side of the road. It was the first car he’d seen for quite a while and he was curious; however, the going was so rough, he couldn’t make good use of the mirror. And Florence got only snatches of the Barker, as the heavy-set chap at the wheel forced it at a reckless pace alongside the Gale.

The Stowes’ car shook with the impact, as Skinny, a revolver in one hand, leaped from door to running board. With his other hand he caught the windshield frame. The whole thing was almost instantaneous—the feat of a clever acrobat, who had practiced the leap over and over, who took it for granted that his victim would be armed.

“Hands up?” sharply to Florence. “That’s right. Now you”—savagely to Warren—“slow down, damn yuh!”

But Stowe had instinctively pressed the accelerator, as though to catch up with the fleeting Barker. The Gale shot ahead like mad. “Stop her!” shrieked the man with the gun, and he thrust it into Stowe’s very face. “Stop, or I’ll—”

Stowe obliged him. But he matched speed for speed. Almost with one motion, he let go the steering wheel, brought down one fist on the fingers that clutched the windshield, yanked the emergency with his other hand, and stamped on the brake—all at once. It was like a collision. The Gale shuddered in mid-flight, as though it had hit a stone wall; its four brakes wailed—the great wheels skidded as one.

As for the man with the gun, momentum threw him off like a rock out of a sling. Warren yanked the wheel just in time to keep from rolling over him. For a moment the man sprawled in the road, then leaped to his feet, brandishing his revolver uncertainly.

“Drop it,” said Warren, his own thirty-eight poked through the open windshield. It was the first time he had ever pointed a gun at a man, and the calmness of his tones amazed him.

“Aw, hell,” commented Skinny, and did what he was told. He turned to look; the Barker was nowhere to be seen. “Damn sneak!”

Warren and Florence were irritatingly nice about it. After first making sure that he had no more weapons, they gave him a ride on the running board as far as the next pumping station. En route, Warren tried to learn something by questioning. How had he and his absent friend come to know about them? Just how much did he know, anyway? All a waste of breath.

Skinny proved to have a streak of taciturnity in his make-up. Or it was loyalty—loyalty to an organization, possibly, or to some powerful and much-feared leader, Warren guessed. However, when be offered him a “loan” of a few dollars, “just to see you through your hard luck,” Skinny accepted with alacrity the husks from purposely lean roll that appeared to be all that the Stowes had, aside from their jewelry and car. He mumbled an acrid “Thanks” as he dropped off at the pumping plant.

Florence turned the mirror so that she could watch the rear from then on; and Stowe put his gun where he could lay hands it on it instantly. When they finally left the hills behind and started across the desert-like prairie toward Coalinga, both heaved sighs of relief.

And when, after a twilight drive amid San Joaquin Valley’s distinctive enchantment, the two came within nostril-range of Tulare Lake, only to bear on east through the night until—about ten—the little city of Visalia flashed its electric welcome, one or two things had become perfectly clear to the passengers in the Gale.

“For the next week or so, Sis, we’d better stay on the main traveled roads—until we feel more at home in this game.”

“Yes, and we want two mirrors—one for each of us! And a pistol for me. And—and I don’t want you to take any such risks again. Why, he was ready to shoot, when you stopped!”

“Well, what if he had?”

“I don’t know where I could get another brother all ready-made,” said she, and squeezed his arm.

When he kissed her good night, he didn’t seem to notice that she reached up for it. That is, he didn’t let her see that he noticed it.

Chapter Eight

Introducing Mr. Finch

It must be said to his everlasting credit that William V. Finch was a staunch believer in the conventionalities. When he learned, via Henry M. Tuttle’s firm of lawyers’ office boy’s cousin’s as overheard by one of his sharp-eared understudies—when Mr. Finch heard that a certain young man and his sister were about to tour the State, carrying with them a large sum of money, the gentleman was shocked. It grieved him to know that this cash had not been entrusted to some bank, or, at the very least, exchanged for non-negotiable paper. He disliked to think that any one should have so little faith in the established institutions of our great and noble commonwealth as to undertake personally to protect this money. As a respected member of civilized society he felt it his duty to protest.

Having arrived at this commendable determination, there arose the question: how best to protest? Ah, he had it: make a horrible example of this presumptuous young pair! And—er—incidentally collect a suitable fee as recompense for his trouble.

What made it easy for Mr. Finch was his unique position as the foremost criminal lawyer of the coast. As such, he enjoyed the respect of all save a few very keen minds, like Mr. Tuttle’s, who saw beneath the man’s apparently upright personality and knew him for the super-crook that he was. Mr. Finch was always so frank to admit he had the confidence of the law fracturing element; always so quick to deplore those human frailties which—he would apologize—afforded him a bare living, that the unsuspecting public considered him a large-souled martyr. The astute few had reason to be convinced that William V. Finch, nominally just well-to-do and no more, was actually rolling in wealth, his title secured under diverse names and in widely scattered spots on the Pacific Coast; every bit of it legitimately accumulated.

His method was simplicity itself, conventionality reduced to a fine art. Once he had the confidence of a law-breaker, by securing him probation if not by getting him off scot-free, Mr. Finch would first strongly urge his client to go straight forevermore, then regretfully advise him—if he would be crooked—to ally himself with the Chief. There was always a great deal of mystery about the Chief: it seemed that he was a man so high in public affairs, he couldn’t let himself be seen. Mr. Finch acted as his legal advisor and go between, always regretfully, always hopeful that these enemies of society would reform.

He invariably emitted a helpless sigh when he handed out one of the Chief’s tips; tips so painstakingly written in a hand so different from Mr. Finch’s that the astute few thanked their stars he had not elected to make more direct use of his talents. As for his clients, they tested out the Chief’s tips, found them excellent, and became steady customers. If any of them suspected the identity of the master mind, they were careful to say nothing; for the least remark of that sort would have been sure to shock and offend the sensitive, martyred Mr. Finch. How it pained him to accept the Chief’s share of the loot!

When the two unlucky passengers of the Barker Six reported back to the effect that the Gale’s braking system was altogether too much so for any use, Mr. Finch promptly replied that he was delighted to know that this piece of outlawry had failed. He hoped it would be a lesson to them never to attempt any crime again. In event, however, they were still un-regenerate, he trusted that they would take no chances with inferior guidance but would leave their banner in the ranks of the Chief. As consolation, the Chief was making them a present of a couple of hundred dollars, and was “suggesting” that they hie themselves to a certain spot and there await orders—in case they didn’t decide, that is, to hunt up an honest job somewhere.

These two of the well-done mustaches were but one detachment of the Chief’s select little aggregation. By registered mail, some score or more of society’s indigestible individuals had received suggestions; people scattered throughout the State—men and women of highly varied ability, ranging from expert pickpockets to simple gun-men like those of the Barker car, from old-fashioned confidence men to the very latest thing in silken vamps. Most of them were so comfortably subsidized by the Chief that it was difficult for any local authorities to find grounds for suspicion. Never did they commit the blunder of having no visible means of support; that was the first thing the Chief inculcated. It will be inferred that Mr. Finch’s trouble-proof system really amounted to criminal insurance. And Stowe’s hundred thousand would make a very nice addition to the premiums.

For the first week or ten days after that momentous journey through the hills east of the Pinnacles, the Stowes gave no one much of a chance to get on an intimate footing. It was largely traceable to the fact that both Warren and Florence had, for years, obeyed alarm clocks. They made the most of their vacation by sleeping late and by keeping freely on the go, once they were up and about. Of course, this activity was to some extent due to their timidity.

“Time we were trying to get in touch with the big bugs, I guess,” Stowe would remark virtuously, fresh every morning.

“Oh, let’s steer clear of them one more day,” Florence would procrastinate. “Mr. Tuttle surely knows how it is; he wouldn’t have insisted on the three months, if he hadn’t understood. Wait until we wear the shine off our new duds, anyhow, old dear.”

Which conclusively proved that Mr. Tuttle had gaged Florence correctly. Stowe, if alone, would have worked faster, due to his natural ease of manner, due again to that strength-born optimism and the training of his auto salesman days. Florence had first to develop a sense of security, to free herself from fear of discovery. Mr. Tuttle smiled again with satisfaction when certain observant but unobserved persons radioed to the effect that the pair were emulating the festive flea.

From Visalia the Gale hopped southward where they contented themselves with as much of the Sierras as ran over and down into the foothills above Porterville. For a wonder, nobody tried to sell Stowe an orange grove, or a magnesite mine, or Tulare Lake. Maybe it was because he casually hinted that he would like to “talk things over” the next day; and the next day he left a note of thanks and regret, while he and Florence romped on to Bakersfield.

The oil fields appealed to both of them strongly, but caution told Stowe to keep away from temptation until he felt stronger. Right on through the district; then, the Gale proceeded to make quick work of the hundred and a quarter miles of pavement over the Ridge Route into Los Angeles. The going was delightful; and from the derrick-dotted landscape of the through the winding, green-lined Tejon Pass into the well-developed country about the southern city, the eye was bored once, the mind nourished rather than tired.

True to Mr. Tuttle’s instructions, they made their headquarters at one of the two or three most conspicuous hotels. If there was anything in the neighborhood they didn’t see, it wasn’t for lack of industry.

At Venice these two longed mightily to go swimming, but there seemed no safe way to manage Warren’s money, while in bathing suits. The bathhouse management doubtless was reliable enough, but the sum was enough to tempt the best of us. Florence could have indulged by herself, but showed her loyalty by joining Warren in a wading party on the beach. From a distance, certain interested parties got the impression that these two were simple, provincial, unsophisticated souls indeed: an impression strengthened by the delight they showed on the scenic railway and other deranging devices.

The impression was somewhat modified, however, by the matter-of-fact way in which Stowe fired some fifty shots at the smallest marks in a shooting gallery without scoring a single miss; also by the promptness and efficiency with which Florence “bawled out” a would-be short-changing clerk in a curio store; further, by the astounding luck the pair displayed in winning prize after prize in some ball-rolling game or other. They carried away armfuls of Japanese knickknacks, abalone shell bric-a-brac, coral trifles, and machine made candy. It was all shipped home by express. One day was squandered on Santa Catalina Island, without adding anything to speak of to that ten thousand mileage, but immensely to their enjoyment even though it was pretty cold. The very next day, just when certain ladies and gentlemen were beginning to hope that the fleas would stand still long enough to get caught, these two human insects elected to make the run to San Diego. They left their trunks at the hotel, took only a bag apiece. Next day, back along the cliffs, sniffing the strong salt air and seaweed in the company of other travelers practically all the time, the Gale’s crew returned to Los Angeles with nearly four hundred miles to their credit, and not much else.

The truth was that these two dwellers of the city by the Golden Gate were of one mind about the chief object of the tour. The works of man were all well enough, but nature meant more to them.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Stowe said, when he and Florence were yawning, as usual, about eleven o’clock on the night of their return from San Diego. “Next day’s Sunday—uncanny though it may seem—and I say, let’s make a break that day for San Bernardino and the Mojave desert.”

“Why Sunday? Because of the traffic?”

“Yes, and because the following day is the last of the month. There’s bound to be lots of cars on the road—folks leaving for trips. The first of July always means a bunch of tourists, on any road. I think we’ll be safe, Sis, in tackling the trip then.”

“All right. But what shall we do tomorrow?”

“Rest up, and let the garage polish the car, and take in a show, and give the parasites a chance at us, incidentally!”

“I’m game, now, brother.”

So Warren casually dropped word at the desk, loud enough for any interested person to overhear, that they would be “in” to any friends most of the next day, and on Sunday would give up the suite.

Within the hour, Mr. William V. Finch was greatly shocked to hear—over the long distance telephone—that “everything had been framed” to get possession of all or a big part of “you know what.”

“I do wish you would give up these activities,” said Mr. Finch, with much earnestness. “I must confess, I hope you fail. But—er—if you do succeed, the Chief will probably make it right with you, as usual.”

And Mr. Finch sighed as he concluded this little talk with one nutty, prosperous looking Modesto Miller. How very sad that the aforesaid Modesto Miller would not mend his ways. And yet—how deplorable that these two young people should insult the banks in that fashion. Poor Mr. Finch was torn between two desires: to reform Mr. Miller, and to make a horrible example of the trouble defying Stowes. In the end, like a true martyr, Mr. Finch decided to encourage Modesto.

Chapter Nine

Such Nice New Friends

When that obviously wealthy motorist dropped his well-bred remark about being “in” to his friends, he started something. Long before he and Florence had finished with their breakfasts that Saturday, there was quite a lineup gracing the seats in the hotel lobby. The clerk had advised that no one was to disturb the Stowes until ten. At one minute after ten Stowe answered the telephone. It was one of three reporters. Warren and Florence elected to be interviewed by the trio simultaneously. It was quite a treat to them, but of no particular novelty as something to be related. Florence, of course, was quite at ease, knowing perfectly well that the letter from Mr. Tuttle was the only thing which could possibly arouse any suspicion in the mind of the “real” Florence Jones. She had long ago destroyed that letter. And neither she nor Warren saw fit to mention that they had not been acquainted until ten days before.

That they were very newly rich indeed, that they were touring the State, that they shared the usual stereotyped opinion of the great city-that was all the reporters learned. Of the bequest and its peculiar conditions, not a word. As for the flashlight pictures—when Florence saw what the newspaper printing process had done to her features in the actual reproduction, she knew that her secret was doubly safe; no one would ever wonder why Florence Jones had ever used the name Kelly. However, just to make trebly certain, she remarked:

“I’m anxious to see some of my old friends and surprise them.”

This was between ten, and eleven! By noon the newspapers were on sale. At one o’clock, the Stowes made the acquaintance of a gentleman from the “welcome” committee of a business men’s club; a briskly efficient spinster who represented some highly important welfare movement or other; two engaging young chaps who, it seemed, were members of an organization composed exclusively of exiled or transplanted San Franciscans—boys who were hard to discourage, for they talked Frisco-ese; and half a dozen others not so easy to recall.

However, the burden of their several missions was one and the same. It appeared that there was such a thing as an oil well, or so; in fact, the Stowes came to understand that Los Angeles County consisted merely of an expanse of earth which covered an ocean of oil. If every well that was mentioned produced as heartily as was expected, Warren calculated, enough gasoline would be yielded to run an airplane as far as the nearest fixed star. But they were nice people. If the hundred thousand had been in San Francisco, Warren would readily have assumed that all these folks had nothing whatever but his welfare in mind. As it was—he had his doubts.

They ate a sort of combined luncheon and tea in their rooms, while chatting with a lady who had known Warren’s mother, it would seem, so very long ago that her recollections of details were dim. “But, oh, I’d have known her boy anywhere! You’re the very picture!” Which comment demolished whatever chances the lady may or may not have hoped for; Stowe had always remembered his mother as angelically beautiful, and ranked himself as something else again. Still, the lady and her friendliness may have been all harmless enough.

Afterwards came a lull in the bombardment. Florence took a nap—Stowe studied the guidebook. In another hotel, Modesto Miller carefully rehearsed his plan and bade his aides be patient.

At dinner, in the awesomely splendid dining room, Florence wore her evening gown for the first time and Warren essayed the stiff front. Thanks to what had filtered into their subconscious minds from countless society photoplays, they behaved very creditably whenever they didn’t deliberately try to act the part.

“Well, how about theater, Sis?”

It was fashionably late when they entered the box at the Angelus. Vaudeville, of course, but the best circuit in the country, and it appealed to these two who had sat in the seats of the Gale until plush seemed unnatural to them. Beyond touching a hand to his waist, where he kept the hundred thousand buttoned snugly within the folds of a perspiration proof belt, Stowe gave no thought to his responsibility but enjoyed the various acts, on the one hand, and, on the other, the sensation that was being created by Florence’s bright features, so well set off in that black lace and brocade.

There was no reason why he should suspect that the quietly behaved young man and woman who entered the box a few minutes later had just received their instructions from Modesto Miller, nor that Mr. Miller had just enriched the talkative usher by one dollar. As for Florence, common sense compels us to reason that she was too much taken up with the stares she was receiving to think particularly about the newcomers.

In point of fact the Stowes’ new neighbors had no definite knowledge concerning them. Mr. Miller believed in telling no more than had to be told; it required less acting. These two quietly dressed individuals were in no sense hardened characters, although they had been instrumental in putting over more than one subtle coup. Their very ignorance of what Mr. Miller expected to do was a real asset; almost were they Oliver Twists in the hands of this Fagin.

Except to exchange a smile of appreciation with the Stowes, when something worthwhile occurred on the stage, or the other sort of smile when something particularly crass was perpetrated, the new arrivals kept strictly to themselves until the intermission. Then, and not until then, was it to be noticed that somehow or other they had not been supplied with programs. Stowe offered his; it was coolly accepted with the politest of thanks. “Quite a house tonight,” commented Stowe perfunctorily to the young man. “Quite,” was the equally perfunctory reply. That was all.

During the act which followed the intermission, Florence’s handkerchief somehow or other got on the floor. The young woman said, “Allow me,” and restored the filmy bit of lace; then attended strictly to her own business. More exchanges of smiles of both sorts, but nothing else, marked the rest of the performance. And when the final item on the program had left the house in a line hummer to go home, it was the quietly dressed pair that arose first and made as though to quit the box ahead of the Stowes.

But there on the chair which the young man had vacated was an oblong, paper-wrapped parcel. If the Stowes didn’t notice it, why, then, he would have had to go to back after it; which wouldn’t have been so subtle. It was infinitely better for their purposes that Florence Stowe spotted the parcel and called after them.

“Oh, thanks,” said the young man. “We’d have been up against it if we’d left that behind; wouldn’t we, Bess?”

Bess vehemently agreed. She impulsively explained:

“It’s our guidebook. We’re planning to get under way at six in the morning.”

And she was in the act of turning away ice—so sound was her training—when Florence exclaimed:

“Oh, are you? So are we. But we got our book long ago. Which way are you going?”

“East,” said Bess promptly. (The Stowes had been touring continually in every other direction.)

“Into the desert? What a coincidence.” A glance at Warren showed her that he did not disapprove. She ran on: “I’m Miss Stowe. This is my brother.”

“Delighted to know you, I’m sure,” with just the right degree cordiality, tempered with enough coolness to maintain an even climate. “We’re brother and sister, too—Jorgenson is the name.”

It happened to be true, at that; aliases they had little need for. They were much alike in appearance—fair haired, chubby, rather innocent looking, but distinctly easy to look at, both of them. And cheery and intelligent; likable on sight.

The four walked out together, chatting freely of their travels. The agile brain of Bess Jorgensen pieced together such hints as she could pick up and enabled her to say the right thing. Florence was delighted with her; for several days, now, Florence had had only the society of a young man who detested “small talk.”

On the other hand, Stowe, for all that he had found Florence so lovely, was beginning to long for a pair of ears that could stand the shock of men’s special language. Charlie Jorgenson had only to be polite and smilingly affable; Warren did practically all the talking. It was almost too good to be true, the way the Stowes “fell.” But it was the nature itself to react as they did to the situation.

From the theater the four strolled aimlessly, talking auto, complexions, clothes and politics, until they reached the nearest confectionery. It was the Jorgensons, one or the other, who proposed something to propitiate the inner man. Over the rosewood table top it developed that the Stowes had similar tastes in the matter of ice cream. And Charlie Jorgenson said:

“I’m afraid Bess and I won’t care to stay very long in the deserts. Too hard to get ice cream!” The truth was that he himself cared little for anything saccharine. “If you’re like that, too—”

“All we are planning on is a mere glimpse,” said Stowe. “They say that the really impressive views of the deserts are to be had late in the season, anyhow. We want to get back to the Sierras pretty soon.”

