The Diamond Master Part 11

"Suppose you step into the back parlor here," he requested. "Just give me fifteen minutes. Then, unless I can find a way for us to go together safely, we will throw everything aside and go anyway.

Forgive me, dear."

She submitted quietly to be led along the hall. He opened the door into a room and stood aside for her to pa.s.s.

"Gene, Gene!" she exclaimed.

Her soft arms found their way about his neck, and she drew his face down and kissed him; then, without a word, she entered the room and closed the door. A minute pa.s.sed--two, four, five--and Mr. Wynne stood as she left him, then he opened the front door and stepped out.

Frank Claflin was just starting toward the house from the corner with deliberate pace when he glanced up and saw Mr. Wynne signaling for him to approach. Could it be possible? He had had no orders about talking to this man, but--Perhaps he was going to give it up! And with this idea he accelerated his pace and crossed the street.

"Oh, Mr. Claflin, will you step in just a moment, please?" requested Mr. Wynne courteously.

"Why?" demanded the detective suspiciously.

"There's a matter I want to discuss with you," responded Mr. Wynne.

"It may be that we can reach some sort of--of an agreement about this, and if you don't mind--"

Claflin went up the steps, Mr. Wynne ushered him in and closed the door behind him.

Three minutes later Mr. Wynne appeared on the steps again and beckoned to Sutton, who had just witnessed the incident just preceding, and was positively being eaten by curiosity.

"This is Mr. Sutton, isn't it?" inquired Mr. Wynne.

"Yes, that's me."

"Well, Mr. Claflin and I are discussing this matter, and my proposition to him was such that he felt if must be made in your presence. Would you mind stepping inside for a moment?"

"You and the girl decided to give it up?" queried Mr. Sutton triumphantly.

"We are just discussing the matter now," was the answer.

Sutton went up the steps and disappeared inside.

And about four minutes after that Mr. Wynne stood in the hallway, puffing a little as he readjusted his necktie. He picked up his hat, drew on his gloves and then rapped on the door of the back parlor.

Miss Kellner appeared.

"We will go now," said Mr. Wynne quietly.

"But is it safe, Gene?" she asked quickly.

"Perfectly safe, yes. There's no danger of being followed if we go immediately."

She gazed at him wonderingly, then followed him to the door. He opened it and she pa.s.sed out, glancing around curiously. For one instant he paused, and there came a clatter and clamor from somewhere in the rear of the house. He closed the door with a grim smile.

"Which are the detectives?" asked Miss Kellner, in an awed whisper.

"I don't see them around just now," he replied. "We can get a cab at the corner."

CHAPTER XII

THE THIRD DEGREE

Some years ago a famous head of the police department clearly demonstrated the superiority of a knock-out blow, frequently administered, as against moral suasion, and from that moment the "third degree" became an inst.i.tution. Whatever sort of criticism may be made of the "third degree," it is, nevertheless, amazingly effective, and beyond that, affords infinite satisfaction to the administrator. There is a certain vicious delight in brutally smas.h.i.+ng a sullen, helpless prisoner in the face; and the "third degree" is not officially in existence.

Red Haney was submitted to the "third degree." His argument that he found the diamonds, and that having found them they were his until the proper owner appeared, was futile. Ten minutes after having pa.s.sed into a room where sat Chief Arkwright, of the Mulberry Street force, and three of his men, and Steven Birnes, of the Birnes Detective Agency, Haney remembered that he hadn't found the diamonds at all--somebody had given them to him.

"Who gave them to you?" demanded the chief.

"I don't know the guy's name, Boss," Haney replied humbly.

"This is to remind you of it."

Haney found himself sprawling on the floor, and looked up, with a pleading, piteous expression. His eyes were still red and bleary, his motley face shot with purple, and the fumes of the liquor still clouded his brain. The chief stood above him with clenched fist.

"On the level, Boss, I don't know," he whined.

"Get up!" commanded the chief. Haney struggled to his feet and dropped into his chair. "What does he look like--this man who gave them to you? Where did you meet him? _Why_ did he give them to you?"

"Now, Boss, I'm goin' to give you the straight goods," Haney pleaded.

"Don't hit me any more an' I'll tell you all I know about it."

The chief sat down again with scowling face. Haney drew a long breath of relief.

"He's a little, skinny feller, Boss," the prisoner went on to explain, the while he thoughtfully caressed his jaw. "I meets him out here in a little town called Willow Creek, me havin' swung off a freight there to git somethin' to eat. He's just got a couple of handouts an' he pa.s.ses one to me, an' we gits to talkin'. He gits to tellin' me somethin' about a nutty old gazebo who lives in the next town, which he had just left. This old bazoo, he says, has a hatful o' diamonds up there, but they ain't polished or nothin' an' he's there by hisself, an' is old an' simple, an' it's findin' money, he says, to go over an' take 'em away from him. He reckoned there must 'a' been a thousan' dollars' worth altogether.

"Well, he puts the proposition to me," Haney continued circ.u.mstantially, "an' I falls for it. We're to go over, an' I'm to pipe it all off to see it's all right, then I'm to sort o' hang aroun'

an' keep watch while he goes in an' gives the old nut a gentle tap on the coco, an' cops the sparks. That's what we done. I goes up an'

takes a few looks aroun', then I whistles an' he appears from the back, an' goes up to the kitchen for a handout. The old guy opens the door, an' he goes in. About a minute later he comes out an'

gives me a handful o' little rocks--them I had--an' we go away. He catches a freight goin' west, an' I swings one for Jersey City."

"When was this?" demanded Chief Arkwright.

"What's to-day?" asked Haney in turn.

"This is Sunday morning."

"Well, it was yesterday mornin' sometime, Sat.u.r.day. When I gits to Jersey I takes one o' the little rocks an' goes into a place an'

shows it to the bar-keep. He gives me a lot o' booze for it, an' I guess I gits considerable lit up, an' he also gives me some money to pay ferry fare, an' the next thing I knows I'm nabbed over in the hock-shop. I guess I _was_ lit up good, 'cause if I'd 'a' been right I wouldn't 'a' went to the hock-shop an' got pinched."

He glanced around at the five other men in the room, and he read belief in each face, whereupon he drew a breath of relief.

"What town was it?" asked the chief.

"Little place named Coaldale."

"Coaldale," the chief repeated thoughtfully. "Where is that?"