THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard

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СКАЧАТЬ was the foundation and basis whereon was built each of the human dramas that, finding birth in the pages of the Red Ledger, Charlebois played out to their fruition with master strategy on the stage of life.

      A strange month! And strange too his, Stranway's, part in it! It had been the busiest month that he had ever known, crowded with a multitude of diverse employments. From Pierre Verot he had learned the use of skeleton keys, and somewhat of the art of facial make-up; he was still studying "morse" under the tutelage of Miss Priscilla Bates. The secret codes of the organisation Charlebois himself had explained. The daily reports that came by mail from those at work outside were open to his inspection; the key to the Red Ledger itself was his at will; the safe, always stored with great sums of money, was his to command. The implicit confidence of which Charlebois had spoken had been given in the most literal sense. Nor had his personal comfort been overlooked. He had found, already prepared and waiting for him, a tastefully, even luxuriously furnished apartment near at hand on Sixth Avenue.

      "Learn!" Charlebois had said. "And as soon as you are ready, the active work, the real work before you will begin. Learn—that you may be able to take my place itself when necessary."

      Stranway stirred in his chair, and looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven. Too early yet!

      He glanced around the room, frowning now a little in a puzzled way. Yes, it had been a strange month! A month that he counted the best he had ever lived, and yet it had plagued him somewhat in that it had held back something from the fullness of what had seemed its first promise. He would have liked to have seen those brown eyes again. He had counted on seeing them. The Orchid! But there had been no sign of her. She certainly did not live in Dominic Court. And Charlebois' answer to his inquiries had not been wholly satisfactory!

      "Who was she? Where was she?" he had asked.

      "My boy," Charlebois had said, "where confidence is mine to give I give it to you freely and without reserve, but here it is not mine. She whom you know as the Orchid you will meet, often perhaps, when you come to play a personal part in the work outside, but I can tell you no more now than I told you on that first day: that she is known here as—the Orchid."

      Stranway found a wry smile twitching at his lips. It wasn't very satisfactory! "When he came to play a personal——" He sat bolt upright in his chair. That was what he was going to do to-night for the first time!

      "I wonder!" said Stranway under his breath.

      He was staring now at the note in Charlebois' crabbed hand that lay on the desk before him. He had left word at his apartment—the invariable rule of the organisation—where he was to be found, and had dined that evening at Talimini's, a café he had discovered to his liking. Halfway through the meal a messenger had come from Charlebois instructing him to be at Dominic Court not later than eleven o'clock. He had returned here long before the hour, and found that Charlebois had left hurriedly, early in the evening, for Cleveland. Verot had handed him Charlebois' note. He picked it up now, and read it again:

      "Steener—black hair, black moustache cut very close, thin man, very tall—secretary to John K. Poindexter. Your name is Kenneth Gordon. Meet Steener midnight sharp to-night Wall and William Streets. Go with Steener to P's office—he has agreed to turn over certificate for twenty-five shares West County Tool and Machine Company stock belonging to his employer. Stock with proxy attached should bear original owner's signature on each document, transfers of both in blank. You are to pay Steener fifty thousand dollars—you will find the money in the safe. Meeting of company day after to-morrow in Cleveland, ten a.m. Bring stock to me there by first train. Vital that it should reach me before meeting, control depends upon it. At any cost do not fail.

      "C.

      "P.S. I have not forgotten my promise. Your conscience need not trouble you."

      Stranway smiled a little grimly at the postscript. His conscience might well be troublesome here, if he had not learned one thing in the month that was gone; that Henri Raoul Charlebois was entitled to receive without question what he so fully gave—implicit confidence. Fifty thousand dollars for twenty-five shares! It was the price, not of twenty-five shares, but the price apparently at which a man had sold himself. But he knew no more than he could glean from the note itself. The Red Ledger had supplied no further information, for it contained neither the name of Steener nor the name of Poindexter—he had looked when he had first read the note.

      He glanced at his watch again, then pressed a button on the desk.

      Flint, one of the organisation's men, grey-eyed, clean-shaven, of muscular build and of about Stranway's own age, answered the summons.

      "Have a touring car ready for me at the corner of the avenue in five minutes," Stranway said. "I will drive myself."

      The man disappeared.

      Stranway went to the safe, took out a large unsealed envelope in which he had previously placed a hundred five-hundred dollar bills, thrust the envelope into his pocket, locked the safe, and, turning out the light in the Red Room of 2½ Dominic Court, left the house.

      Chapter IV.

       The Accomplice

       Table of Contents

      It was exactly one minute to twelve as Stranway drew up at the curb at the corner of Wall and William Streets, and, alighting from the car, hastily lifted the hood, and made a pretence of peering anxiously at his engine.

      A man's form, black, shadowy, came around the corner. The man coughed slightly, then paused nervously and uncertainly. As far as the darkness would permit of identification, the man answered to the description Charlebois had given of Steener.

      "I say!" called Stranway deliberately. "I seem to have met with a bit of an accident. Will you give me a hand for a moment?"

      The man came forward—and the glare from the right-hand lamp of the car fell full upon him.

      "All right!" said Stranway calmly. "You're looking for Kenneth Gordon, aren't you?"

      "Yes," said the man quickly. He stepped nearer, and stared into Stranway's face. "Have you got it?" he asked hoarsely. "I'm Steener."

      "Yes; I've got it," Stranway answered quietly.

      "Let me see it, then," whispered Steener, with nervous eagerness. "Let me see it."

      Stranway eyed the other speculatively, curiously, for an instant. Steener's face was flushed, his eyes seemed to burn feverishly, and the muscles around his lips were twitching noticeably. The man was evidently in a highly overwrought state of nervous tension.

      "Do you think it is wise—here?" Stranway asked dryly.

      "I don't know—and I don't care!" Steener blurted out. "My God, I'm risking everything I've got on earth for this! It's a lot of money for—for what you get, and I've got to know it's straight. I've got to know before I move a finger. And it's got to be in cash. That was the agreement."

      "Very well," agreed Stranway coolly. He glanced up and down the street. No one was in sight. He reached quickly into his pocket, took out the envelope, turned back the flap, and allowed the ray of the headlight to play for a moment on the crisp, new yellow notes within. Then, as quickly, he slipped the envelope back again into his pocket. "Now," he said briskly, "if you're satisfied, we'll——"

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