And that appeared to be the Jorgensons’ general idea, too. How nice. What sort of bus have you, Mr. Jorgenson? An old Trailmaker? Lots of power, but a dickens of a job to get parts for her if she busts down. Yes, I know, but she’s been in the family so long—like an old horse—know her like a book. Oh, yes, Miss Stowe; very comfortable, although undeniably dusty. We drove all the way from Seattle in it you know. You don’t mean to say! Rattle, buzz, buzz, rattle-great friends by the time they arose from that table.

But nobody proposed that they make a party of it, for the next day. The idea occurred to Florence, but she thought best to speak privately to brother Warren before breaching such a thing. And the Jorgensons were living their parts too well to drop even a hint. All that was said, on parting to go to their respective hotels, was Charlie Jorgenson’s casual remark:

“Good luck, folks. Maybe we’ll see each other again on the road.”

“That’s right,” said the Stowes. “Good luck, yourselves!”

And like any other two pairs of comparatively unreserved Westerners, they parted on the best of terms, entirely uncommitted on any point whatever. Yet the Jorgensens realized that they had made the finest sort of progress—finest, because so natural and unforced, so entirely free of anything on which to hang suspicion.

But it was Stowe’s duty to be suspicious. The past few days had made a change in him. He had aged perceptibly. He had developed a watchfulness, a guardedness, which would have delighted one Henry M. Tuttle, and which would have served as proof in the mind of one William V. Finch that Stowe really was custodian of a large amount of cash.

“Nice people, the Jorgensons,” he said to Florence, as they strolled toward their hotel. It was but a block or so; why a taxi? “Wonder if they’re—all right?”

“You mean, the kind that Mr. Tuttle told you to expect? I don’t think so!”

“Just because they’re so agreeable?”

“Oh, no; it isn’t that. I guess it’s just intuition. That girl is about my age, I think. She’s so unspoiled, and yet she’s pretty, too; don’t you think so?”

“She sure is,” much too heartily to suit Florence.

“Well, of course, her hair is awfully light. But I think it is very becoming in her brother.” Not once did it occur to Florence that the brother and sister relationship might be just as fictitious in one case as in another. “He looks to be almost as young as she is.”

“About twenty-one. I guess. You’re probably right, Sis; they’re just what they say they are. No reason why I should suspect everybody in creation. I sure hope we do see them again, somewhere.”

“She said their folks are in the lumber business up north. Pretty prominent, I guess.”

“One of the old pioneer families, from what he told me.”

“She was wearing a wonderful old brooch—grandmother’s, probably—”

And meanwhile the Jorgensons were reporting back to Mr. Modesto Miller and receiving his congratulations. Mr. Miller went straight to the post office and mailed a check to Tacoma to pay the balance due on that wisely selected old Trailmaker. It meant money; but Mr. Miller knew that the Chief would cheerfully O.K. the investment, no matter how William V. Finch might sigh.

Chapter Ten

The Jorgensons in Death Valley

At ten o’clock on Sunday morning the Gale presented a slightly different appearance from what it offered on leaving San Francisco. Instead of the two tall wardrobe trunks on the running-boards, there was one of the most complete camping outfits you could ask for. It included a small gasoline cook stove and appropriate equipment, in addition to the two combination tents and beds—one for each running-board—not to mention adequate bedding for the cold nights to be expected. A significant item was a ten-gallon milk can, securely strapped upright on what remained of the space at Stowe’s left, with a heavy blanket to keep the water as cool as possible. The trunks went on by express to Lake Tahoe.

On Florence’s side of the car was installed a shallow metal basket with a fiber doormat on the bottom. This was to provide for an entirely new member of the expedition—a perfect lady, weighing some fifty or sixty pounds, and an old friend of Stowe’s: Queen his landlady’s beloved Australian sheep dog. A telegram had brought her down by express just in the nick of time. On her account, the Gale’s equipment was increased by a quantity of dog biscuit, one or two canine remedies, and a shotgun for proving what jack rabbits are good for; but no whip, or chain, or muzzle—not for so ladylike a person as Queen. However, there was a small flap of canvas to shelter the long-haired body from the sun; Queen couldn’t pull off her coat in the middle of the day.

Of course, it goes without saying that the car was packed with a wide variety of food stuffs. Both Florence and Warren made mysterious purchases of certain “surprises.” They squandered money on compasses, inclinometers, thermometers, altitude barometers, and spent wisely on field glasses, of which they secured two: a low-power binocular of the prism type, and a high-power monocular. Explaining vaguely that they might see a coyote, Stowe invested in a .30-.30 repeater with the sort of peep sights he was accustomed to, and enough shells to massacre all the coyotes in the State.

A slight delay ensued while Warren exchanged a perfunctory word or two with some friendly callers. One of them—a rather anxious looking elderly man whom Stowe was sorry to disappoint—came out bluntly and desperately and said he had hoped to interest the young man in a new gasoline engine. On impulse, Stowe gave him a hundred dollars; and when the old gentleman indignantly protested that he wasn’t looking for charity, Stowe told him to call it a “retainer,” and to be sure to call on him in San Francisco, at the conclusion of the tour.

The older man—he called himself a Mr. Jamison—decided to accept the money, and departed saying that he would be certain to come. Stowe didn’t know whether it was worthwhile to look for him or not; probably not. Still, he would never miss the hundred. Not until afterward did he realize that he had, for the first time; broken his resolution to live down that “easy mark” stigma. Well, anyhow, the hundred thousand was quite untouched, and would remain so.

And then they were off, the road a solidly moving mass of automobiles. The Stowes had already gone as far as Pasadena, which was fortunate, for there was little chance to look at anything save traffic. Beyond that point the congestion was relieved a trifle, the road becoming steadily less packed with every mile put behind; but not until an hour had passed did it become feasible to attempt the legal rate of speed. Anyway, there was now something to fill the eye: the unbelievable expanse of orange groves beautifully kept, uniform in troops—where had been nothing save rank desert a few years before.

“See anything of the Jorgensons?” asked Stowe once.

“No. They said they were going to start at six.”

When they were not admiring the orange trees, their eyes were on the blue and gold range at their left, snow veined though sun beaten, wholly irresistible. It had been their intention to go right on through San Bernardino, but on the spur of the moment it was moved, seconded, and carried—Queen wagged an approving plume—that the famous “One Hundred and One Mile Drive” be essayed. That meant all the short side trips, so as not to miss Arrowhead Springs, Thousand Pines, and the other delightful resorts—a few minutes at each, but in the end it counted up.

So it happened that the Stowes and their dog spent the night in a San Bernardino hotel. But that natty, prosperous looking realtor who was known to the chief as Modesto Miller didn’t patronize the same hostelry. And it should be mentioned that his car was one of those inconspicuous standardized sixes.

Bright and early the following morning the Gale was off. As it entered the stern cleft of Cajon Pass its occupants fell silent, realizing that presently they were leaving behind them a man-made wonderland to face the emptiness of the desert. At the summit, an hour out of the city, Stowe brought the car to a halt, and they got out and had a good look in both directions. There was a grim set to Stowe’s mouth as he clambered back to his place, and the usually chattering Florence had nothing to say. Queen, alone, looked positively joyful; she sniffed in the direction of the desert, as though something in her ancestry sensed a familiar tang.

Almost like the unreeling of some photo-play travelogue, the Gale dropped from the company of pines through the squatty, evergreen junipers into those vegetable gargoyles, the fantastic “Joshua trees”; from the beautiful to the morbid was but an hour. One moment the cool, bracing air of the summit, the next, the blast from that dazzling furnace.

Spoke Warren, his voice curiously muffled, half strangled:

“We ought to call this bus Angels’ Wings, Sis.”

“Why?” in the same sort of a voice.

“Nothing else could take us from heaven to hell so quick.”

And yet this was but the last of May, and only the edge of the desert. It was the contrast—like the heat of the first warm days of the year—that gave the experience its accent. All that Queen could do was to lie still and pant and look grateful when Stowe halted long enough to pour out a drink for her.

They made good use of the excellent road into Barstow, taking care, however, not to risk a speed that would endanger the tires. Twice Warren reduced the pressure. It was almost midafternoon when the Gale rolled into the sunburnt railroad town; two minutes later, by Florence’s wrist watch, they were sinking gratefully into chairs within the coolness of an ice-cream parlor. Not until then did they care for lunch.

They saw no one they recognized. A half dozen of the by no means sleepy citizens of Barstow exchanged friendly nods, but nothing came of them. A half hour or so, and the Gale went on, with ice in the water in the milk can, ice cream packed in a freezer that was tucked behind one of the spare wheels, and three tongues half frozen with ice.

From Barstow there was a choice of three routes. They had entered from the south. To the west stretched the railroad paralleling route to Mojave, the entrance to Tehachipi Pass and the way to Bakersfield. That looked too tame for the Stowes. What they wanted was a good big taste of the desert, and get it over with, like so much castor oil. To the east, another road along the path of the trains that would take them into southern Nevada or Arizona; a route that put longing into their eyes, for the Grand Canyon would reward its passage.

But that lay outside the State; and without some objective to make the effort worthwhile, it looked like a terribly long time between ice creams. And so, as had happened before, elimination pointed them northward; the road to Death Valley itself. Surely enough of the desert to satisfy any one, and yet only seventy miles from snow-tipped Mount Whitney.

“Are you game, Sis?”

For reply, Florence reached out her foot and stepped on the starter.

They made camp that night where sundown found them, within shout range of a typical desert town, a huddling of tinder that somehow held two dozen souls, for no viable reason. The Stowes, though unwillingly to mingle freely with their fellow men, nevertheless were not quite ready to cut loose entirely either. This first night could not give them the true desert impression; besides they were too tired. It had been rough going out of Barstow; spring rains had made each washout a thing of malice—you had to crawl. Like the city man who attempts the unfamiliar mountain trail, Stowe was too much intent upon fighting the devil in that so-called road to pay much attention to the surroundings; the same with Florence. Not until the day, when the going had become automatic, did they have eyes and ears and noses open to the spell of the land.

So, with Queen on guard and weapons within easy reach, the Stowes rolled in their respective blankets (and it took a surprising lot of them, considering the blazing sun of two hours before) and slept as soundly as their suppers would permit. Florence was not what you would call an expert cook, but she had the instinct for it and a book or two, and that independence which enabled her to use her own judgment when she didn’t happen to have exactly the supplies that the recipes called for.

“Guess we’ve missed our friends the Jorgensons,” remarked Stowe as they were packing away things the following morning. It was barely five o’clock; they were in too much of a hurry to get away to notice the marvelous coloration, the queer fittings of light in the upper air. It was just “a glorious morning.” “Maybe they went on the Mojave.”

“She said this route. But they may have changed their minds. Anyway, they’re ahead of us. I wish I knew what sort of tires they’ve got; I could spot them in some of them soft places.”

“Kind of interested, aren’t you, Sis? Well, he is a good-looking boy, sort of.”

“Yes; looks like his sister, doesn’t he?” retorted Florence. “She’d come about to there”—indicating with her hand—“on your shoulder.”

But Warren didn’t blush; he only laughed. And somehow Florence was glad of this, and at the same time greatly puzzled to know why she should be glad. Who was she, Florence, anyway? Only his sister, and a spurious one at that. Really, she ought to be interesting herself in a possible wife for this big brother. Good idea; just what she would think about, when she hadn’t anything else to do. The thought brightened her up a lot. She felt in need of something new to think about—as though her old stock of thoughts had somehow failed to satisfy her any more.

And they were off again. Ensued more hours of tugging at the wheel, of sweltering in the sun, of longing for ice cream, and wondering at the variety of cacti. Past the door-like “sinks,” with their powdery incrustations of deposited salts—the “self rising soil” of the prospector’s language—the Gale floundered somehow or other, at every yard causing its driver to wonder how in the world an ordinary car could get through.

Presently their interest shifted from inanimate nature to the other sort; it was a phlegmatic desert tortoise that made see the dots and dashes of the smaller lizards and the deliberate, defiant trot of, giant tarantulas. Spattered against the merciless sky were specks, which grew in number and wheeled and came closer, so that the understanding eye saw an invisible tragedy which was about to provide a feast. Once a rattler writhed across the road, safely in front of the wheels, only to receive a leaden slug—it was a freak shot; wouldn’t happen again in a hundred years—from Stowe’s hardly aimed six-shooter. They tied the rattles to the radiator.

And so on steadily northward into that baking defile between the Slate Range and the Panamints, wishing they could summon the energy for an ascent of Black Crater, but keeping always in mind that perhaps they could not get water at Ballarat. The water was to be had, however, and some friendly advice from a couple of cattlemen, sun blackened and fearless eyed, who frankly informed Stowe that if he had a whole lot of money and a gambling disposition he could get all the excitement he might crave right there, either at poker or at steers; the chances, they said, were very similar. Stowe had merely to say, “I’ve a fondness for ice-cream,” to put an end to all that.

A two-hour siesta during the middle of the day, taken beneath the shade of the auto tents, fitted Stowe for the rest of the drive into Death Valley. It was perhaps four or five o’clock when the Gale, roaring its way up the shallow pass which gives the first glimpse of the valley, came upon the Trailmaker and the Jorgensons.

“Hello!” burst from four throats.

“Tickled to death to see you,” declared Charlie Jorgenson. “My clutch has gone up.”

“Darned old cones,” pronounced Stowe. “I knew you’d have trouble with something or other on this old-timer, such hot going. Well, say, it’s not so bad to see each other again anyway.”

“I’ll say,” chimed in the two girls, who had their arms about one another as though they were old, old friends. After which their remarks became so tangled and fragmentary, nothing emerged clear enough for the purposes of this account except a certain period of whispering, followed by a spell of giggling, which led Charlie Jorgenson to wink knowingly at Warren Stowe, who winked as knowingly in return. Evidently Bess had been saying things about Florence, which Charlie had taken as indifferently as Warren had taken what Florence had said about Bess.

“Where’d you get the rattles?” Charlie wanted to know, as he stood in front of the Gale.

“Stuck up a side-winder, and made him come through. Did it with my little .38,” said Stowe casually, so casually that he did not notice the glances that the Jorgensons exchanged. But Florence noticed and said:

“You don’t want to think Warren is such a liar. He really did shoot the snake with that gun. But I’d like to see him do it again!” And had no idea what thought had really been in the minds of the others.

The clutch was hopeless. Out came the brand new tow-rope, also a hammer and some ordinary screws. Warren drove the screws into the clutch, so as to bind its two parts firmly together. Of course, that meant the engine could not be started independently of the rest of the car; hence the tow-rope, with which the Gale could serve as a starting motor. Each time the Trailmaker stopped or shifted gears the Gale had to help; so the disabled car was put into second and kept there. Had they not been so close to Death Valley they would have turned back at once.

They camped that night midway of the length of the valley. Such of the blistering day as they experienced made them agree to return before the sun arose again. If hardier visitors cared to trek southward and inspect the borax works, why, let them. This decision was concurred in by Queen, who said she couldn’t understand why a hair-clipper hadn’t been included in the outfit.

An hour after they pitched camp a solitary man on horseback came up close enough to see their numbers and arrangements through his glass without their seeing him. He went back south to a certain ranch house, where he did some very creditable work with the Morse system and much advertised brand of electric flashlight. Almost twenty miles away, at the borax works, a fine pair of binoculars picked up the message. And along about midnight a natty, prosperous looking realtor, camping beside it an inconspicuous standardized six not very far away to the east, was awakened by a well-rewarded horseman with a note. Whereupon Mr. Modesto Miller bestirred himself.

However, that is running ahead of the order of things somewhat.

Chapter Eleven

What We Didn’t Know

When at last the Panamints rose up and blotted out the sun, it was as though the door had closed upon Simon Legree. The four young people lifted their heads, took deeper breaths, and began to live again. For the first time it became possible to appreciate the eastern mountain range, to speak in hushed tones of its ever changing coloration, its sternly chiseled ridge and deceptively gentle lower slopes.

They went quietly about their preparations for the night. The two girls combined what they knew to produce a supper which was more remarkable for its novelty than for its utilitarianism. There were crab cocktails, lamentably short of any ice coldness; asparagus soup, which Warren secretly detested; creamed minced ham on toast, exceedingly good—too good, considering the limited quantity; potato chips, olives, and a prodigious quantity of that campers’ pillar, canned peaches; probably as unusual a meal as ever was eaten in Death Valley. There was nothing unnatural, however, in the way all four patronized the water supply after that saline feast.

Charlie Jorgenson was first to yawn. They were to be up early the following morning; so, within fifteen minutes, Queen lay on guard over a sleeping camp. And presently the dog herself was asleep.

The moon drifted over the crest of the Black Mountains, a nearly perfect disk, reddish golden and ringed about with that delicately tinted film, the desert aureole; a moon transported surely from some other planet. It touched all things with unreality. Among some nearby rocks, a patch of silvery holly reflected the semblance of a heap of skeletons. From somewhere far to the north, the haunting echo of a coyote’s wail came like the death cry of the day that had just passed.

Along the road over which the two cars had traveled approached another, without lights. At a distance of nearly a mile it stopped; two men got out and proceeded on foot toward the camp. A hundred yards away they halted and began to bind soft sacking about their feet. As they worked, one of them—by his clothes, not a resident of the region—spoke in a hoarse whisper to the other:

“The dog will be doped, too, you understand. Still, you keep close to her, and if she rouses, you just gotta choke her.”

“I getcha, Mr. Miller.”

“Leave the rest to me.”

They began to creep toward the silent camp. Their padded feet made only the softest of crunching sounds in the sand. In a minute they were within twenty yards—ten—five— All of a sudden Queen lurched to her feet unsteadily and challenged the world with a series of short, sharp, yet oddly mouthed barks.

“Curse it,” observed Mr. Miller, as he and his companion made all speed away.

“Quick—he’s a mighty good shot!”

But there was no shot. Warren Stowe merely stirred a trifle in his sleep, muttered something irrelevant, and lay quiet. Neither did any of the others rouse; for the Jorgensons had taken pains to partake of the same things as the Stowes, doping themselves along with their companions and the dog. It was not until four in the morning when Charlie Jorgenson, the first to awaken, went out and took a close look at the evidence of certain tracks in the sand, that the little mystery was explained.

“They never got near Stowe,” he confided to Bess in a whisper. “That silly dog scared them off.”

“The dog?” Bess was still befuddled from the drug. “I never heard her.”

“Neither did I. Some dope! But I know she’s responsible.” He made a wry face. “Go and look for yourself, if you want to. We gave Queen an overdose. And you know what a dog does with anything that disagrees!”

At breakfast the only comment was Florence’s: “Did I dream it, or did I hear Queen in the night? I was too sleepy to get up.” Warren was entirely unaware that anything had almost happened.

As they prepared to start, the desert treated them to its special brand of sunrise. First the purple, then the violets and oranges and downright reds glowed on the Panamints. A glorious rush of light into the floor of the valley, brightening and freshening everything. Only for the briefest of moments did this last, however; then, the pitiless sun, and almost immediately afterwards the blast from the oven again. And with it, swirls of dust in the upper air, tarnishing the profound blue with flames of straw yellow, of iridescent mother-of-pearl. Day was beginning its desolation.

With the Gale performing as a starting motor whenever necessary, the two cars turned and started back along the way they had come. For upwards of three hours they retraced their steps, back through Cottonwood Canon almost to Ballarat, then taking the right hand turn to the east, through the Argus Mountains into Coso Valley. From there to the base of the white-mantled Sierras was but a short run, despite the sand-filled pits in the road and the desperate grades.

