The Trey o' Hearts/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV
II—A Sporting Offer
THAT same evening Mr. Alan Law issued forth from the Grand Central Station, hailed a taxi-cab, had himself conveyed to the Hotel Monolith, and registered as Arthur Lawrence.
But it was his true name that he gave to the person whom he called up on the telephone after being shown to his rooms. But then he was speaking to his old friend and man of business, Mr. Digby. Within another ten minutes this last was in conference with his employer.
"I think you must be out of your head," Digby insisted nervously, once their first greetings were over. "You in New York while Trine lives and knows you're this side of the water! It was dangerous enough before, when we had every reason to believe he was satisfied with having caused your father's death. But now"
He fluttered his hands in a panicky gesture.
"Nonsense!" Alan laughed. "Remember this is New York, with a policeman on every corner!"
"Are you really so infatuated as to repose faith in the protective powers of the police?" Digby demanded.
"Well, I saw one of 'em do some rather efficient scrapping this morning!" Alan paused and smote his palm with a remorseful fist. "By the Eternal, I'm forgetting poor Barcus!"
"Barcus?"
"Chap whose boat I chartered into Portland—sheer luck on my part—he's one of the salt of the earth. I left him on the waterfront there at dawn, mixing it up with the police force in order to divert their minds from Rose and me. It's too long to tell now. First, something must be done for the boy. You've got influence of some sort in New Bedford, surely?"
Digby reflected. "There's George Blaine, justice of the peace"
"The very man! Telegraph him in Barcus's interests immediately. And telegraph Barcus as well. Send him a hundred for expenses and tell him to join me here in New York as quickly as he can!"
"Your friend's address?" Digby inquired, as he sat down at the desk and fumbled with the supply of hotel stationery.
"New Bedford jail, of course!" Alan chuckled, but cut his laugh in two as something fluttered from the pack of envelopes and fell to the floor between the two men. It was a Trey of Hearts.
"Now will you believe?" Digby demanded huskily,
"In what? A simple coincidence?" Alan flouted. "Take my word for it, this is nothing more nor less than a souvenir of a poker party held by yesterday's tenant of this suite."
"Perhaps—perhaps!" Digby assented, stroking his tremulous lips. "But I'm afraid for you. Do me this favour at least: do leave town—go incognito to some quiet place nearby and wait there for the sailing of the next trans-Atlantic steamer. Oh, surely you can't deny me this one wish of my fond old heart, my boy!"
With unfeigned affection Alan dropped a hand on Digby's shoulder.
"There's nothing on earth I would not do for you," he said. "But this thing—I can't do it, even for you. Rose Trine is here in New York, at the mercy of her father and sister; and you may judge what their mercy will be when you learn all that she has done for me. I can't go until I find her and take her with me."
"I have your word you'll go providing I find and restore Rose to you?"
"You have my word to that, unquestionably. Bring Rose to me, and I'll gladly shake the dust of New York from my shoes, and never return till Trine is dead."
"It shall be done," Digby promised. "It must!"
"You believe that?"
"In twelve hours Rose shall be restored to you."
"Will you make a book on it? If you believe you can carry out your promise, wire the White Star Line to reserve the best available suite on the Oceanic, sailing to-morrow morning at ten, and make arrangements for a marriage before the boat sails!"
"I'll go you," Digby agreed, "and if I fail, I forfeit the cost of the reservation. But about this marriage—you'll have to have a license in this State—and can't get one except by applying in person with your bride-to-be."
"Then we'll marry in Jersey," Alan insisted. "Dig up some clergyman over there, and tell him to be prepared to earn a heavy honorarium between seven and nine to-morrow morning."
"One moment; give me time to write these wires," Digby pleaded.
And to Alan's surprise the little man proceeded to compose the telegrams as if he really believed in his ability to make good his word.