The Mask Part 45

Your child is safe and in good hands. She wants to see her mother. If you come this afternoon (Friday) to the above address you can see her.

It is the house with the closed green shutters. But if you value your child's life you must come unaccompanied, and you must inform no one of the contents of this letter, not even the members of your family. If you disobey, swift punishment will follow and your child will suffer.

Climb eight flights and knock three times on door at end of pa.s.sage.----X.

There was no signature. The person who wrote it evidently had reasons of his own for wis.h.i.+ng to remain concealed. That money would be demanded was more than probable. What other motive could the kidnapper have? Money she would give--all she had in the world, if only she could get back her precious child. That a visit to such a place unattended was full of danger she did not stop to consider. She only knew that her child was close by--here in New York--and had asked for her. Not for a moment did she listen to the warnings of prudence. Go she must, and immediately. She did not even stop to leave a note of explanation for Ray. Stuffing some money in a bag, she left the house, saying she would return soon.

Taking the Third Avenue "L" she left the train at Tremont Avenue, and, after considerable difficulty, found the house indicated in the letter.

Yes, there were the closed green shutters. At first, on seeing it apparently untenanted, she thought she must have made a mistake in the number, but, finding that there was no other place near by that answered the description as well, she decided to risk climbing the long flight of stairs.

Arrived on the top floor, breathless from the unusual exertion, she saw a long narrow pa.s.sage, and, at the end of that, a door. That, no doubt, was the place. Her heart beating violently, she went up to the door and gave the three knocks. For a moment or so there was no answer. A profound stillness reigned. Then she heard footsteps approaching, The next instant, the door was thrown open and a man's voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, told her to enter.

At first when she went in, she could see nothing. All the shutters of the windows looking on the street were closed, and the only light was that which filtered through the slats. It was an ordinary, cheap flat, with no carpets on the floors and little or no furniture. On the floor, scattered here and there, were nailed-up boxes, and parts of machinery, some already crated, as if to be taken away.

"So you've come! I thought you would," said a voice behind her.

She turned and found herself face to face with Signor Keralio.

At first she was so astonished that she was speechless. Then her instinct prompted her to turn and flee. If this man had caused her to be decoyed to this house it could be for no good purpose. But there was no way of egress. The front door was closed and locked. Not a human soul was within call. She was alone in an empty house with the one man she distrusted and feared more than any one else in the world.

Making an effort to conceal her alarm, she turned and faced him boldly:

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

He smiled--a horrid, cynical smile she knew only too well.

"Has not a man the right to be in his own home?"

She started back in surprise.

"This your home?" she exclaimed, glancing around at the scanty and shabby furnis.h.i.+ngs.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, don't judge by appearances. I'm really very comfortable here.

It's away from the world. I like to work undisturbed." Significantly, he added: "Then, you see, it is all my own. I am quite at home here in my own house. No one can put me out--not even you----"

She raised her hand deprecatingly.

"Please don't remind me of that. I have forgotten it long ago."

His eyes flashed dangerously as he made a step near and exclaimed:

"You have, but I have not. I have not forgotten that you put me out of your house ignominiously as one turns out a servant. I have neither forgotten nor forgiven. That is why you are here to-day."

She looked at him in utter astonishment.

"What do you mean?"

He bowed and, with mock courtesy, waved her to a seat.

"I will tell you. Did you receive a letter to-day?"

"Yes--I did."

"You came here in answer to that letter."

"Yes--I did."

"Do you know who wrote that letter?"

"No--not the least."

"It was I--I wrote the letter."

With a stifled cry of mingled fright and amazement, Helen jumped up from the chair.

"You wrote the letter?" she exclaimed, incredulously.

He nodded.

"Yes--I wrote the letter."

Her eyes opened wide with terror, her hands clasped together nervously, she exclaimed:

"Then you are----"

He bowed.

"Exactly. I am the kidnapper of your child----"

Speechless, she stared at him, her large black eyes opened wide with terror. Looking wildly about her as if seeking her little daughter, she gasped:

"Dorothy? Dorothy here? Where is she?"

"She is safe," he replied calmly.

"Where is she, where is she? Take me to her!" she cried, distractedly, going up to him and clasping her hands in humble supplication.

He shook off the hand which, in her maternal anxiety, she had laid on his arm. Lighting a cigarette, he gave a low laugh.

"Plenty of time. There's no hurry. You're not going yet."

Anxiously, she scrutinized his face, as if trying to read his meaning.

"She's going when I go, isn't she?"

He shrugged his shoulders.