Most of the time the Trailmaker was able to keep going without aid from the Gale; as a rule Stowe took up the rear, so as to know when Charlie needed help. It so happened, however, that about midway through the pass in the Argus Range the Gale remained in the lead, tow-rope dragging, ears open for the “Help Wanted” signal from the Jorgensons, as the two cars cautiously let themselves down a steep grade. And it was then, just before reaching a curve down a steep grade, which would demand the closest attention from a driver—that two typically Western cowboys stepped briskly from behind convenient rocks, presented each a pair of revolvers, and shouted to Warren a request that he put ’em up, and be appropriately quick about it.

The Stowes had been getting along so comfortably without opposition from anything save this savage Nature, that all thought of man-made trouble had vanished. A glance showed Warren that resistance would be fatal. He spoke a quick word of warning to the impulsive Florence and did as requested. Also he listened for the Trailmaker, but heard nothing.

The two highwaymen, their faces carefully concealed with bandannas, stepped menacingly forward. Without a word of protest, Florence contributed her newly bought jewelry; Warren, the gems and watch that had been his father’s.

“Come on; that’s just a starter,” snarled the one whose hat was serving as a collection plate. “We want dough—mazuma—cash!”

“All I’ve got is in A. B. C.’s,” lied Stowe.

“A. B. C.’s? What’s that?”

“Banker’s checks. No good to anybody but ourselves.”

“Is that so! Let’s see ’em. Hurry up; this gun works too easy for any use.”

Stowe hesitated; then said: “Oh, well,” much as to admit that the other had scored. Then he reached into the pocket where he kept the smallest of his rolls of ready cash. He handed it over.

“Huh! I said money, not samples! Come through, or I’ll do it for yuh!”

“Haven’t got any more,” wondering why he heard nothing of the Trailmaker.

“You’re lyin’. Give you about three seconds to dig up.”

“Hey!” came a voice from the rear. “Hands up, everybody!”

It was Charlie Jorgenson, debonair, confident, smilingly presenting Stowe’s shotgun, which he had borrowed that morning. The two highwaymen jumped as though completely surprised, hesitated just a fraction of a second then dropped their weapons and elevated their digits.

“That’s the stuff,” said Charlie Jorgenson. He stepped forward, and kicked the revolvers over the edge of the road. Then, with an elaborate bow, he returned the contents of the cowboy’s hat to their owners; also, with another bow, the hat to its wearer.

“I surmise we have no particular use for these two gentlemen, have we?” he inquired of Stowe.

“No; let ’em go. Hold on; look to see if they’ve got any rifles in their saddles, first.”

The horses were tethered nearby. There were no other weapons. With muttered profanity and tired arms the two would-be out-laws made the most of the permission to escape. And presently, after much excited chatter about the affair, the four drove on through the mountains into Coso Valley, and without further special incident, finished the run into Keeler on the shore of Owens Lake just before twilight.

It was a couple of hours later that Charlie Jorgenson encountered Mr. Modesto Miller.

“I guess the Stowes and us aren’t thick now; oh, no, after the way I handled that

hold-up!”

“What hold-up?”

And fifteen minutes later a white and shaking Charlie Jorgensen said to Bess:

“Oh, my golly, kid! That wasn’t a framed hold-up: it was the real thing! Great gosh; if I’d have known—”

Chapter Twelve

No Business Gets Its Cue

Arriving in Keeler after nightfall the Stowes and the Jorgensons left the Trailmaker in a garage to have its clutch relined and call it a day.

It was next morning that they saw Owens Lake. Across to the west—for Keeler stands on the eastern shore—loomed the great rock wall of the Sierras, incredibly distinct in the early morning sun, and as incredibly distant who’d believe that it was not a mere hour’s jaunt away?

There was an irresistible desire to get nearer to that imperious majesty, to touch its snow mantle and be seated on its stony throne. The dog and her four two-footed, friends agreed that they simply must climb Mt. Whitney.

The following morning the two cars ran the few miles up Owens River Valley to Lone Pine, where arrangements were made for guides and horses; but the start could not be made until the next day—just as well, for they all felt in need of a rest. They loafed about the town that day, asked questions, primed themselves for the event. Charlie Jorgenson received some obviously private instructions from Modesto Miller.

“Just keep right on being friendly, that’s all. You know how to do it without being fresh. The thicker you get with them, the easier for me.”

“You aren’t planning to touch him in the open, are you?” thinking how the dog had spoiled matters in Death Valley.

“No. And no stick-up, either. Say, I wonder who those two fellows were? Probably natives, just operating on general principles. Anyway, they did this much for Stowe—from now on he’ll be watching every spot where someone might be hiding. We’ve got to pull something more subtle. I’ve got it pretty nearly all framed, Charlie. Do you know old Dad McLaughlin?”

“No, but I’ve heard you speak of him before. He helped you put over the Santa Barbara oil well scheme, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and a couple of others. The Chief thinks a good deal of Dad. Well, what I started to say, was—from now on Dad is to be Peter Jorgenson, your father.”

“Ah, that’s news. Bess will be thrilled. All right, Modesto. What else?”

“Nothing you need know, except that he is a lumber king. How does that fit in with what you’ve said to the Stowes? O.K. Well, kind of touch on it now and then; it’ll help prepare their minds for him.”

In charge of two taciturn mountaineers, gray-mustached and unassuming but manifestly competent, the four set out the next morning in great spirits; as for Queen, she was hopelessly mad with joy. The horses plodded placidly along the trail through the foothills, and for a few miles the sightseers forgot the details of mere travel in wonder and delight at the great forests, the tumultuous waters of the creeks, and the scurrying, flitting, flashing wild life about them. Then the trail intruded itself, as it became steeper, narrower and rougher. From then on it was work, whether they remained on the horses’ backs or took to their own feet. But it was work for which pay was rendered in full at every step.

They were swallowed up in pine. The trail passed through twilight shade the greater part of the time, with occasional glimpses of towering granite ahead, and the green of the valley below. The forest lasted nearly a mile of ascent. They ate lunch in the stillness of the pines; they toiled all afternoon through it; not until time to make camp, at the end of the first day, was the edge of it reached.

It was a spot sheltered from the wind, provided long ago with conveniences for the evening bivouac. The sightseers fell asleep that night staring up at the crest, wondering what it would be like and whether they really could make it.

The guides roused them mercilessly early the next day. A chilly hour by the campfire, and then the hot coffee and bacon and flap-jacks got in their good work. High spirits renewed, they passed patches of snow and marveled as the rising sun heated the air to the open-at-the-neck point, yet did not melt the snow. The terrific drop always just over the edge of the trail somehow kept their eyes from appreciating the wild beauty round about. When they had to pass another party, downward bound, it was a breathtaking affair.

And presently the horses were left in charge of one guide, and the other led the way on foot. It was all granite, now, with here and there just enough soil to support a hardy tree or a patch of some Alpine flower. Soon even those were left behind. Every eight or ten steps they had to stop; to Queen, it was an especial effort. By and by she lay down and said she’d wait there till the others came back. The four and their guide pressed on, heeding the admonition to take it easy, pausing regularly to inhale the wine-like air and to wonder afresh at the stillness of things; particularly the silence of the wind, which rushed by like a ghost—for there was nothing to rustle. And the Sky, so blue it was almost black; altogether a thing not quite real.

And then, the summit. The guide was wise; he said nothing at all. The four stood-and let it overwhelm them; the prodigal expanse of white-capped peaks across the great chasm to the west; more peaks to the north, and to the south, still more—splinters and crags and jutting pyramids, every one startlingly clear—cut in an air so transparent it seemed as though there were no air at all; a prodigious outpouring of Nature in her mightiest, most awesomely splendid mood. Down to the east, so nearly straight down one could almost make it in a single leap, stretched a few pale threads between some tiny brown blotches on a green canvas—roads between towns; man’s work, appropriately faint and puny.

It was a relief to find a discarded tobacco can jammed in a crevice. No matter how discordant, it was comforting to see a familiar object that the mind could link up with, amid that terrible magnificence.

As they started down, Florence spoke to Warren, in a hushed tone:

“I—wish we hadn’t made this trip.”

“Why?”

“Why, I don’t know—just why. It’s funny, the way it—the way it affects me”

“It’s the altitude; always gets the heart.”

When the party set out the third day for the return through the forest to Lone Pine, the Stowes had their first experience of Jorgenson quarrelsomeness. It was all between brother and sister, however; and it was all perfectly genuine. A mere trifle started it—the choice of horses. They snapped at one another all morning. Afterward both apologized, each in private to their companions.

“We’ve scrapped like that,” Bess told Warren, “ever since we were old enough to talk. And we know it’s silly. It never happens except when something gets on our nerves. If we could only get along like you and your sister do!” And she meant it fervently. “You’re so congenial.”

Warren said nothing.

They reached Lone Pine without incident.

As Warren Stowe sauntered up to the desk in the hotel, the clerk whisked a gaudy envelope from a pigeonhole. It was a radiogram. Knowing quite exactly from whom it had emanated, and more than half sure what it contained, the big fellow calmly postponed opening it until he and Florence were in their apartments—to the Jorgensons carefully concealed disappointment. This is what Mr. Henry M. Tuttle had paid a good deal of money today to say:

High time you quit dodging trouble and came out in the open, you would-be millionaire you. Give my regards to Miss Florence and practice target shooting less and think more. Good luck.

Said Stowe, after a period of taking Mr. Tuttle’s advice about the thinking:

“This little climb is a sort of a climax, then.”

“Oh, I get you, old dear. From now on the joy-riding must be sort of on the side. No more hill-and-desert adventures?”

“Adventures of another sort, Sis. Adventures in business, if my thinker is working. Of course, Mr. Tuttle is right. Well, I’m satisfied. We’ve kind of gorged on the scenics lately, haven’t we?”

“And I feel as though I’ve had my fill of hardships, for a while, anyhow.” Surveying one or two rents in her costume, also the condition of her finger nails and the dismaying depth of brown in her cheeks. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed it.”

“We had it coming to us. All right, Mr. Tuttle! But it looks as if his detectives didn’t know anything about that holdup, or he wouldn’t have accused me of dodging trouble.”

“The Jorgensons certainly pulled us out of that.”

“They’re good kids, Sis.”

“Honest, now Warren—don’t you like Bess pretty well?”

“Yes! Still—I don’t believe I could ever get absolutely wild about her. Can’t say why.”

“Isn’t she pretty enough?”

“Oh, sure she’s pretty. Like a blonde doll. Or a soft, helpless baby; you want to pick her up and hold her. And she’s got a dandy figure.”

There was this consolation, though, reflected Florence: Warren talked about the other girl as though she were merely something finer even than the Gale—not a thing to rave about. Said Florence:

“It’s her manner isn’t it? I know. She’s apparently so frank and jolly and easy going, and yet—somehow—”

“That’s it! Seems to be holding something back. I suppose they call it reserve. But I don’t know. Charlie has the same—I don’t know what you call it—mannerism, I guess. Makes you feel as though you didn’t exactly belong in their class.”

“But he’s nice, just the same. That is, when he and she aren’t squabbling about something. I’ve heard that some of those Seattle society people are awful snobs, but Charlie acts like one of us. It’s only when he’s not saying anything—”

“Makes you wonder what he’s thinking about, doesn’t he? But he’s as bright and cheerful as Bess. And nerves! I sure get a kick out of the way he turned those cow-punchers right side up. Don’t blame you for being stuck on him, Sis.”

“I’m not stuck on him!”

“That old cameo ring of his would look great on your finger, alongside your emerald; if that’s the proper finger to—”

Florence came over and frowned horribly and showed her teeth and mauled his hair. He took it so indifferently, like the big Newfoundland he might have been likened to, that Florence in desperation resorted to tickling. But suddenly she drew back in alarm; if she were not greatly mistaken, he had been about to retaliate by taking her across his knee to spank her. Some such idea had, in fact, entered his mind. A huge surprise would have been his had he exercised that brotherly right.

Northward along the deep trough of the Ocean River Valley sped the two cars the next day, making frequent halts the better to appreciate that towering rampart on their left, seemingly just beside the road. You had to cock your head on one side to look up at the ridge; like watching an airplane. And yet, there were the greenest of farms all along the road—irrigation again—to prove that the valley was anything but narrow. On the right, more mountains plentifully timbered and not so high or so rocky on the upper slopes; along the road, the steel ribbons of the locomotive highway and the great tube of the Los Angeles water supply.

And then steadily up the river to where Tioga Pass lay open to their cars—the best of mountain roads across into the Yosemite region. Evidently Mr. Tuttle would have blamed Stowe had he yielded to that magnificent prospect; for at Tioga Lodge he found a relayed message which read:

Yosemite some other time. They never talk any business there. Go on to Tahoe and act like half a million dollars.

The Jorgensons were badly disappointed. Charlie used the long distance telephone; and soon afterward he and Bess announced that they would go on to Bridgeport and there outfit for a return to the Tioga Pass route. It was a clever little touch. At Bridgeport, who should happen to be seated in a car at the filling station but old Pete Jorgenson—otherwise Dad McLaughlin.

“Well, well, well!” he shouted, the instant he saw the car which Modesto Miller had so carefully described to him. “You young rascals! You’re as brown as two Diggers!”

“Hey—if it isn’t Dad!” yelled Charlie.

“Oh, daddy—daddy!” shrieked Bess at the sight of this total stranger. She flew to his arms and was kissed, and babbled and even managed a tear of joy.

There was a touch of dignity in the way iron-faced Peter Jorgenson acknowledged the introduction to the Stowes. He was every inch the strong man of industry and finance, authority written into every line about his eyes and mouth; he gave the Stowes a not-too-obvious scrutiny, before he unbent and expressed his pleasure that his son and daughter had had such happily-met companions. In short, it was put over on the man who carried the hundred-thousand-dollar bait, and put over thoroughly.

It transpired, as this very busy man briefly explained over a luncheon that he had ordered with the most convincing magnificence and expertness, that he had just been out into the eastern range to look over a piece of timber land, with a view to buying. Didn’t know whether he’d be able to use it or not. Would have to consult with So-and-So in Los; was going right on. Had bought an option for ten; he didn’t say whether he meant ten cents or something else, but his whole manner thundered thousands.

“Getting along all right, you two kids? How’s your letter of credit standing up? Be sure to write your mother often. How’s the roads, Stowe? Think I can get through tonight? Rottenest cigars I ever paid four-bits for. But say—you ought to see that fir. If that shipyard—”

And then he was off, with Warren Stowe gazing after him in admiration. It was not that Dad McLaughlin was so fine an actor; he had merely aped the mannerisms and forcefulness of a certain bona fide lumber king whom he happened to have met. Stowe longed to know more like him.

As for Charlie and Bess—their newly acquired father had sternly forbade them to attempt lonely roads without companionship. So the two gave up their projected Tioga trip, to be with the Stowes, and clinched still further the bonds of confidence which was the sole purpose of the maneuver. The best part of it all was that Stowe had not confided anything whatever about what he was doing, had not told them the least bit more than he and Florence were his father’s heirs. His confidence in the Jorgensons was entirely internal, subconscious, self-induced so far as he could see. And he had no reason to look for anything subtle. Florence was just as matter-of-fact in assuming that their friends were friends, no more, no less. She gave it no conscious thought whatever.

The two cars worked on further northward and so into Tahoe City—three days distant from Mt. Whitney.

At the famous hotel was another message from Mr. Tuttle:

Now sit tight and see what happens. I will guarantee plenty of excitement.

Chapter Thirteen

A $10,000 Hug

The people at Tahoe unconsciously contributed a whole lot to the education of the six-foot probationer. Very speedily, indeed, he and his sister were put in their proper places by those elegant people of social elevation. A sweetly worded question or so, with its awkward reply, was quite enough to brand the Stowes as not belonging. As for Warren and Florence, however, it is to the credit of their common sense that they cheerfully relinquished all hopes of ever belonging. They developed discerning eyes of their own, began to draw the line between those whose claims to notice rated upon their standing in the columns of the society editors and those who had really done something worthwhile. They discerned, too, after a little more practice between the really affluent and that hopeful group of poseurs, the clerks and typists on vacation.

Of course, both the big fellow and the girl whom he so proudly introduced as his sister had had considerable experience in the business world. Warren had sold limousines to Knob Hill; Florence had met scores of Mr. Tuttle’s influential friends. In fact, the old fear that she might be recognized and “bawled out” as the ex-stenographer in the Australian’s office, came back stronger than before. Yet, as it happened, of all the San Franciscans and other Californians who filled the resort, there was none whom Florence had ever seen before.

Happening to come across a millionaire wholesaler to whom he had once sold a sedan, Stowe encountered something new in human values. The meeting came about most informally. As Warren started up the piazza steps, Mr. Randall planted himself directly in front of him.

“Hullo! Aren’t you the young fellow who sold me that Supple Six, couple of years ago?”

“Why, yes! How are you, Mr. Randall?”

“Fine. Forget your name—Stowe? Just wanted to admit that you were right about that bus. Wouldn’t believe you at the time, but I did have trouble with the rear end, just as you warned me.” He looked the big fellow up and down. “Still tell the truth?”

Subsequently Mr. Randall introduced him to a banker, to a man high up in a prominent Oakland realty syndicate, a certain metal trades manufacturer, a woman who owned a chain of department stores, and a number of other personages of greater or less consequence. Not one of these made a move toward finding out anything about Stowe’s money, except that the banker, quite impersonally, inquired if the ex-truck driver were taking this vacation in celebration of some “killing.” As an experiment, Stowe offered the bare statement that he inherited “a good-sized pile.” The banker merely grunted cynically, said that he had a distant relative, also a young man, who had come into a sizable legacy and who had forthwith proceeded to make a fool of himself.

These people talked business a great deal, apparently not minding his presence. In fact, he came to believe—after Florence had declared herself convinced of it—that these folks liked him. They included him and his sister on excursions, from steamer trips about the lake to raids on nearby trout streams; but whereas in Los Angeles he had been importuned to invest, here not one word was spoken along that line. For a while this puzzled him.

Then it occurred to him that these people—whom he knew to be real successes, not the skeletons of success; without doubt the sort that Mr. Tuttle had wanted him to know—these people were studying his character. It was something of a shock, this realization. What they wanted to know about him was his capacity, his degree of integrity, his sense of honor, and his attitude toward the square deal. The people who really count in this world measure each other by their strength of character, not by the size of their bank accounts.

“You’re lucky, old dear,” said Florence suddenly one evening. The same thought had come to her.

“How so?”

“You’ve been in the habit of keeping your word, all your life. It is simply matter-of-fact for you to abide by what you say you will do. It isn’t any effort for you; you take it for granted that you will always make good your word. You’re lucky, because these people see it in you.”

Stowe flushed. But he said:

“I wonder if that isn’t it; if that isn’t what Mr. Tuttle was thinking about, when he planned all this.”

For instance, Stowe was always punctual in keeping an appointment—punctiliously punctual, if that is allowable English. If he promised a guide extra remuneration for special service, he paid the amount automatically, without giving it a particle of thought, without either calling attention to his punctiliousness or avoiding notice on account of it. These people noticed that. And Florence steadily waxed prouder and prouder, to have Warren introduce her with so much satisfaction as “his little sister.”

The Jorgensons spent little time in the company of the Stowes. It appeared that Charlie and Bess had met some old friends—members of that same rather exclusive set from Seattle; in reality, half a dozen very good actors and actresses imported by the astute Modesto Miller—and this crowd kept pretty closely to itself for some days. It was not until the Jorgensons’ “friends” departed that the four resumed, without a comment or particular enthusiasm, a degree of their former intimacy.

One morning Florence and Warren were discussing over breakfast in their sitting-room whether the time had come for them to shake the spray of Tahoe from their garments and seek new fields. Nothing had happened; there had been no attempt, direct or indirect, to separate Stowe from that which he carried in his belt. It appeared to be in order for him to expose himself to a higher degree of temptation. In the midst of their talk there came a knock at the door.

It was Charlie Jorgenson.

“I’ve got a funny sort of problem, here, Warren. Wish you’d see if you can help me with it; after you’re through eating, that is.”

“I’m practically through. Come on in.” Florence had withdrawn to her own room.

“What’s the problem, Charlie?”

He replied by showing a telegram from Peter Jorgenson. It required a word of explaining. It appeared that the Seattle lumber magnate had decided to renew that option on the Bridgeport fir land—the option for which he paid “ten”—and he had wired Charlie the money to close the deal; the owner of the tract being then stopping at the same hotel. But the telegraph people had refused to pay him the ten thousand on the ground that he was not sufficiently identified.

“I couldn’t get the clerk, here, to do it; said he couldn’t take the risk. Can’t blame him, of course.”

“No, of course not. Your friends from Seattle—they’ve gone away. Well—when does the option expire?”

“At noon. This lumberman is in a hurry to square the thing and get back. Says he had another offer. I’m sure Dad wouldn’t have gone into this thing unless he was reasonably sure of turning the deal; its good timber, he said, for ship work. Can you suggest anything, old man?”

“You might wire your dad to waive identification. The company couldn’t object to paying the coin then.”

“Good idea!” cried Charlie instantly.

Warren went with him to the telegraph office. On the way through the lobby they picked up a bearded, prosperous-looking middle-aged chap whose clothes fairly smelled of fir: Mr. Tolliver, who had been well primed by Modesto Miller. Tolliver appeared to be slightly suspicious of Stowe, which was part of the psychology of the game.

At the telegraph office Charlie dispatched the suspected message. Not that Stowe had had any doubt as to the truth of the thing, but it helped Charlie that there was a bona fide transmittal of money on hand; Modesto Miller had taken no chances, but had got together the real cash—with the aid of The Chief—so that there might be a real problem. Consequently there was nothing to be suspicious about when word came back from Los Angeles, to the effect that Mr. Peter Jorgensen had left for Tahoe.

“Now, what am I to do?” wailed Charlie Jorgenson. “Gee—can’t you give me longer Mr. Tolliver? Dad’s on the way—ought to be here in thirty-six hours.”

“That’s not good business, son,” said Mr. Tolliver. “I made your father a special price; could do a little better with some Salt Lake people. You’ll have to get this money into my hands by twelve.” He glanced at a big silver watch. “Find me in the hotel.” And he left.

Warren Stowe thought hard. His impulse had been—still was—to come to the rescue. It would be so simple; so easy and apparently quite safe. Why Peter Jorgenson was solid business respectability itself. And these children of his—hadn’t he, Warren, the best of reasons to trust them?

“Say, Charlie—I’ll talk it over with Florence and let you know. Maybe I can fix you up.”

“Oh, joy; hope you can! I’d hate to fall down on Dad after all he’s done to put this through. Gee, you’re a prince!”

Putting the situation up to Florence, Stowe was so intent upon stating the matter clearly and impartially—so as not to influence her judgment—that he did not notice the glow of pleasure which came into her eyes. To Florence, it was justification of her masquerade that Warren should lay this thing before her. It had disappointed her a trifle when he gave the hundred dollars to the old inventor in Los Angeles; now it delighted her beyond measure to know that he trusted her and valued her opinion.

“I don’t want to have you decide either the one way or the other, Sis,” said Warren. “Just want your judgment, and your promise not to be disappointed if I argue with you about it.”

“Well, that’s fair enough. I say, go ahead and be generous.”

“You think it’s safe?”

“Safe as the mint! They’re a couple of dears, and so is their father. They wouldn’t dream of harming us. Besides, didn’t Charlie save us from that hold-up? He deserves a come-back, old dear.”

“I won’t argue with you, after all. However, I think it’s only plain sense to use a little caution. Mustn’t let anyone know I’m carrying so much coin around.”

Warren slipped away without Charlie’s seeing him, and wired ten thousand dollars to the cashier of the San Francisco bank, where he still had a small account on deposit: also a separate message, including sufficient money to pay for returning the money in the same way, and promising to explain later; also stipulating that the cashier waive identification. That was before ten in the morning—and half an hour before twelve, the cash which Warren had deposited with the telegraph company was repaid to him by a staring clerk. A few minutes afterward, Mr. Tolliver renewed the option and made his exit—being met before he had gone very far, by one Modesto Miller.

“That was mighty fine of you,” said Charlie Jorgenson. Bess, her face glowing with gratitude that was quite real, said:

“If it wasn’t right here in the lobby, Warren Stowe, I’d give you a good, big hug!”

“Come on up stairs into the corridor,” dared Warren. And he gave her a lingering glance of such ardor that she had to look twice to make sure whether he meant it or not; and even then, she wasn’t positive. It made her think. During the rest of that day, Bess did more thinking than she ordinarily contrived within a month. And it was very quietly that she said good-night, about eleven, after the dancing.

“Say—how about that hug?” asked Warren, as the two pairs of young people stood at the head of the stairs, about to go their respective ways. And he moved insinuatingly toward the blue-eyed girl.

It was meant only for a joke, one would think. And it seemed to be in purely a daring spirit that Bess Jorgensen, laughing defiantly, flung her arms about Warren’s neck and, for good measure, kissed him.

But after the door had closed on her in her room, Bess Jorgenson slowly disrobed, slowly braided her hair, and slowly moved over to her bed. Then she suddenly threw herself on the pillow and wept.

And Florence Kelly, now irretrievably known as Florence Stowe, sister of Warren Stowe, sat upright in her bed for an hour, her eyes wide open, looking honestly into the future—and seeing nothing.

Chapter Fourteen

Bess Takes a Hand

Within a few minutes after Warren Stowe’s ten thousand had been paid into the hands of Mr. Modesto Miller and one fir-perfumed Mr. Tolliver had gone his way rewarded, a telephone call was put in for Mr. William V. Finch, in San Francisco.

“Will you kindly tell The Chief,” said Modesto, “that I was able to put through that little deal all right? The gentleman was glad to pay ten thousand for the goods.”

Mr. Finch stifled a virtuous groan.

“I’ll tell him, Mr. Miller. Wait a moment—I intend to give him a very serious piece of advice, at the same time. If you people would only mend your ways!—Suppose you stay near that telephone for an hour or so. I am in hopes that The Chief will decide to have you make some further move in the matter.”

“All right, brother.”

Mr. Finch took counsel with The Chief and gave himself a good, sound scolding. In the end he told him that it was no use; Stowe brought this thing upon himself, and who could blame The Chief for that righteous indignation, that burning spirit of up-uplift, which urged him to sacrifice this presumptuous young fellow on the altar of Example? Fervently wishing that it wasn’t so contrary to the law, Mr. Finch proceeded to tell Mr. Miller what The Chief had decided upon.

“You are to pay that money back to the gentleman, at once.”

“What?”

“Precisely; pay it back. Do I make myself clear?”

“Do you—Say, am I crazy, or is it you?”

“Neither of us, my poor deluded friend. The Chief has thought this over very thoroughly—He came to the conclusion that your—ah—your prospect must be rather well off, to be able to lay his hands on so much ready cash on such short notice. Do you—er—get me?”

“Huh?”

“There must be a great deal more where that ten thousand came from. Ah—I thought you would grasp the idea; what a pity that your clever brain is not working along other lines!”

“Say Mr. Finch—you’re right! I thought it was kind of funny, the way he got hold of the coin so quick! Why, for all I know, he might have had it right on his—”

“In order to prevent any misunderstanding on the part of those who might chance to overhear,” warned Mr. Finch, “I would suggest—get me, Miller?—I would suggest that you await written instructions from The Chief. That is, unless you feel competent to go ahead alone.”

“I don’t need any instructions!” Mr. Miller’s delight was good to see. “Might need a little help—let you know later. Oh man, but this is lovely pickings; just lovely. Say, Mr. Finch-figuratively speaking, how much more of our product do you imagine we could bless this gentleman with?”

“The Chief estimates that, on the showing just made, you could expect to sell anywhere from five to ten times as much, provided you go about it the right way.”

“Leave it to me!”

“Your enthusiasm is always so pleasing to The Chief. If only—But there; I have tried my best to make you see the light. I fear it is no use. Well, well; what’s a poor lawyer to do? For my sake, Miller, don’t make any slips. And—er—you know The Chief; what a nasty temper that man can show at times! You remember what happened to The Tacoma Kid? It would be very foolish to double-cross the Chief.”

“Say, hold on a second, Mr. Finch—just in case anything should slip, it would probably be a good idea if I should be in Frisco at the time. Get me? In Frisco.”

“Quite. You shall be in Frisco as soon as you can get here. Excellent plan, Mr. Miller I shall arrange the—er—evidence.”

Mr. Miller’s next concern was to get Dad McLaughlin, otherwise Peter Jorgenson, at the other end of the wire. Mr. Jorgenson had been reported by telegraph to have left for Tahoe, but was located in his Hollywood bungalow. A few swift words of explanation and the dynamic magnate was on his way, taking an airplane as far as Bakersfield so that he might catch up with schedule. In due course—it was the next day—Peter Jorgenson descended from the train at Tahoe City.

Charlie Jorgenson immediately told him about the refusal of the telegraph people to pay that money. You should have seen the lumber king’s wrath. It was a wonderful piece of acting. He stormed into the office, called the operator everything black and horrible, and left the innocent young fellow trembling in every limb. Not until then did Charlie have a chance to tell him that, thanks to Warren Stowe, the option had been renewed after all. The great man’s wrath vanished.

“Stowe take care of you? Gimme that option! By the Eternal, that young man’s all right! Want to see him, right off!”

They hunted up the six-footer. Old Peter Jorgenson shook his hand until it ached.

“Appreciate this, son!” he boomed.

“Make it right with you, some day! Anytime you want a lift—speak up! Lots of opportunity up Seattle way—lumber—ships—mines—anything that you take a fancy to? See to it that you get started right! Back you to the limit!”

It was well done—in fact, more than well done. Warren, who for the past few days had been associating with people whom he positively knew to be the real thing in the business world, detected something insincere in the man’s forcefulness. But he set it down to a difference in custom; Seattle was perhaps less sedate than San Francisco. Still it kept Stowe from eagerly grasping at the opportunity which was being offered him. He had learned to curb his impulses to a certain degree. He thanked Peter Jorgenson, said he hadn’t done anything to be thanked for particularly, and that he was honored and would certainly keep Seattle in mind—after his vacation were over.

“Well, door’s unlocked to you, any time, son. Got to run along now,” speaking to Charlie and Bess. “Down to Bridgeport. Got an O. K. from the ship people for that fir. Begin taking it out soon’s we can get men on the job. Great business, lumber,” to Stowe. “Hope you let me put you into it. Bye!”

And he hopped into a car which he had been careful to wire in advance, and was off. A trifle melodramatic, thought Stowe: still, the man belonged to the old school of pioneers—he was entitled to his bluster and vanity. Perfectly genuine, was the impression that still remained in Stowe’s mind regarding all the Jorgenson family.

So the ten thousand was duly returned to keep company with the other ninety in the belt. And Modesto Miller, serene in the knowledge that Mr. Finch would arrange his alibi, proceeded to summon Charlie and Bess to a private conference.

“The idea is this,” said the man who had found it more profitable to serve The Chief than to sell real estate. “If Stowe could lay his hands on ten thou that quick, there must be a lot more; he wouldn’t take chance, unless he had more to draw on. Well, and we can guess that the main reason why he came through, Charlie, is because of the way you came to the rescue when he was held up.”

“B-r-r,” shuddered Charlie. “Every time I think of that, it gives me the creeps, to think of what might have happened.”

“Never mind; you got away with it, and that’s all that counts. Now, the next thing is to get something else on him.”

“Get something else on him?”

“You understand; pull something to give you another lever. Not a hold-up; something else. Something that’ll put him under obligations to you again!”

The Jorgensons thought this over in silence. After a few seconds, Charlie looked across at his sister.

“It’s up to you, Bess.”

She wondered if they could notice any change in color. Her cheeks felt cold somehow. But she managed to reply in what sounded like her usual voice:

“Up to me? I’m game, of course. What kind of an idea have you, Modesto?”

“Well,” flatly, “Stowe likes you, doesn’t he?”

“A little,” her tone was lightness itself.

“It’s up to you to make him like you still more!”

That was all that Modesto Miller said. He implied several times as much. Bess met his meaning gaze with one as meaning and as steady. But within her something went heavy as lead.

“I get you,” spoke she, contriving to look very hard and cynical. “Leave it to me. Modesto.”

“Good kid! The rest of the business I’ll frame a little later. I guess you are wise, Charlie, how to keep on sticking to these two without their noticing anything?”

“They haven’t noticed anything yet have they?”

That afternoon Charlie played eavesdropper, and overheard Warren and Florence discussing possible routes out of the Tahoe country into the Sacramento Valley. Before they said a word about leaving, Charlie and Bess announced that they were just about fed up on Tahoe—figuring on pulling out. “Hope we can keep the party unbroken,” he said to the Stowes. “The Placerville route—along the American River—looks good to us.”

“Four minds with but a single thought,” replied Stowe. “It’s a go. Tomorrow morning?” Just that simply and just that effectively was the relationship of the two pairs maintained on a seemingly natural, unforced footing.

Traffic was a thing to be reckoned with on the transcontinental highway which took them down the American River. Some of the finest views in that gorge were spoiled for Stowe, because of the care he had to exercise in passing other cars. Florence declared it the best thing yet—not so awe-inspiring as the Sierra cliffs in Owens Valley, but finer because not so wild. They made the run to the state capital in one rather tiring day.

It was on the balcony of the old-time Sacramento hotel that Bess made her first move to obey Modesto’s orders. About eleven that night the four stood there for a while, watching the after-theater crowds in the street below. Somebody yawned; there was a move to go in. Bess was the last to stir. In a low voice she called after Stowe: “Come here a second, Warren; want to tell you something.”

He came back. Florence and Charlie exchanging quick glances, wandered slowly into the corridor, Warren stepped beside Bess.

“What is it, Taffy?” (a nickname for which her hair was to blame.)

“I was just wondering. Would—do you think my hair would be more—more—becoming, if I dyed it?”

“Thunder, no!”

“I thought—maybe—”

“Does it annoy you, to be called Taffy? I never guessed it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, Warren. Only if it doesn’t please you—”

“Heavens, don’t change it on my account! Suits me to a dot. Prettiest hair I ever saw; straight, I mean it, Bess!”

She glanced up at him shyly and remained mute, as though at a loss for what to say next. Stowe thought fast—jumped at conclusions. He stammered:

“Was there—something about me you wanted to—suggest?”

“How in the world did you guess it?”

“I—don’t know. Anyway—”

“Well, never mind, big fellow. I just thought—maybe you wouldn’t mind if—Sure you won’t be offended?”

“Of course not!”

“Well—you know—you’ve always joshed about it, yourself—you aren’t what they call a prize beauty, Warren. Your face—”

“Only a mother could love,” promptly.

“But she’d suggest improvements There’s nothing very much wrong with it, little boy; it’s just that you show too much of it.”

“Oh!” Big light. “A mustache? Or the whole shrubbery?”

“Just a mustache. Your chin—I like your chin. And your eyes. And your nose isn’t half bad, really. But your upper lip—and that aperture just underneath it—honest, they’re—I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry!”

So they laughed, or rather giggled with of the fierce intensity of self-consciousness blowing off steam. And Florence and Charlie didn’t know what to think when the two came in; could only suspect that some mischief was afoot. For a day or two those not in the secret were very wary about what they sat down on, what they ate, and what they “bit” at.

Chapter Fifteen

A Few Beans are Spilled

Within two or three days Stowe’s ambitions were known to the world. His hair, though not dark, grew rapidly. Florence was first to notice it, when he kissed her goodnight—as usual, for he had not omitted the rite from the day they started on the trip.

“Why what’s on your upper lip, old dear?”

“By Jove,” said he, fingering it gingerly. “It must be a mustache coming out—wonder where I caught that?”

“I’ll bet Bess put you up to it!”

Whereupon Stowe could have kicked himself, for he felt himself growing red. It was simply the embarrassment of the new experiment, of course; but Florence looked at him strangely, said good-night rather abruptly, and closed the door of her room very softly behind her. Stowe knew perfectly well what she was thinking, or thought he did, at least.

Of course, he was in for a good deal of kidding, particularly at Charlie’s hands. The youthful scion of Norway had once essayed such a thing himself, however, as Bess was prompt to divulge; it would appear that he was jealous because he couldn’t make so good a showing in such a short time.

And once, such was the effort that her gaiety cost her, in sudden reaction Florence turned toward him as she was passing his chair, there in the sitting room, and took his head in her arms and hugged it tight to her bosom. And kissed his forehead and as suddenly let go of him again; then stood back, a little pale, wondering what in the name of all that was terrible he would think of her, if he were to learn the truth about her.

But he just sat there and smiled his big, kindly affectionate smile, unruffled and complacent as ever, so far as she could see. Florence went away believing that all was well between them. She could not know what a strange effect it had had upon him—that sudden, fierce embrace to her breast. She had no reason to see any connection between this fact and something that occurred—or failed to occur, rather. Warren did not kiss her goodnight!

“Well—see you in the morning,” he said awkwardly, and ambled to his room.

Florence stood without moving, her eyes very wide and her heart seemingly on the point of jumping out her throat. What could have happened—what could have happened? She kept whispering to herself. Could it be that in some dreadful way, Warren had found out about her masquerade? Did he know, or—just as bad—suspect that she wasn’t genuinely his sister?

Oh, it was awful! She had not dreamed that she had come to set so much store by that good-night kiss. At one time she had feared it; now, it was a token, and he had elected to withdraw it. What was she to do?

There came a wild impulse to go to him—now, at once—and blurt out the whole truth. Perhaps he would forgive. Perhaps this incident showed what she was thinking; that he wanted her to do the right thing and was giving her a chance. But she lacked the simple nerve; lacked, too, enough certainty that that was what was the matter. She tried and tried to work it out; but never having been a man, she couldn’t be expected to see the situation as it appeared to Warren.

Why had Florence kissed him on the forehead? It was only too bitterly clear to him, he thought. She didn’t like the feel of that mustache!

But he couldn’t see his way clear to abandon the project. He was in the habit of sticking to a thing, once committed to it. And the more hair appeared on his lip, the more positive he became that Bess had been right about it; already his upper lip and mouth were losing their conspicuousness. And if Bess felt that way, wouldn’t other girls be likely to prefer him en camoflagee? Too bad about Florence, of course; he had liked that good-night kiss as much as she. But, of course, she’d understand; sisters always do.

And he startled her afresh the next morning as—when they were about to go down to breakfast—he came up behind her as she stood at the door, and put his two big arms about her and hugged her tight. Tenderly he kissed her hair.

“Are you my dear little sister?” he wanted to know.

“Y-yes. Warren,” she whispered

“Gee I’m lucky.” And he let her go.

As for Bess, she made opportunity to say “I told you so,” at frequent intervals; and she asked him what he thought about her frocks, and the way she was “doing” her hair and whether she were using too much of something on her face. Bit by bit she got into the habit of touching up his ties, or replacing stray locks of his hair, of arranging so that Charlie and Florence would pair off and leave Warren to her. It was all so gradual and insidious, that only Florence, who noticed everything now, saw what was developing.

Thanks to Mr. Randall’s introductions, there were numerous teas, receptions and tours personally conducted to the several points of interest about Sacramento; all of which had the effect of accustoming Warren to the kind of people that Henry M. Tuttle had calculated on. Politics—finance—the bigger topics affecting the welfare of the State as a whole, not merely the locality in which he had formerly been interested; on these subjects he began to feel at ease in the presence of those who were responsible. And as before, he found that he was welcome for his own sake rather than for the sake of his money.

Several hundreds of miles were tallied on the speedometer of the Gale before the possibilities of Sacramento were exhausted. Not once did any word come from Mr. Tuttle; evidently things were going to suit him now. Stowe was too continually in the presence of fellow humans in large numbers to have his personal wealth endangered by anyone not possessed of The Chiefs special interest in the case. Miller reported to William V. Finch that his policy was not to hurry the Jorgensons but to give them time to effect a thoroughly good job of it. Mr. Finch, speaking for The Chief, regretfully admitted that Mr. Miller’s policy was sound.

When the time came for the sightseers to leave the capital, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for the four to discuss plans together. Charlie Jorgensen congratulated his sister and himself, afterward, that they had developed their art to the nth degree; it was acting so excellent that no one could possibly detect that it was acting, he said. Bess agreed in a half-hearted way so unlike her, Charlie wondered; then set it down to momentary feminine whimsy.

So it was agreed to tour the Sacramento Valley to the north, taking in whatever seized their fancies from day to day. It was toward the end of July when they started out. They touched at Marysville, had a look at the blocky buttes north of the town, went on through Oroville to Red Bluff, made side trips into the hills, and saw plenty to interest them everywhere. It was all leisurely enough; in due course the Trailmaker and the Gale fetched up at Sisson, where there arose the question of whether they should attempt the ascent of the noble white giant, Shasta.

“Afraid Mr. Tuttle wouldn’t approve,” spoke Warren, not stopping to think. Then he and Florence glanced swiftly at one another, as they realized how confidential their relations with these Jorgensons had become, that this thing had been said so freely in their presence.

“Mr. Tuttle?” queried Charlie, puzzled. Of course there was no acting about it, for him and Bess; Miller had told them nothing—had known nothing about Mr. Tuttle, anyway.

“Hum,” remarked Warren, regarding Florence humorously. “See any reason why we shouldn’t spill the beans, Sis?”

Florence hesitated only an instant. What harm could there be in it? Besides, weren’t the Jorgensen under obligation to be discreet on account of that lumber option business?

“Go ahead, Warren.”

So Stowe gave the details of the hundred thousand dollar proposition, with the five hundred thousand in waiting on the outcome of his probation; the ten thousand mileage, and the reason why he must not hire protection or even appeal to the law, but must develop within himself the ability to resist all attempts to separate him from what lay in that belt. The Jorgensons listened with absolutely unaffected curiosity and interest. There was nothing but utter sincerity in Bess’s tones as she bubbled:

“Oh, how thrilling! I do hope you win out, Warren! Just to show that old Australian you’re not so easy. Why, it’s just like a—a novel, or something!”

“You’ve succeeded so far, haven’t you?” said Charlie. “Say—I just happened to think!—you drew on that hundred thousand to pull dad out of that option business! By Jiminy, that was going some, old boy, considering!”

“Oh, I knew you people were all right,” returned Warren easily. He did not see how the two blondes took this; it was a barely perceptible stiffening of their features. Even Florence did not catch it. “Well, the three months is half gone even if the mileage isn’t. I guess I’m going to make it all right. But I’ll tell the world my fingers have itched some! You take that fellow at Oroville, with his orange grove proposition; I know blamed well I passed up something swell there! It’s all I can do to keep from turning around and going back—”

“Warren,” said Florence positively, “we shall do nothing of the sort. What do you know about oranges? Best brother I’ve got,” she informed the Jorgensons, “but oh, he’s foolish!”

And so they did not go up Mt. Shasta. As for the Jorgensons, they said that if the Stowes didn’t mind, they’d dearly love to stick around until the end of the expedition, to learn how it all came out and to lend a hand if necessary to thwart those who might have unwelcome designs. The Stowes were more than agreeable; there had been no word from Mr. Tuttle to indicate that he disapproved of this companionship thus far. All of which Charlie Jorgensen promptly reported to Mr. Modesto Miller at the first favorable opportunity.

“A hundred thousand on his person!” Mr. Miller had not dreamed of such a thing.

“But—four times that much more in the bank, if nothing happens to the hundred!” pointed out Charlie.

“You just keep right on getting as intimate as you can—Bess and you—and watch for a sign from me. And don’t let anybody else get near him—understand?”

Which Charlie reported back to Bess.

“Ah,” exclaimed she, “did you tell Modesto all about it? I—”

“Of course,” sharply,” What do you mean?”

“Oh nothing. I had—oh, it was a no-good idea, after all, Never mind, kid.”

But it set Charlie Jorgenson to thinking.

With all four members of the party sharing the knowledge that the Gale’s speedometer had to register ten thousand miles before Stowe could report to Mr. Tuttle, there was exceedingly little time lost during the days that now ensued. Anyway, sightseeing had come to be somewhat of an effort, at least for Florence and Warren.

From Shasta northward the two cars continued on the Pacific Highway, crossing into Oregon and visiting Medford, where lived some acquaintances of the Jorgensons—people who were primed over the telephone to say things in the presence of the Stowes that thoroughly clinched the Jorgenson standing. Remembering that, although Mr. Tuttle had specified California as the locale for the expedition, yet had not objected when Stowe drove part of the way to Tahoe through the State of Nevada, Warren decided to risk a run to Crater Lake. The four agreed that it was all it had been said to be, and unspeakably more—a marvelous sight, that broad water-pot with the fantastically discolored lips. No sooner had they returned to the nearest telegraph office, however, than a message was handed to Stowe.

Go to New York if you want to, but it doesn’t count on the speedometer. Only California mileage. Leaving for San Francisco day after tomorrow. Respects to Miss Florence.

Tuttle.

So the return was hastened, except it was agreed that they deserved a taste of the sea-coast for a change from Medford, the route through Grant’s Pass was taken, bringing them over an incredibly rough but wildflower lined road into Crescent City—northernmost of California’s coast towns. From Crescent City on south to the little port of Eureka the road hugged the shore.

But after leaving Eureka they struck inland again in order to see the country about Willits and Ukiah.

From this point for several days the Stowe expedition would have been hard for anyone save the expert Modesto Miller to keep track of. The Jorgensons and the Stowes proceeded to make a thorough tour of the Lake County region. Fort Bragg, on the coast—Bartlett Springs—Calistoga—Geyserville—St. Helena—Santa Rosa—every one of the famous “objectives” of the guide books was given a swift but satisfying scrutiny. The route flickered back and forth, up and down on the map.

From the Sonoma region the two cars, after visiting the State’s prison at San Quentin—something that had quite a kick in it for the Jorgensons—crossed to Richmond, spent a day in Oakland theaters and shops, then ran on south to San Jose and made the trip up Mount Hamilton on a Saturday night. The experience gave Bess a chance to make good use of a stroll outside the observatory, with her arm on Warren’s, in the moonlight. Afterward she listlessly informed her brother that Warren had put his arm around her, but had said nothing, had done nothing more. No hurry, said Charlie; don’t force things. But he watched her narrowly and thought some more.

Running back to Mission San Jose the next morning the four took the cut off through the hills into Livermore, then cut across the San Joaquin Valley, right on into the Yosemite Valley. The mileage wouldn’t count, but the experience wasn’t to be missed. However, they spent but a couple of days in that magnificence; on through the Mariposa Big Trees to Fresno.

At almost every point where he remained in a hotel more than an hour or so, Stowe was at pains to make his presence known to someone or other of importance in that locality; someone to whom he had letters of introduction, procured always in advance from a previous acquaintance all linked up, You might say, with Mr. Randall and other people he had met at Tahoe.

He was going Mr. Tuttle one better; but he was deliberately courting temptation. After a time Stowe quit trying to keep account of the different propositions that were made to him. They ranged from mines to ranches, from oil wells to whale-fishing. There was the widest variety in the way the birds were presented; sometimes openly, sometimes subtly, usually earnestly, but as often desperately. But no violence was offered; the presence of his companions precluded that, it would seem. Maybe the occasional riddling of stray tin cans had something to do with this. The hundred thousand remained intact for many a thousand miles.

California seemed to be alive with tourists. Seldom were the two cars entirely to themselves on the most uninviting road for more than a quarter of an hour. They squandered some gasoline on a little run into General Grant Park, then ran down to Visalia and on west to Coalinga—reminiscent of a certain exciting event in the hills near the Pinnacles, about which the Jorgensons were told for the first time. But from Coalinga they turned southward into San Miguel and thence through Paso Robles and San Luis Obispo to Pismo Beach, for another taste of salt. This was the Coast Highway, thick with travel at all times. The four elected to have a second look at Los Angeles and ran down the coast through Santa Barbara, changed their minds at that point and stayed over most of a day, deciding that they had had enough of the coast when they got to Ventura and going directly eastward and inland to Saugus where the route led through Palmdale Canon into the Mojave Desert.

Chapter Sixteen

Miss Kelley Comes to Life

The Gale’s speedometer showed exactly half the distance that Mr. Tuttle had specified. Like the last half of some game, the remainder of the expedition was due to pass much more swiftly than at the first half.

From Mojave they fought the desert roads through Barstow and Dagget on south and east almost to the Arizona line; then down through the salt marshes and grim silence into Blythe, and from there back westward to the shores of Salton Sea. Going on through Imperial Valley the party spent an hour or so in Calexico the border, then crossed the mountains by the Old Spanish Trail into San Diego. Stowe had a map on which he had traced their wanderings, and each place where they had been able to get ice-cream was indicated by a mysterious symbol intended to represent a spoon. San Diego’s spoon was a prodigiously large one.

To Florence, as the end of the tour grew nearer and nearer, her place it appeared to become more and more justified, less and less a thing to be ashamed of. She, too, realized that she was in love; but the strange part of it was, she seemed to feel run entirely satisfied to express that love in taking care of Warren. She had never before felt particularly interested in any man; she did not know, in her own mind, exactly what her affection did amount to.

She knew that she greatly missed his good-night kiss, that she resented every attention that Bess received from him. It was ridiculous of her, she knew. In her stronger moments she deliberately studied Bess, decided that she was a good girl—more, a fine one and that Warren could not do better than to marry her. In her jealous moments this thought was unbearable—but it was also unassailably true. She knew herself to be a fraud she could never truly be his sister, and yet, she could never be anything else to him!

It was while Florence struggled in this morass of her own making that her great hour arrived. They had left the vicinity of Los Angeles, made the run up the pavement to San Francisco in a single day, just to prove that it could be done, and were now having a look at the ocean along the shore south of the metropolis. The spot was Santa Cruz, on the beach below the Casino; the time, a Sunday afternoon. The band was playing; the four tourists silently moving the crowds, the drowsy sunshine, the roar of the combers. Presently Florence announced that she was going to the boardwalk to get something or other to eat. She rose to her feet, and almost bumped into an elderly man who was standing there.

It was George Stowe—the man to whom Mr. Tuttle had telephoned just before Warren Stowe answered the summons.

He waited a second, then turned and made off after Florence. As she was making her purchases on the boardwalk, he stepped beside her.

“How do you do, Miss Kelly,” said he.

Florence’s skin went like ice. She turned her head stiffly, jerkily. When had she seen the man before? Her mind busy with the thought, she spoke automatically what she had made up her mind to say, long before:

“I beg pardon. My name is Stowe.”

“Ah, no, it isn’t. I happen to know. But this is no place to speak of the matter. May I suggest that we step into this ice-cream parlor?”

“There is some mistake,” she managed to say. “You—you’re taking me for somebody else who—who resembles—perhaps—”

“No mistake, my dear young woman,” spoke George Stowe, with an ironical, mocking smile. “Wouldn’t you rather have this thing discussed quietly, than otherwise?”

“Oh, very well,” returned she almost jauntily. Her mind began to put together something plausible, and she had regained her composure by the time they were seated and their orders given. This man would merely have to be bluffed. “I don’t know your name, Mr.—”

“You may call me Mr. Johnson,” said be, “although you will appreciate that a name means little indeed. Pardon my satire?”

“You’re over my head,” she retorted promptly.

“I am glad to note your spirit,” said Mr. Johnson. “So you now call yourself Miss Stowe, do you? You seem to like it much better than Miss Kelly.”

“I wish I could meet this Kelly person, Mr.—er—Johnson. She needs sympathy, if she is not a better looking girl than I am.”

“Very neat comeback, my dear. But if you’re fishing for a compliment, you have dropped your hook in the wrong lake. I happen to know that—you cannot possibly be Miss Stowe!”

She contrived a hearty laugh, just exactly merry enough.

“All right,” she gurgled; “I’ll bite—why can’t I be me?”

“I said you can’t possibly be Miss Stowe,” returned he gravely, precisely, inexorably. “Perhaps this letter, in the handwriting of George Stowe will explain my certainty.”

It goes without saying that the handwriting was genuine. Also, because of a peculiar angularity, it had a distinctiveness which Henry Tuttle’s ex-secretary instantly recalled. The passage which was pointed out to her read, with appalling significance:

…Since my only daughter’s death last month, I have been more lonely than…

Involuntarily, Florence threw an arm before her eyes. She had been impersonating a girl who was in her grave!

“Ah, I rather thought you wouldn’t be able to stand up to that! In a way, I was sorry to do it, my child; as a sister, you have been a hit. How sad that someone else should share your secret.”

The waitress came with their orders, put them down, went away.

“What—what are you going to do—about it?” whispered Florence. She watched him with wide, frightened, hunted-animal eyes.

“Well, now you are talking like a sensible girl,” returned George Stowe “Johnson.” “Since you are so sensible, suppose I let you reason it out for yourself. Suppose I make it clear that I, Mr. Johnson so-called, am very appreciative of your position, and that I understand you have been very efficient in preventing your self-acquired brother from squandering his money. On the other hand, Mr. Johnson happens to be financially embarrassed. Warren Stowe’s money—that is, a portion of it—would be very welcome to Mr. Johnson. Now, what I would suggest that you give thought to—”

“I won’t!”

“Won’t what, my dear young woman?”

“Won’t have anything to do with you! Won’t help you to get my brother’s money! I’ll see you—”

“Remember where you are, my dear. Calm yourself. Well, well; and so you would rather I drop a line to Warren Stowe, advising him that you are a fraud?”

Florence sat there in miserable anger. What was she to do? If this man knew positively that there was no Florence Stowe, perhaps others knew the same thing and if so, her secret was liable to come out through other channels if not through the detestable Mr. Johnson. He seemed to read her thoughts.

“If you act sensibly toward me, my dear, you need have no fear. The real Florence died in Australia, and there is no one in America besides myself who knows—and I have a right to cash in on a monopoly of this power, the same as any other monopolist. The only question is, what’s it worth to you, Florence Kelly?”

She controlled herself. Perhaps this old man would be content with a small amour; old people generally have simple tastes. Warren had been so generous, that first night, in offering to divide, she felt certain that he would hand over any reasonable amount promptly upon request, and ask no questions.

“I might be able to scare up forty—or forty-five hundred,” she said, in something like the business voice of the old Florence Kelly.

“I beg pardon? Did I understand you to say, forty or forty-five thousand? That would be perfectly—”

“No, no! Hundreds, not thousands!”

“Ah, but I happen to be quite positive that there are thousands available! You do not seem to realize exactly what a monopoly means. If anybody else in America knew what I know—”

“I—I just will not—”

“Oh, don’t say that—Miss Kelly.”

It seemed as though the ice-cream which she had been automatically swallowing, had remained totally un-melted in her stomach. Was this ghastly situation to be the end of her apparently justifiable masquerade?

And then, all of a sudden, a ray of light.

“Why—why—Mr. Johnson; it could be arranged, all right! About ten days from now!” Why not? Warren would then have his five hundred thousand. “Inside of ten days things will be in shape—”

“Unfortunately,” spoke George Stowe in a new and masterful tone, appallingly positive and relentless; “unfortunately my affairs are in such shape that I must have that—what did you say?—forty five thousand at once, within forty-five minutes! Ten days would give you altogether too much time to get away with the money my astute young lady.”

“I couldn’t—possibly—find so much money in three-quarters of an hour!” And she said it with such force and conviction, that if George Stowe had not known what he knew he would have believed her.

“That won’t do,” his voice sharp and menacing. “I know what you have in mind: Warren Stowe’s probation, as that scoundrel of a Tuttle would put it. But I do not propose that your ‘brother’ shall ever lay hands on that five hundred thousand!”

As an amateur actor, George Stowe put terrific intensity into the statement. Florence gasped with dismay.

“Who—are you?” she spoke, faintly.

“I am George Stowe’s worst enemy!”

He went right on, so as to keep himself from smiling at the grim truth of this statement. “No; you must go to Warren right now, and get the money for me. When you have it, you must immediately come back to this table and settle with me. I shall follow you now; if you attempt to trick me in any way, I shall simply step up to him and tell him who you are! The same, if you are so insane as to summon the law.” He glanced at his watch. “It is now a quarter to three. At three thirty, I must have the money in these two hands.” And he rose to his feet.

But Florence’s independence surged at this direct assumption that she would obey him.

“If I come through now, you’ll make me do it again!”

“No. I know exactly what money is available and I am positive that you cannot get together much more than what I am requiring of you.”

She got unsteadily to her feet.

“I’ll—be back here—when you said,” spoke she very wearily.

“Sensible,” he taunted. “Better that than to go back to pecking the typewriter again eh?”

She turned on him furiously.

“Do you want me to—to make a scene?”

His voice changed.

“I beg your pardon. That was nasty of me. A monopolist should never descend to such petty tactics. I am sorry. Now, run along, my dear, and don’t bother to look around; you may be sure I shall not be far away.”

Chapter Seventeen

And No Questions Asked

Florence picked her way through the throngs on the sand to the three who awaited her purchases. They attacked the edibles indifferently; it was enough just to lie there and enjoy life without effort. In a minute or so Florence had her mind to herself again. Out of the corner of her eye she could see “Mr. Johnson” not ten yards away, complacently biding his time. She shivered there in the warm sunshine.

If he had only given her more grace, she could have skipped out for parts unknown, without explaining to Warren. That would have safeguarded the money. But would it have insured her against exposure? What would “George Stowe’s worst enemy” do about that? Baffled in that manner, he would certainly tell Warren her secret. And she knew absolutely, now, that it would never do for the big fellow to know.

It would break his faith in all woman-kind. Had he not trusted her implicitly? Had he not accepted her on sight? If he were to learn that she was a fraud, he would thereafter distrust every woman. In all probabilities he would never marry. And she wanted him to marry—to wed the woman of his choice and be happy the rest of his days. He must not lose faith!

She reasoned it coldly. If she paid the old man what he demanded, there would still remain over fifty thousand for Warren. With that he could make some sort of a fresh start; as for herself, the few remaining thousands would be more than she deserved. Better this disappointment of mere money than the disappointment of love.

Warren’s welfare was the supreme concern now. It was up to her to decide this situation in his best interests—his highest interests. Her own future did not count at all.

She had taken a seat at his left. The Jorgensons reclined on his right. In a low voice she said as steadily as though she were referring to a desire for a new hat:

“Warren—I saw something, up there on the boardwalk—I’d like to buy. Can I have some money?”

“What! Where’s that two-bits I gave you only last month? Well, well; suppose I’ll have to give the baby a nickel. Will that do?” And he handed over one of his “spending rolls” without looking at it.

“I’m afraid not. I—need a good deal more, dear.”

He reached into another pocket, handed over another roll. “If you buy the ocean, Sis, let me have just one wave to play with, will you?”

That made it hard for her. If he had ever been the least bit stingy or ungenerous the effort would not have been so great. She drew a long breath.

“You’ll have to dig pretty deep this time, I guess, old dear. I want—something out of—out of your belt.”

His bantering manner vanished on the instant.

“Must be something darned important, Sis!”

“I’ll say it is. Dreadfully important!” She could have screamed it.

“Of course,” he fumbled, “much your money as mine.” He flashed her a couple of keen glances, such as the Warren Stowe she had first met would never have ventured. “None of my business, absolutely. Still—maybe you’d like to let me in on it, Florence. You—know what it means.”

“I know dear,” softly. The least strain on her throat, and she would burst into tears, she was sure. “All I can say is, it’s for the best Warren; it’s—for the best!”

“Oh, sure—sure!”

It was his old affable, easy going tone. But his mind was racing. Florence had been so adamantine and so unfailingly wise about every investment that he had offered, he had grown to respect her judgment above his own. If she really believed that this unknown venture of hers would turn out for the best, why, he was bound to believe her. There still remained ten days in which to complete his probation. Beyond a doubt Florence’s project took that into account, and the money would certainly be replaced by that time. Some little surprise she meant to spring on him, that was it. The little dear?

“Sure thing, Sis. When do you want it? Right away?”

“I—yes, inside of—well, whenever you can manage it without getting noticed.”

“I’ll run up to the men’s dressing room and bring it back to you. How much, Flo?”

“F-forty-five thousand,”

He never blinked.

“All right!”

Oh, the faith of him! It would never, never do to destroy that. Florence trembled all over, wondering if she were going to be ill. Her own unworthiness seemed prodigious.

Warren excused himself to the Jorgensons and without explaining what was in the wind—Florence’s low voice had told him she desired secrecy—took himself off to the boardwalk. She saw that the old man had noticed, had followed Stowe with his eyes and evidently had deduced the meaning of the maneuver; for he nodded shortly to her and went on calmly appraising the ocean. Inside of a couple of minutes Warren was back. A moment later he passed a flat parcel to her, unnoticed by anyone save the watchful “Mr. Johnson.”

“Thank you, Warren—dear. It’s awful nice of you not to not to question me.”

“It’s all right.” Florence could do no wrong.

Florence remained at his side. Her wrist watch told her that she had nearly half an hour more grace. “Mr. Johnson” was giving her an occasional glance, but patiently as though he understood her reluctance to put the money into his hands. Was there any way out? If the man only were not looking she might contrive to substitute another packet for this one; a packet of worthless paper. Once she had that letter of George Stowe’s in her hands, she could feel safe, no matter if the old man were tricked; Warren would believe her, rather than him. But she had no way of tricking him. The minutes rapidly marched by.

She was beginning to nerve herself for the final move in the—to her—tragedy, when Bess Jorgenson called the attention of the rest to two men who were walking slowly the length of the beach. One of them was a tall, scholarly individual, wearing eyeglasses with a silk ribbon attached; he carried a gleaming brown leather brief case. He was scrutinizing every group he passed, as though in search of some one. The other man was an inconspicuously dressed but keen and alert looking chap who kept right on the heels of the one with the brief case. They gradually drew near to the four.

“Wonder whom they’re searching for?” said Bess.

“Maybe after some crook,” spoke Warren, not noticing the highly innocent expressions that came into the faces of Charlie and Bess Jorgenson. “That second guy looks like a detective.”

And then the pair was upon them. He of the eyeglasses and brief case stopped short after a couple of glances.

“I beg pardon,” spoke he in the stilted manner of certain old-time lawyers. “Am I addressing Mr. Warren Stowe?”

“You are,” said Warren, and started to get to his feet. But the scholarly one held out a detaining hand. “I’ll join your group if you do not mind,” said he. “My name is Lewiston.” And he bowed in the courteous fashion of the old school as he presented his card.

It bore the name of the firm of legal advisers which Henry M. Tuttle had mentioned—the lawyers to whom Warren was to report in case Mr. Tuttle were not on hand at the end of the tour. According to the names on the card, Mr. Lewiston was the senior partner of the firm.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Lewiston.” Warren introduced the others by name: “My friends and my sister.”

“Ah, Miss Florence; quite so. This is a great pleasure, I am sure. Our men have reported from time to time the agreeable nature of the companionship of you four people. I understand that you have been of considerable service to each other, at one time or another!”

“I’ll say so,” exclaimed Bess. “Warren just about saved my dad’s skin for him, up at Tahoe.”

“Yes, but you ought to have seen the way Charlie put it over on those two hold-up men!” said Warren.

“I presume you wish me to come to the point,” said the newcomer. He introduced his companion as “Mr. Brown,” and intimated that the man was a sort of a guard. “Suppose I make it brief? I have but half an hour before my train leaves. Mr. Tuttle instructed me to wind this business up at once, as he is called to British Columbia on tonight’s train and will not return for several weeks.”

“Go right ahead, Mr. Lewiston.”

“First, you should see this note from Mr. Tuttle.”

Warren read in growing astonishment and delight:

The bearer, Mr. Lewiston, will proceed in my name and deliver to you the half million in bonds which I have been holding in trust for you, provided you are able to return the entire hundred thousand I loaned you, which I have no doubt you can do. I am satisfied that your trip has accomplished all that I hoped it would accomplish; there is no need or use in completing the ten thousand miles. Congratulations, my boy. Your father would be pleased, if he knew. Let me hear from you when you get settled. My deepest respects to Miss Florence.

(Signed) Henry M. Tuttle.

Repressing a desire to shout, Warren handed the note to Florence; and in lowered tones inquired:

“You have the five hundred thousand in that case?”

“Yes; hence Mr. Brown,” in the same tones, “I suggest we find some quiet spot nearby where the exchange can be made without attracting attention. I note a good many curious eyes about us.”

“Sure,” said Warren. Next moment it occurred to him that he had just finished paying out forty-five thousand of that “loan” to Florence. She still held the packet in her hand, and was looking dazedly first at the note, then at the money and at the complacent Mr. Johnson, who appeared to be so much interested in the waves.

“Warren,” whispered Florence, “Oh, Warren!”

“Isn’t it great?” he jubilated, taking it for granted, naturally, that she would not now want to go ahead with her unknown project, and mistaking her agitation for exhilaration. “No more joy riding, Sis! Here’s where we gather in the fruits of—of—You say it; you can sling big words better than I can!”

“I can’t say anything, dear,” she managed to get out. “This—this money you gave me has got to—this deal will have to go through.”

“Huh?” discrediting his ears.

“I’ve—given my word. Can’t back out—now.” And she bit her trembling lips.

“Why—” Warren started to expostulate, then checked himself. The newcomers and the Jorgensons were watching him curiously, knowing nothing of the situation. He thought fast; to cover the action, passed the note to the Jorgensons to read. Their exclamations of delight and congratulation were lost to him; he knew only that they were genuinely pleased. And so they were. Into Charlie’s face came a placid expression which always meant that he saw victory close ahead; into Bess’s, a look of high resolution which made her slightly pale. The thing she had feared seemed sure to happen. Well, she was ready for it.

Chapter Eighteen

Turning Down Half a Million

“Sis—these bonds are immediately negotiable. As soon as we’ve got ’em in our hands, you can swing any deal you want!”

Florence knew that “George Stowe’s worse enemy” would never permit the transfer of those securities.

“I can’t help it,” she was barely able to say. “I—can’t help it. Don’t ask me—why!”

A few short weeks before Warren Stowe would have sat back and accepted the seemingly inevitable; would have shrugged his shoulders, said that it would be all the same in a hundred years, and have smiled that ironically humorous little smile. But the man with the oddly transforming moustache sat up very stiff and straight and stared sternly off into space as his mind tore at the problem.

Why couldn’t Florence “help it”? What did she mean by “it”? What sort of a deal could this be, anyhow, that had to be rushed through at such hairbreadth schedule that it couldn’t stop for a sure thing?

Just as more than once before, elimination thrust the answer before him. Certainly Florence was true to him; that couldn’t be the explanation. Neither could any conceivable investment demand such instant action. Just one thing remained: blackmail, doubtless because of some mistake that Florence had made long before.

“It’s blackmail!” he whispered fiercely in her ear.

“Warren!” she faltered, horrified. “You—”

“I understand, you poor kid,” his voice suddenly tuned with pity. Then, the ferocity returning: “Who’s been pestering you? Show me! I’ll fix him!”

She glanced about, fearful that they overheard. But the Jorgensons and the newcomers were chatting. Only Mr. Johnson seemed alert, for all that his back was turned. Warren noted the glance she gave him.

He opened his mouth to demand if that were the culprit. Then he remembered: the poor girl was afraid. He thought like lightning. When he spoke it was with a shrug and a weary sigh.

“It’ll all come out in the wash, I guess. All for the best, you say? Go for it, Sis.”

Another fit of trembling seized her. She could scarcely see her watch, but she knew that her time was up. Unsteadily she got to her feet and, unable to look any one in the eye, mumbled an apology and started toward the boardwalk. Once she paused, minded to run back and tell everything. But, no—Warren must never lose the faith. She stumbled on.

Warren turned to meet a battery of inquiring gazes.

“It’s all right,” he assured them. “Got to keep you folks waiting a few minutes. Excuse us, will you?” as he noted the suspected old man leave off his contemplation of the waves, to saunter carelessly after Florence. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

He purposely chose another direction, keeping behind sunshades to avoid the stranger’s occasional backward glance. But he was able to note that Florence had entered an ice cream parlor, the man following immediately after. Strolling along slowly to kill time, Warren did not quicken his pace until just at the door of the place. Then he marched swiftly up to their table.

Florence had the packet in her hands; the stranger, a letter. They were about to exchange; then glanced up and saw Warren standing there. Florence’s face blanched and her throat felt as though paralyzed. The older man’s expression was masked and inscrutable.

“Let me have that money, Sis?” It was formed as a question, put as a command.

The girl obeyed him automatically.

“You want to sell that letter?” spoke Warren evenly to George Stowe Johnson. “I’ll buy it.” And he held out his hand for it.

So powerful was the suggestion of the big fellow’s confident manner, George Stowe involuntarily extended the letter toward him; then withdrew it, inwardly marveling.

“I am at a loss to understand,” said he, addressing Florence rather than Warren, “just what this all means. If you—”

He had underestimated the reach of those long arms. Like the striking of a rattler, Warren’s lingers closed around the letter and snapped it from the older man’s grasp.

Florence’s heart leaped. She was going to be found out!

But Warren, never taking his eyes from those of the man whom he did not know to be his own father, coolly drew a match from his pocket and set fire to the letter, carefully separating the sheets so that it would burn the better. As it burned he spoke:

“Little girls sometimes write foolish letters, I suppose. It was kind of you, sir, to preserve it all this time. My hands were a little cold, anyhow. And, now, to recompense you. Was this money to go to you?”

“That was the understanding,” said the other, trying to conceal his eagerness as he scanned his son’s face. “I may mention that I have a duplicate of that letter elsewhere.”

“Duplicate?”

“I should have said a photograph.”

“You are careless with your phraseology. So this money was to go to you, was it?” Warren’s smoldering eyes had not left his face, even when the burning paper had singed the fingers that held it. “Very well, sir; here you are.”

He held out something, which George Stowe automatically received.

“This is a dollar bill!”

“Pardon me; it is just what you expected.”

The older man jumped to his feet. Even his own son must not be allowed to get away with that!

“This is an outrage, young man! You shall regret it, I promise you. We’ll see whether you can conduct other people’s affairs in so high-handed a fashion! I happen to know that this ‘sister’”—and he sneered as he spoke the word—“this sister of yours has been guilty of—”

“She’s been guilty of proving herself the best little sister a man ever had,” said Warren, still restraining himself, still wary and alert, and fascinatingly ominous without knowing it. “I am not interested in any mistakes she may have made, sir. The best of us will make them.”

“This is no mere mistake! She—”

“If you say it, you will never say another thing in this world,” spoke Warren softly; and he leaned ever so slightly toward the older man, his eyes gone hard and his cheeks a little white; for he meant exactly what he said.

George Stowe’s startled gaze wavered, moved about among the other patrons of the place, saw that they were staring curiously but making no move to break in on the incident. He glanced down at his son’s powerful hands, now clenched and somehow poised, as it were, for action.

“By the Lord, I believe you would do it!” breathed the older man apparently in contempt, but actually in admiration. He made a show of retiring in dignity. His manner was certainly as ominous as Warren’s, as he threatened: “You haven’t begun to discover what you are up against, you young upstart. I shall certainly make you regret that you forced my hand! And as for that young woman—”

“As for my sister, you keep your tongue quiet about her—or I’ll tear it out,” Warren promised carefully.

“We shall see about that. I bid you good day,” said George Stowe, bowing mockingly, and then stalking deliberately toward the door in what he was painfully aware must be a hopelessly melodramatic fashion, yet he could manage nothing more convincing.

Warren and Florence remained at the table a moment longer. The girl was fighting back the tears of reaction and relief. The big fellow awkwardly patted her on the shoulder and longed to take her in his arms and let her cry it out on his breast. Confound these inquisitive people, anyhow. But he whispered to her:

“Buck up, old kid. It’s all over. He’ll never bother you again. And remember: if anything like this ever comes up again, you trot right straight to me with it; understand? That’s what big brothers are for!”

“Oh, Warren, you’re such a—such a—” She couldn’t think of a sufficiently superlative word to fit him. She knew only that move she would please him best by stifling her emotions. It nearly strangled her, but she did it after a moment. In a startlingly, calm voice she said: “I’m O. K. now, old dear. Come on.”

They moved swiftly out the door, not noticing Mr. Johnson loitering a few steps mean away. He gazed after them admiringly.

“What a boy! What a boy! Tuttle was right he’s got the stuff in him. Got to go and phone Henry right away and own up. And that girl! She’d have done it—to save his faith! By the Lord, they’re a pair.”

“Huh! What’d you say?” a man a yard away.

“Eh? I was asking where can I find a phone?”

“In the lobby of the Casino. But that ain’t what you was saying, if my ears—”

George Stowe was out of hearing, stepping away with a youthful, elastic step that was explained by the contented smile on face.

He did not know that the incident which had just closed had worked a remarkable transformation in the young man with the newly grown mustache. In the silence that fell between the two as they made their way to the waiting group, Warren’s mind was busy upon the matter just ahead; he learned to drop a problem once it was solved; he gave no further thought to Mr. Johnson, although Florence was thinking of nothing else. Warren had learned to look very deeply within the last few minutes; yet it was his old serene self, apparently, that rejoined the four on the beach. They could not see the inner man.

“I’ve found a place where we can go and conduct this business undisturbed Mr. Lewiston,” said Warren. And led the way straight back to the ice cream parlor, where already two peculiar scenes had taken place. The attendants and certain of the patrons looked highly puzzled.

The two strangers, the Jorgensons, and the Stowes gave their orders. They clustered so closely about the table, no insider could see what passed between them. But Warren waited until the waitress had brought the orders before making a further move.

“Now, Mr. Lewiston.”

The briefcase was reverently opened and a packet bound in waxed paper brought forth. Warren drew forth five engraved certificates, each for a hundred thousand. He studied them as though fascinated, but meanwhile his mind was speeding. Why should Bess be so pale? He was very much interested in her these days. To his way of thinking, her color should be very high indeed, if she were as delighted as she said she was over his good fortune.

But she looked as though she were apprehensive of something. Why? What could be the reason? He studied the papers even more closely; then, with his eyes still on the bonds, he began to reach—under the cover of the table—beneath his shirt for the belt concealed there. He distinctly heard someone give a sort of a gasp. He did not look up. Who had it been? What did it mean? He even had time to wonder at himself, for the change that had made him so sensitive to things which formerly would have been “all right” with him. Still—something was queer, darn it all.

He spoke suddenly, decisively—a manner which told that argument would be quite fruitless; a manner as much of a novelty to him as to those who heard.

“I’ve decided not to go ahead with this transfer, Mr. Lewiston.”

“Not to go ahead!” The scholarly old gentleman was fairly dumfounded. “What in the world is to hinder, pray?”

“Simple caution, sir. I hope you won’t be offended. But I’ve had a lot of experience of a disagreeable sort lately. Fortunately I’ve been pretty lucky. As you know, I’ve had several close calls; nearly lost my roll several times. I don’t believe I ought to take any chances.”

“Surely you would not insinuate that I am trying to hoodwink you!”

“You certainly don’t look like a crook, Mr. Lewiston,” admitted Warren, with an easy laugh. “But I’ve had no instructions in the art of separating the straight from the otherwise.”

The other leaned back and indulged in a dignified laugh.

“Here I come to you duly authorized and offer you half a million in United States government bonds, and you refuse me! This is good—distinctly good, Mr. Stowe. My partners and I will have a hearty laugh over it.”

“You are positive that these bonds are not counterfeit?”

“Counterfeit!” in complete astonishment. “Then the best tellers in San Francisco have been fooled by them. Nonsense!”

“Just what I would think, too, sir, if only I knew you better than I do. No doubt I’m wrong—I apologize in advance—but in all frankness, I’m not satisfied that you are really Mr. Lewiston. No offense, sir! Let me finish. If you will just put yourself in my place and imagine for a moment that you are carrying around hundred thousand dollars which has been advanced on the strength of a larger sum; then, presuppose that a total stranger should come up to you, represent himself to be what you have represented yourself to be, and on the strength of a letter which could very easily be forged by a sufficiently clever crook, take possession of some very real money in exchange for some bonds which might not be real you assuredly would never be blamed if you took pains to check everything up.”

Lawyer fashion, the other was following him closely.

“Your logic is sound. I appreciate what you say; in your place—yes, I would be suspicious, myself!” He looked a trifle self-conscious. “You must understand, Mr. Stowe, I am not in the habit of doubting my own probity!”

Warren’s old self surged to the front. The impulse was to assure the dignified old chap that it was “all right”; that, of course, the thing was perfectly straight; and then, have the business over with. Especially as he was glancing at his watch in a worried way, thinking about that train.

But the young fellow who had acquired a new self along with his mustache hardened something within him; and in the same cool, pleasant, but assured voice went on:

“The fact that it is Saturday afternoon, Mr. Lewiston, is what a detective would consider a suspicious circumstance. At this hour of this day of the week, I cannot get in touch with Mr. Tuttle by phone to verify your claim; he’s probably out with his golf clubs, if not getting ready for his journey you speak of—supposing he is going on a trip! Now, don’t get sore; just look at it through my eyes, will you? How does it look to me? These bonds appear perfectly genuine; but I’ve no way of being certain—never saw anything like them before in my life—neither has Florence or my other friends,” noting that these three were maintaining unanimous and breathless silence. “Being Saturday afternoon, I can’t find any banker here in Santa Cruz to appeal to, either! All of which you knew before you hunted me up, sir.”

The scholarly one made a little grimace, reached for the papers, carefully rewrapped them, and returned them to the case. He glanced at his watch.

“Besides,” said he, in the sensible tones of one who accepts the inevitable, “I am obliged to catch that train. I get your view-point perfectly, young man. It does you credit. I should have had imagination enough to provide for a much better identification, such as I admit that I myself would have required. When a man gets to my age, he is inclined to take altogether too much for granted.” He held out a hand and smiled. “I fancy that Mr. Tuttle will be pleased, rather than otherwise, when he learns how careful you have been!”

Again the strong impulse to rely upon the instinct of the old Warren Stowe, but the six-footer heard his decisive tones remarking:

“I realize that it means I must wait until Mr. Tuttle gets back from British Columbia. But a few weeks more or less will make no particular difference—in a game worth such a candle as that one,” nodding to the brief case.

For the first time, one of the others spoke. It was Charlie Jorgenson. His tones were light as usual.

“Here Bess and I’ve been trailing you all over the country, hoping to be in at the finish—and now you postpone the finish! Ain’t you got no consideration, you undersized runt, you?”

“Warren’s right, though,” spoke up Bess earnestly. “Mr. Lewiston will understand—not the slightest offense intended, of course—but there’s too much at stake.”

Florence started to say something, but checked herself. She had just seen a strange look which Charlie Jorgenson had given his sister—an oddly non-committal, yet peculiarly intense stare, on the heels of her approval of Warren’s attitude.

“Well, well, I’m sure it has been pleasure, everything considered, to meet you young folks,” said the elderly man. “And now, I’ll say good-by. No, thanks,” as Charlie offered his car; “it’s only a step to the station. The walk will be good for me. Come along, Mr. Brown.”

They moved away in the direction of the station. Said Warren suddenly:

“You folks stay here. Got an idea. Be back right away!”

He was gone about five minutes. When he returned, his face was filled with something almost like awe.

“Say, what d’ye think?” he told them, “Talk about your hunches—I sure had one when I turned that old bird down! You know what he and ‘Mr. Brown’ did? They beat for the station, all right, and even climbed into the train; but I looked a minute longer, and I saw them get out of the coach on the side opposite the platform, and duck around behind some other coaches and finally get into a big Ainsley Eight; and they drove off toward Monterey—not toward Frisco!”

Charlie Jorgenson solemnly extended a hand and gripped that of Warren Stowe. And Bess looked at Florence, and they smiled, and made furtive dabs with handkerchiefs, and went out on the boardwalk with their arms entwined about one another like a couple of school girls. Neither had the remotest notion why the other’s heart was so tremendously glad.

Chapter Nineteen

Ordered Home

Modesto Miller listened in glum silence as “Mr. Lewiston” explained just why and how Warren Stowe had declined to be victimized. To do him credit, Modesto had anticipated some such outcome. The attempt had had but one thing to commend it: its barefaced directness. It had depended absolutely upon the assumption that Warren Stowe would behave in the easy-going fashion which had heretofore characterized him. That the big fellow would have become more complex-minded and inclined to resistance was something that Miller had realized must be allowed for as a possibility.

“Well, you must have put over your part of it perfectly,” said he, to the courteous old ex-actor who had personated “Mr. Lewiston.” “Otherwise, Stowe would have pitched you out on your ear, instead of letting you make a dignified getaway. It wasn’t your fault.” He handed over a bill. “That isn’t anything like what it would have been if you’d made good, of course, but I guess it’ll see you through until the Chief has something else cooked up for you to do.”

Mr. Miller got out of the Ainsley in front of a telephone office, and called a certain San Francisco number. Ordinarily William V. Finch did not remain in his offices on Saturday afternoon, but on this occasion he was expecting a call.

“Sorry to say, the deal fell through, Mr. Finch.”

“I’m delighted to hear that! Overjoyed! The Chief will be disappointed of course—but—Dear me, will you people never give up your ways for something better? It puts me in such an unpleasant position, Mr. Miller.”

“I notice you take your rake-off, just the same!”

“I beg pardon?” in a voice suddenly cold as a glacier.

“Oh, nothing,” hastily. “Nothing important, Mr. Finch! I was just wondering what will the Chief want me to do, now?”

“You should not waste your breath and toll money on unimportant observations, Mr. Miller. And remember—I am simply a poor lawyer, obliged to earn my bread-and-butter as I may. Now about the Chief—I will put the matter before him, and let you know what sort of—er—goods he wishes you to handle in the future. You must expect a good deal of trouble; your—er—prospect is almost sure to write or phone to Mr.—you know, here in the city—and ask if So-and-So was authentic. The reply will serve to put your prospect on his guard. It may even cause him to suspect two young people I might mention by name.”

“By Gad, you’re right, Mr. Finch! Never thought of that. Sure—she’ll wonder how it came that anybody outside got wise to something that he told only to them.”

“Not necessarily, Mr. Miller; still, it will make him think, which is very bad. Now, the Chief wants to know about B. J. What is your latest opinion of her case?”

“Well, it’s all based on what C. J. suspects; that she’s gone and fallen for—my prospect; fallen hard. Just as I told you before, it isn’t likely she’d let him do anything that we’d like him to do—understand, don’t you?—after they were married. Our only hope is to land what we can; just what I told you before we tried this last deal. My prospect seems to be getting in deeper and deeper all the time, himself. Guess he’s just postponing the popping—get me?—until his affairs are all straightened out.”

“You see no way of winning B. J. back to your way of thinking?”

“No; you see, she claims all the time she’s loyal to us. But C. J. knows her too well.”

Said Mr. Finch:

“Well, she knows, now, that she is suspected; otherwise we would not have made this attempt. Still, you and C. J. must go on pretending that you expect her to do the right thing. If she says anything, you must let it appear that the Chief had nothing to do with what has just happened.”

“I’ll try to. But I think she’s wise.”

“Never mind, Miller. If she is wise, the Chief is wiser. You will receive further instructions in due course.”

Miller had not been quite frank with Mr. Finch. The truth was that Charlie had openly and bitterly accused Bess of deserting their ranks. It seemed impossible somehow, for brother and sister to have any discussion without coming to grips about it.

“You’ve gone back on us!” raged Charlie. It was some days before the Lewiston incident that thus occurred: “I know what you’re up to! You’re figuring on marrying him and tying up his money in some way so that we can’t get at it!”

“I’m not!” Bess as hotly replied. “I like him—I might even marry him, someday—but I’ll stick to the bunch, no matter what happens!”

“I don’t believe it! You women are all alike. You don’t know what it is to keep your word, if there’s a lover in it!”

“Is that so! Why, you know I’d never have agreed to vamp him, if I hadn’t been looking at that money of his!”

“Oh, so it’s just his money you’re interested in, is it?” sneered her brother.

“Yes, like blazes!”

She played her trump card.

“Well, if you don’t believe me, tell Modesto to turn the Stowes over to someone else and let us pull out! I’m sick of the whole business. Nothing but squabble, squabble all the time; everything we try goes wrong. I like Warren—yes; but not so much but what I could forget him. What say we cut this out, old kid, and go back to Los and try something else?”

Charlie came close to his sister and thrust his face down close to hers. There was little resemblance, now. The prettiness was all gone from his chubby features; they were working with battled anger. He spoke in a voice half-strangled.

“I’ll talk to Modesto about that. Maybe we will pull out—you baby-faced bluffer, you! And listen to me: I’m going to have my eye on you every second, from now on, and if you don’t play square with us, I’ll—”

Bess shrank away from him. Yet even then she wondered how it could be that he and she, born of the same parents, could be so much alike in appearance and in thought when everything was going smoothly, but so utterly different when emergencies arose.

For Bess was playing an even deeper game than her brother suspected. She was keeping his thoughts on the question of her loyalty, all the while that she was definitely and for all time double-crossing him. She had done this weeks before, in fact—the very night following that one on which she had first realized that Warren Stowe was handsome in her eyes—in camp, in the San Jacintos. That was why she was so white when Warren reached for his belt to secure the currency for “Mr. Lewiston.”

Had the astute one with the brief case seen those bills, he would have noticed what the unsuspecting Warren had not looked closely enough to detect—that the bills were counterfeit. The real currency reposed in an unmentionable garment next to Bess Jorgenson’s own skin, where it had remained ever since that night in the mountains, when she had slipped from her cot, stolen to Warren’s side, and while he slumbered heavily under the influence of something which she had gone to great pains that he should drink, had removed his belt and made the substitution. A highly intimate maneuver; it made her blush just to recall it.

The upshot of if all was, the Jorgensons were greatly dismayed, the following morning when the two cars were about to set out from Santa Cruz, to receive a telegram from their father, in Seattle. The fact that Papa Jorgenson should reside in Hollywood yet be able to send a message from Seattle could perhaps be best explained by the ingenious Modesto Miller.

You kids better leave your bus there and run home and see your ma. She is kind of interested in you. If you treat her right I may let you go back to California later. Bring me a jug of water from Shasta. Love.

Modesto and Charlie had agreed that, with Bess in so indifferent a mood toward the proposed raid upon the Stowe fortune, it would be best to get her out of Warren’s company. Which suited Bess to a dot. She was now determined that the Miller-Jorgenson-Finch combination should not succeed, at least, not if she could help it. The feel of those packets of money around her waist was comforting, just to the extent that she felt her secret was safe. Once let her brother suspect, and what could she do? Much better to be out of the Stowes’ company.

But it went hard with her, when it came to breaking to Warren the news that she had received.

“Oh, thunder!” expostulated he, in unmistakable dismay. “Why, we’ve got over three thousand miles yet to go, Taffy. It’ll be misery, without you!

“But Charlie and I have just got to run home, and—”

It was said in so outright a fashion, utterly without reflection on previous weighing, that Bess knew it came from the heart. Never before had he said anything so committing. She felt a delicious thrill. Of course, it was folly to do it—But she couldn’t help saying:

“You m-must like me, a little.”

“Like you!” He gave a tremulous little laugh. “Why, Taffy, I—One of these days I’m going to tell you just how much I think of you! And ask you a mighty important question—you little old dear, you!” His eyes glowed with a warmth she had never seen there before.

Bess knew that if there hadn’t been others looking, she would have been engulfed in those big arms, then and there. And she looked at him in a way that told him plainly, she realized it and was glad. And because Warren was not jealous of any other man, he was content with that.

The two cars ran together back over the mountains and across Santa Clara Valley, into Oakland, where the Jorgensons took a train bound for Seattle. The Trailmaker was “stored” in an Oakland garage; in actual fact, Miller re-sold it. When it came time to go to the train, all four young people piled into the Gale. It was a highly undignified send-off. After the train had left, however, Florence noted that Warren was very quiet.

Charlie observed the same thing in Bess, aboard the train. She kept her face averted so that he might not know what was in her eyes. So this was the end of it all! Warren must never know—he must be left alone, so that he could forget her. As for the money—she would keep herself informed as to Stowe’s wanderings; and when they had returned finally to San Francisco—After that, for her, oblivion.

Perhaps it was Warren’s loneliness. At any rate, that night he impulsively ventured a good-night kiss, and was almost overwhelmed by the way Florence clung to his shoulder and cried with joy. She went to bed happy. She even forgot “Mr. Johnson” and his threat to make her sorry. What had she to worry about, with Warren trusting her so?

Setting out at once from Oakland the Gale proceeded to make a business of the remaining mileage. Warren did not so much as telephone to Mr. Tuttle; he judged the Britisher would not care to be bothered, since he had had no monitory messages for weeks. The thing now was to complete the probation as neatly as possible. Accordingly they drove up to Sacramento by way of Vallejo, then struck the Lincoln Highway through Colfax and Tuckee—rough going. Dropping down into Reno they turned north, ran up past Honey Lake and through Susanville into the Alturas country, touching at Goose Lake and then cutting across to the west into Redding.

From Redding south down the Sacramento Valley a few miles, then eastward into the Sierra again, the Gale’s route covered the loop from Red Bluff to Quincy and down to Oroville; dropped down to Marysville, cut across through Calusa into the Coast Ranges and had a look at Clear Lake; went the rest of the way through the mountains and inspected the Pacific again at Fort Bragg, then followed the coast down nearly to the Golden Gate. The speedometer said that half the remaining mileage was recorded. The car itself said that the roads had been mostly fierce. The calendar said that eight days were gone. So they looked for faster going and found it, over in the San Joaquin.

It was now far enough into the summer to make the great valley a pretty warm place in the middle of the day. Even the best of surfaced roads was grief to tires. Nevertheless the Gale’s original four stood up to the strain of three to four hundred miles a day, while the probationer ran from one end of the valley to the other and back again. By that time they had had enough of speeding in the heat; they turned to the Sierras again, and made short runs up to such points as Angels’ Camp, the Hetch Hetchy, Huntington Lake, and—for the second time—Yosemite. It was at the latter point that Warren met Mr. Randall again and renewed the acquaintance begun at Tahoe.

“You seem to have lots of time on your hands, my young friend.”

“I’ve just about run out of time,” said Warren. “This vacation was sort of enforced—as I think you understood, before. You might be interested to know why I’ve done so much running around, some day; quite a story. However, not now.”

“What are you planning to do after your truancy is over? Or is it any of my business?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it were decidedly your business,” said Warren earnestly. “I’ve got an idea; like to talk it over with you, about a week from now. Where can I find you then?”

“At my office in town. I’ll be glad to you.” And Mr. Randall shook his hand in a way which showed that he meant it. A day or so later Mr. Randall met two of the men that he had introduced Warren to—the banker and the manufacturer. “The young scamp has raised a mustache. Makes him look quite distinguished. And he says he has an idea.”

“That man Tuttle has sound judgment,” remarked the banker.

It got so, by and by, that Florence and Warren emitted sighs of relief when they climbed out of the car each night, and further sighs, but not of relief, when they climbed into the car next morning.

“Did you tell Mr. Randall you had an idea what you’re going to do after this is over?”

“Yes, but don’t ask me what it is. I want to think it over a while, myself.”

There had been absolutely no move whatever against the fortune which Warren believed he carried in his belt. Both he and Florence were so watchful, no matter where they drove or how wild the surroundings, no one could have held them up without getting hurt. And the lawless element seemed to know it. The Gale went untouched where many another car was stopped. As for Modesto Miller he kept in close touch through various pairs of eyes and learned how the mileage was running. He bided his time. And the two Jorgensons, having gone as far toward Seattle as Sacramento, had gone into seclusion in a private boarding-house to await instructions.

So the Gale made a spurt across the Tehachipi Pass and through the Mojave once more, into the Los Angeles country; drove until the speedometer said that only four hundred miles remained to be done, and then rested, preparatory to making the final run the next day. Warren and Florence registered at the Angelus Hotel and after dinner took in a picture show. It was about eleven when they reached their rooms, to find a note left by the management.

Mr. Tuttle of San Francisco, calling you repeatedly on the phone.

Warren secured the connection as quickly as might be expected—if you know anything about toll service. Mr. Tuttle answered from the Anglo-Californian Club.

“Sorry we were out, sir,” said Warren.

“You’ll be sorrier still, I fancy, if you don’t stir yourselves. How’s your mileage?”

“Just got to make the run home, and she’s done!”

“Well, my young millionaire, you’ll have to look sharp. I am leaving again for Australia in the morning. The boat leaves at seven. See to it that you are here by that time. Good-by.”

“Hey! Mr. Tuttle!”

“What is it?”

“You—do you mean that? Holy smoke! Why, we haven’t had any sleep!”

The Britisher chuckled.

“You forget that your father put the whole thing in my hands, young man! I must claim the right to have my little joke. I haven’t bothered you for weeks, have I? Now you will have to knuckle down to this one final condition!”

“I’ve got to get there by—”

“Perhaps you had better allow at least one minute in which to manage our business; it can all be transacted on the pier. I shall have someone there to carry my hundred thousand back to the bank. But I absolutely insist on seeing you in person, before I embark! That’s final. Good-by!”

Mr. Tuttle rang off. He was chuckling as he returned to the chair he had vacated, and a certain gentleman who bore a close resemblance to the banker Warren had met wanted to know the meaning of the chuckle. Tuttle explained. The other smiled.

“Good move, Henry. If the lad’s idea is the same as we think it is, then your ‘final condition’ will work out perfectly. I’m sorry for his sister, though.”

“His sister?” Mr. Tuttle laughed. “Oh, yes. Well, she’s the game one, isn’t she?” He laughed again.

Chapter Twenty

The Last Lap

Accustomed as he was to the erratic whims of his guests, genial Al Johnson, night clerk at the Angelus, owned up to a new kick in life when the young pair in Suit L rushed downstairs, dressed and bundled for driving, at eleven-thirty that night; directed him to forward their trunks and such other paraphernalia as they might take off their car; paid twenty-five dollars for the rooms they had barely looked at; demanded to know where they could pick up coffee and sandwiches on the way around to the garage, and calmly advised him that if anybody inquired for the Stowes, to tell ’em that brother and sister would be at home at the Palace Hotel, in San Francisco, after seven o’clock the following morning.

“Worst part of it is,” said Warren, as the car scooted out Broadway toward the tunnel, “I’ve done so little night driving. Truck work is all day business; and you know how it’s been with us in this Gale—trying to make time—all day driving.”

“Those are wonderful lights, old dear.”

“Yes, and they can be refocused—after we get away from traffic—to give me better seeing.” By this time they had turned on to Sunset Boulevard and were making better time. There was still a good deal of traffic, mainly after-theater cars; and the Hollywood motor-cops are strict. “Oh, well, if we get pinched, we can claim we’re picture people; they say the cops won’t arrest any more movie folks, for fear of giving ’em free publicity.” He raised it to forty-five, between congested areas.

Yet it was an irksomely long time before the confoundedly far-flung city limits was passed and Warren felt safe in settling down to a real speed. Florence watched the speedometer creep up to fifty, then fifty-five, and presently to a mile a minute and better.

“We’ll make it,” she shouted, above the rush of the air past the windshield, “if we just don’t have to stop and fix a puncture!”

“That is just what I’m figuring on,” returned he. “At this rate we’ll have the time to spare, if we need it. And Lord knows, Sis, we’ve got some tire trouble coming to us! This is the time for it to happen, of course; just when we don’t want it to.”

And on they flashed, along the concrete through the hills between Cahuenga Pass and Ventura. The drone of muffler drowned out the roar of the surf, but they knew they were at the ocean by the smell of the air. Ventura was practically asleep; they flashed through, keeping the Pacific on their left all the rest of the way into Santa Barbara. On the straight stretches, Florence fed sandwiches to Warren, and as much coffee as was spilled on his coat anyway.

Meantime Modesto Miller had not been asleep. No sooner had the Gale pulled out of the Angelus garage than an alert individual called up Modesto on the phone and told him all he knew. Within fifteen minutes, Miller was talking by long distance phone with William V. Finch.

“I trust it is something very important, Mr. Miller, to rouse me from my slumbers at this hour of the night?”

“The Stowes have skipped out! Driving by night—going light, to make speed! What’s the answer?”

“Hum. Do you happen to know their mileage?”

“Just four hundred and fifty to go!”

“Then it’s reasonable to presume, friend Miller, that they have been summoned in a hurry. This Mr. Tuttle—I wonder, now—yes, I do believe there’s a ship clearing port tomorrow morning. That would seem to be the answer, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes! What’ll we do?”

“I shall take it up with the Chief, and see what can be done from this end. Meanwhile, Miller, I think I may safely advise you to charter an airplane, get Dad McLaughlin, and fly to—say—Paso Robles, and there use your best judgment. But, my dear Miller—think twice before you do anything—er—unethical.”

“I’ll put through that deal this time, or know the reason why! Good-by!”

Still keeping within nose-range of the sea, the Gale sped for thirty-odd miles almost due west, then darted into the mountains, slowly only to pass other cars and for the worst of the curves. Through various little towns, all dark and quiet, the route threw them across the valley at Santa Maria, into the hills again at Arroyo Grande, and then out to the Pacific once more at Pismo Beach. It was here that a thrumming airplane passed high overhead and to the east. “Probably someone out for a record,” said Warren. Which is precisely what other autoists were thinking of him and the Gale.

Only once was speed slackened below sixty; it was a half-mile stretch where the pavement was being re-surfaced. Beyond that, a glance every five minutes at the motometer to make sure that the eight cylinders were still cool. At San Luis Obispo came the first, while Florence filled the gas tank from the cans which had been thrown aboard at the start, in the knowledge that all filling stations would be closed and all garages hard to arouse. Warren deliberately stretched himself flat on the pavement and rested while she was doing it. And then, on again at the best speed permissible and wise.

Modesto Miller and Dad McLaughlin had lost a little time in proceeding from the spot where the airplane landed, to the garage in Paso Robles; more time, in getting the action they wanted. Yet their car was well out the road to the north, their arrangements perfected, before the Gale swept through the town. Miller and McLaughlin were well hid beside the road; their car out of sight. There was nothing to indicate their preparations; no reason in the world why the two in the Gale should notice what had been scattered on the pavement.

No reason, that is, except the locomotive-like headlights; they, and an unlucky notion on the part of Modesto Miller that a whole lot of those brand-new, galvanized iron roofing-nails would be better than just a few. Warren’s tired eyes linked. What was all that glitter ahead? Automatically he threw on the brakes, came to a stop within inches of disaster.

“Your gun, Flo,” whispered he, in her ear, and drew his own.

From the side of the road came a shout.

“Stop, you there in the car! Give ’em the buckshot, men, if they make a move!”

Warren flashed a look at Florence. Her chin was firm, if her cheeks were white. “Game?” She nodded stiffly. He snatched one spot light, she the other, and turned them on the sides of the road.

Instantly Miller and Dad opened fire with their automatics. Each had two—it sounded like a regiment. One bullet shattered the rear window, another thudded ominously into the body. But there were only four guns—the dashes proved that. The two revolvers in the car answered, even as Warren twisted the wheel and drove the Gale over the side of the road, into the ditch; where it floundered and thrashed and threatened to shake itself to pieces, as he gave the engine all it would take.

In a moment it was all over. At the risk of capsizing, Warren cut up on the road all again, past the carpet of nails. He glimpsed the two men, now in the road, still firing at the Gale in the light of the spot which Florence had turned to fire back. Warren deliberately drew up—took aim—hit Miller fairly; then drove on.

“Oh, Warren—what if you killed him?”

“All right, I’ll bite; what if I did?” But he added: “Saw him grab his leg.”

William V. Finch believed in working as indirectly as possible, whenever he elected to take a hand in things himself. Among his clients were some—regrettable to relate—who were numbered among the law-enforcing element of San Francisco; folks who had been accused of such trifles as taking bribes, and whom Finch had rescued from the district attorney. It was to such individuals that Finch now appeared for assistance.

“There is a young man and his sister on their way here tonight,” he told these persons, “who ought to be stopped. The man is carrying some—er—important affidavits. I wish you would see to it that he is stopped at the city limits. And bring me a belt which he wears around his waist. Bring it intact—understand? The Chief would be provoked if it were tampered with in any way.”

He was assured that the Chief would not be provoked.

As for Florence and Warren, the little episode near Paso Robles had told them a great deal. But it was Florence who got the significance into words.

“They must know a lot about us! I’ll bet it was that airplane. The garage man would have told them, Warren!”

“Yes, and if they know that much, they know about what’s in my belt. Remember Mr. Lewiston! Say, Flo—I’m going to stop and frame something.”

He turned off all the lights after he had stopped, and secure from prying eyes, transferred the contents of his belt to an inner pocket. He had no light with which to note that the bills were counterfeit, nor reason to suspect the fact. He chuckled with satisfaction as he slipped some folded paper into the belt, replaced it under his shirt, and went on with five minutes to be made up, but with a sense of security to help him do it.

The long run down the Salinas River Valley was made without incident. At Salinas, dawn began to break; halfway through the San Juan grade, Warren snapped off the lights. They plunged on into Gilroy, through the gap at Morgan Hill into the Santa Clara Valley for the fourth time in their tour; slowed up in consideration for the early morning business of San Jose, then rushed out The Alameda for the final fifty miles.

It was nearing six o’clock, traffic, at that season of the year, a troublesome thing. No motor-cops were awake, but Warren had to take it easy all along the peninsula, especially after San Mateo. And it was six-thirty when he reached the cemeteries on the outskirts of the city.

“We’ll make it—just!” he sang out to Florence.

Whereupon there was a shriek and a roar from behind, and two motorcops came alongside.

“Side of the road!” ordered one curtly.

Well, it would mean only a minute or two. He’d explain. They’d let him go ahead, and straighten it out when—

“Is your name Warren Stowe?”

“Yes!”

“Got a search warrant here. Stand up—got to go through you.”

“What!”

“Suspected of smuggling dope. Don’t start anything! Partner’s got you covered.”

It was true. Warren’s fists clenched; then, as he realized this was what he had provided against—what he had expected, almost—he managed a deep sigh of resignation. “All right,” and he clambered to the pavement.

They went straight for his belt. He cursed them roundly as they took it off. From behind a nearby corner, William V. Finch heard the cursing and smiled.

“You can go on, if you want to; we’ll tail along,” said the man who held the belt.

“What’s the use, now?” groaned Warren. And again Finch smiled.

But Warren got back in, slowly started up again, and slowly moved along. He glanced into the mirror. Sure enough, the motor cops did not follow; someone had come from behind a corner, had held out a hand for the belt. Warren’s right foot came down hard.

“Thank God, those steamers leave from a pier south of the ferry! And now, if Mission Street isn’t absolutely chockful of trucks—”

The next few minutes were nightmare to Florence. They flashed in and out through traffic, at a speed that would have made a taxi driver envious. Whatever officers noted them had momentary blindness, or else must have judged that the man at that wheel was no ordinary maniac. Somehow or other the Gale slipped through. And the hands on the ferry clock pointed to six fifty-eight as Warren threw himself from his seat, in front of the building with “South Pacific Steamship Company” on its signs and ran as fast as he could through the doors.

Florence heaved a sigh of relief. She had wondered how she were going to dodge Mr. Tuttle.

But Warren raced up to the chain, his eyes almost popping, alert to catch sight of Mr. Tuttle. No Mr. Tuttle was in sight. Strangely enough, there seemed to be no one else, either, except a gang of stevedores just coming on duty. Warren hailed the man at the chain.

“Hey!” It was a horrible thought!

“This is the boat for Australia, isn’t it?”

Chapter Twenty-One

With a Second to Spare

The man at the chain was in no particular hurry to reply. He carefully removed a toothpick from his mouth and stowed it away in a vest pocket.

“Sure, it’s the boat to Australy.”

“Is—is it the only one, to-day?”

“So far’s I know—sure.”

“But it’s supposed to sail at seven!”

“Ye don’t say so! Well, now, maybe it is. But I’ve been given to understand, eleven not seven.”

“Eleven!”

It was the fault of that infernal telephone service, of course. He might have known, seven was unduly early. Four hours ahead of time! The reaction was upon him by the time he had dragged himself back to the Gale. Florence, too, was yawning, and aching in every joint. The car certainly took its time about running over to Market and up to the Palace Hotel.

In their suite, they proceeded to fling themselves prone and rest a while, before summoning the energy to order breakfast—including plenty of smoking hot coffee—that served to freshen them both, enough to make the next three or four hours endurable. Warren thought best not to bother Mr. Tuttle by telephoning, but elected to wait until sailing time. Meanwhile he and Florence did what they could to help the appearance of such wardrobe as they had brought. It was about nine when the telephone rang.

“This is Mr. Randall speaking. I sent a telegram to Los Angeles and learned that I would catch you here. Have you come back to stay, young man?”

“Yes, sir!” recognizing the voice of the millionaire wholesaler whose introductions had put him in touch with so many people.

“Little ‘truancy’ is all over, now.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You remember I invited you to look me up, when you returned? My reason for telegraphing to Los Angeles was to tell you that I’d be down there tomorrow, and would have arranged a meeting. I’m going on to New Orleans from there and won’t be back for a couple of weeks.”

“I see. That’s too bad. I was hoping I could put a certain little proposition before you—But I guess it’s too late?”

“I won’t leave here for an hour or two.”

Warren jumped.

“Say, Mr. Randall! I’ve got darned little time myself—Important date at eleven—but I’d sure appreciate an hour with you right away! Think it’s possible? And how about getting two or three others at the same time?” He named the banker, the manufacturer, and the realty man he had met. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I’ve got something that’ll make it worth their while!”

“Hum. I think it can be arranged.”

He explained briefly to Florence, made sure that the packets he had taken from his belt were secure in his pocket, and was off. At Mr. Randall’s office he cooled his heels in an outer chair for about fifteen minutes. Then the banker arrived, shortly followed by the manufacturer and the realty man.

“Well, well; here we are!” said Mr. Randall, as he showed them to chairs in his private office. “Young man, if you fizzle out, we’ll string you up. A lot of nerve, to ask four busy men to listen to your tongue!”

But they were all leaning bank and smiling encouragingly at him. He reflected that they liked him. That was the main thing, after all; they liked him. He glanced at the clock and hurried with his say.

First, he gave them a bare summary of the conditions of his bequest: the hundred thousand dollars in trust, the ten thousand mile tour, and—very frankly—Mr. Tuttle’s reasons for compelling him to bring back that money intact, after guarding it with his life all that time.

“It was to make me value money. I’ll tell the world it worked, gentlemen! Mr. Tuttle was dead right about it.”

“You’ve got the hundred thousand on you?” inquired the banker.

Warren nodded and patted his pocket.

“Had a time of it to hang on to it, too! Never mind the details—plenty of close calls, and all that. What I want to say right now is this:

“I’ve been driving the Gale for the past three months and more, over California roads of all sorts—ten thousand miles of ’em—and I’m here to say, gentlemen, that I never saw the equal of that car! Do you understand what a grueling it’s had? I’ve been everywhere with it—mountains, deserts—the very worst roads in the world. And—I’ve never even had a puncture!

“Think what that means. It means that the car must be perfectly designed, or I’d certainly have had some trouble or other. But all I did was to keep her oiled and greased and full of water and gas. Never touched, otherwise! And she’s a big, heavy, powerful bus. Comfortable as a stage and as fast as anything on the road. I never let anything get by me that I didn’t want to let get by!

“The man who’d buy an expensive foreign car when he can have a Gale is a fool!”

He stopped to take breath. Said the banker:

“Quite a eulogy. But—what of it, young man?”

“This! I was in the auto selling game for years and I know cars. The Gale’s the best value to be had. Only trouble is, she’s handmade and she costs two thousand dollars more than a twelve? And people can’t see it.”

“Well?”

“Well, I say, bring the price of the Gale down a couple of thousand, and that car’ll clean up the market!”

“How can that be done?”

“Put the factory on a quantity basis! Nothing to it—just needs money. I happen to know that old man Gale has always wanted to do just this—but couldn’t raise the cash. Now, why not?”

The four looked at each other and winked at this optimism. But the manufacturer said agreeably:

“Of course, money is always to be had for any purpose where the returns seem to be certain. The question is, young man, suppose this plant were put on a quantity basis, as you suggest, how could we be assured that the cars would get sold?”

“Sold? Those cars?” Warren looked pained. “Why I’ll sell every car you can let me have!”

He saw that they were smiling. He did not know that the smiles were those of approval and satisfaction.

“Why, there’s nothing to it! Here I’ve got out—not a professional tester, but an ex-truck driver—and I’ve run that bus ten thousand miles without touching a tool to her; and the last four hundred and fifty, raced against time—” He glanced at the clock, and stopped dead. He jumped to his feet. His face was fairly transfigured.

“Gentlemen—I’ve broken the Los-to-Frisco record!”

There was no withstanding it. He stood there erect, triumphant, irresistible; every inch of him big and successful and dominant—all man.

“Old man Gale shall have the money, young man,” said the financier. “That is—I suppose you are willing to show your good faith by putting up something yourself?”

“Half a million!”

“Oh, you’ve got the money already, have you?”

“No, but I will have, in half an hour.” He explained Mr. Tuttle’s final condition. “So it’s to go through! I suppose I’m to be sales manager?”

“Yes; provided you get that half million.”

Warren frowned. “Mr. Tuttle is a man of his word.”

“Oh, he’s absolutely all right! But you haven’t the money in your hands yet, remember. There’s many a slip—”

It was with a surging heart that he left the office and hurried to the elevator. There was quite a crowd—it filled the cage; but Warren was serene in the knowledge that here is safety in numbers. The moment he reached the street he became very wary. It would never do for something to go wrong at the last minute. He took his time about driving to the pier and posed the hotel without stopping; Florence would understand when he told her the news. Had he stopped he would have found that Florence had a visitor.

The man had sent up a card with a strange name on it—one that Florence did not recognize. She told the clerk to show him up. Presently there was a ring. She went to the door—and there stood George Stowe, otherwise “Mr. Johnson.”

“Oh!” she faltered. “You!”

“Exactly. Thanks for inviting me in.” He closed the door carefully behind him, as she stood motionless and impotent. “Mind if I take this chair? And why not be seated yourself? You look fatigued.”

She checked whatever came to her tongue. After all, what had she to fear? Her watch told her that Warren would be meeting Mr. Tuttle within a few minutes; this old fellow could not prevent that. She regained her composure.

“Why, certainly; if that will please you. All I wanted to say is that I have another letter for your consideration.”

Florence stiffened with fear as he calmly displayed a letter in the same handwriting as the one Warren had burned at Santa Cruz. There was mention of “my only daughter, now dead.” Florence shook her head, to clear her eyes. Then she saw something that made her cry joyously:

“It isn’t signed!”

“Oh, quite so. We’ll soon remedy that.”

Out came a fountain pen; and in that same angular chirography George Stowe wrote his own signature. “Will that do?”

Florence stared.

“Forgery!”

“Not so, my child. It is perfectly genuine,” in a voice that was all gentleness, and from which all irony was erased. Then he waited until she might comprehend.

The Gale had reached the pier. With a full ten minutes to spare, Warren Stowe sauntered through the doors, keeping his eye peeled for any last-minute trouble. Mr. Tuttle was awaiting him. There was a smiling greeting, a hearty pat on the back, and an “I knew you’d do it!”

“You were right, Mr. Tuttle. The scheme had just the effect on me that you figured it would have.”

“Most assuredly. It could not fail.”

In a word or so Warren explained the blunder about seven o’clock; how it had a caused him to break the record; and how it had made it possible for him to consult so soon with Mr. Randall and his associates. “I’m to be sales manager!” he wound up.

Mr. Tuttle gripped his hand again, and spoke in a voice that was more than tinged with emotion.

“I am more than delighted. To be frank with you, I rather hoped for some such outcome. But I didn’t dare to mention it in the beginning—you’d have been appalled at the bigness of it, then.”

“I would. You were right.”

“Well, well! Your career is under way already.” A gong sounded. “Well, here’s your bonds, young man. Where’s the cash?”

“Right here, sir.”

He reached into the inner pocket. His face went blank. Hurriedly he searched through his other pockets. He turned to Mr. Tuttle and faltered:

“The money’s gone! I’ve been—Pick-pockets!”

Meanwhile the telephone had rung in Florence’s room. She had excused herself to George Stowe.

“Why, Bess; where are you? Oakland! How did you learn we were here? Oh, sure; I forgot we told the clerk at Los Angeles. Why, Warren’s gone down to the pier to see Mr. Tuttle. Yes; to Sydney again—at eleven. Why? Bess! Counterfeit! Oh, my goodness! And you can’t possibly get the real money to him in time! Hello; hello!” She jiggled frantically at the hook. “Hello!”

It occurred to her that it was no use. What could she do? Bess doubtless would keep the hundred thousand safe, at least; but Warren’s big ambition, which he had not yet told her—that would have to be given up. But Bess surely had meant for the best. She moved slowly back to her chair.

George Stowe eyed her expectantly, as she studied with uncomprehending eyes the signature he had written.

“I shall have to explain, I see. Only George Stowe could have done that, my child. Don’t you realize, now? Yes—his father! Of course I’m not dead. That was all of a piece with Henry Tuttle’s other fiction. But I’m bound to admit it worked. Otherwise, Warren would never have touched the money. He had reason—good reason, I’m ashamed to say—for despising me. He must never know I’m alive, Florence!”

“Then—why did you—”

“Ah, that was merely a test. And you came through it famously, my dear. So did he. It convinced me that Tuttle’s scheme was all for the best; I had rather feared that your masquerade would have a very different ending. But I didn’t take into account the change in his disposition as Tuttle did. He’s another boy, now—a man, rather. You appealed to him very strongly at the outset; you, so independent, and he, so easy going. But now he’s as independent as you are. It’s the clinging vine that appeals to him, now. Isn’t that true, my dear?”

“Yes! I love him—but as a sister, not—”

“Not as Bess Jorgensen loves him. Exactly.” A pause. “He takes you for granted. It is a fine thing—a fine thing. You were intended for one another: you, who never had a real brother, and he who never had a real sister.”

“Mr. Stowe! I don’t know how—how to thank—”

“It is very simple.” He gazed at her now in a helpless, hungry sort of a way. “Very simple—Florence.”

It dawned upon her that he was a lonely old man. She came and took his face between her hands, and kissed him.

George Stowe fumbled blindly for the door. “That—that’s what I meant.” He somehow managed to get into the corridor. “God bless you—daughter!”

Down at the pier, Warren Stowe stood like a man paralyzed. The Australian was saying:

“I am sorry for you, of course—but I am a man of my word. My conditions were plain, young man. I cannot see my way clear—”

“But—great heavens! I had it in my pocket up till just a minute ago”

“How does that concern me?”

Warren was mute. He knew, now; it had happened in the elevator. But he did not know that every person in that cage had been arranged for by one William V. Finch. Nor that, the moment he had quit the building, Mr. Finch had been handed the packets which had so deftly been taken. Nor yet, the sanctimonious language with which the said Finch greeted the sight of those bogus yellow backs.

Came a last warning from the gangplank. Mr. Tuttle turned away disappointed.

A boy came running from the office.

“Warren Stowe! Is Mr. Warren Stowe—”

“Here—here!”

“Phone call for you!”

Warren wheeled upon the officer in charge. “Give me one minute!” It was half entreaty, half command.

“Go quick, then!”

Warren dashed into the office, leaped for the phone.

“Bess! What? You did! Where? Hold the line!”

He darted out the door, into the street, onto the running board of the Gale. He yanked up the rubber matting. It was there! He raced back—flung himself on the gangplank just as it was being lifted.

“Here you are, Mr. Tuttle!”

* * * *

“Why, there isn’t much to tell, Warren. I felt pretty sure you’d be in danger of losing it; so—Pickpockets! I had the right hunch, didn’t I? Well, you had told me that Mr. Tuttle stipulated, you must have the money with you at all times. After I took it from you. Don’t ask me about that! After I took it, I kept it on—on my person all the time; which made it all right, so long as I was in your company. But when I had to leave you. Yes; on the way to the train, when we were all cutting up so much; ’member?

“Please don’t ask me any more about it! I—I think I’d better say good-by. Oh, Warren, I’d rather not answer that! Please don’t insist! Well, yes; it is something p-pretty awful. I don’t want to. I’d rather—Oh, I don’t know how you could have guessed it; but—it’s true! I’m a crook, Warren! A crook, I s-said!

“What? You surely don’t mean. Oh, Warren; you mustn’t say that, just to m-make me—It really d-doesn’t make any d-difference? Oh, Warren! Warren, my dear! I—wait—I can’t—”

“Oh, Warren, all that money in your pockets! Don’t you take any more risks! Mr. Tuttle hasn’t anything to say about it, now. You stay right where you are—don’t you stir, dear, until I get there. Yes, I’m coming to you; with six or seven of the biggest detectives I can find, for a body guard. Oh, my boy, don’t you understand? You’re precious, now; precious!”