Aunt Jane's Nieces in Society Part 22

In spite of these adverse conditions Charlie Mershone decided to go out for a walk. He felt much like a prisoner, and his only recreation was in getting out of the hotel for a daily stroll. Moreover, he had an object in going abroad to-day.

So he b.u.t.toned his overcoat up to his chin and fearlessly braved the storm. He had come to wholly disregard the presence of the detective who shadowed him, and if the youthful Fogerty by chance addressed him he was rewarded with a direct snub. This did not seem to disconcert the boy in the least, and to-day, as usual, when Mershone walked out Fogerty followed at a respectful distance. He never appeared to be watching his man closely, yet never for an instant did Mershone feel that he had shaken the fellow off.

On this especial morning the detective was nearly a block in the rear, with the snow driving furiously into his face, when an automobile suddenly rolled up to the curb beside him and two men leaped out and pinioned Fogerty in their arms. There was no struggle, because there was no resistance. The captors quickly tossed the detective into the car, an open one, which again started and turned into a side street.

Fogerty, seated securely between the two burly fellows, managed to straighten up and rearrange his clothing.

"Will you kindly explain this unlawful act, gentlemen?" he enquired.

The man on the left laughed aloud. He was the same individual who had attacked Arthur Weldon, the one who had encountered Mershone in the street the day before.

"Cold day, ain't it, Fogerty?" he remarked. "But that makes it all the better for a little auto ride. We like you, kid, we're fond of you--awful fond--ain't we, Pete?"

"We surely are," admitted the other.

"So we thought we'd invite you out for a whirl--see? We'll give you a nice ride, so you can enjoy the scenery. It's fine out Harlem way, an'

the cold'll make you feel good. Eh, Pete?"

"That's the idea," responded Pete, cheerfully.

"Very kind of you," said the detective, leaning back comfortably against the cus.h.i.+ons and pulling up his coat collar to s.h.i.+eld him from the wind.

"But are you aware that I'm on duty, and that this will allow my man to slip away from me?"

"Can't help that; but we're awful sorry," was the reply. "We just wanted company, an' you're a good fellow, Fogerty, considerin' your age an'

size."

"Thank you," said Fogerty, "You know me, and I know you. You are Bill Leesome, alias Will Dutton--usually called Big Bill. You did time a couple of years ago for knocking out a policeman."

"I'm safe enough now, though," responded Big Bill. "You're not working on the reg'lar force, Fogerty, you're only a private burr."

"I am protected, just the same," a.s.serted Fogerty. "When you knabbed me I was shadowing Mershone, who has made away with a prominent society young lady."

"Oh, he has, has he?" chuckled Big Bill, and his companion laughed so gleefully that he attracted Fogerty's attention to himself.

"Ah, I suppose you are one of the two men who lugged the girl off," he remarked; "and I must congratulate you on having made a good job of it.

Isn't it curious, by the way, that the fellow who stole and hid this girl should be the innocent means of revealing her biding place?"

The two men stared at him blankly. The car, during this conversation, had moved steadily on, turning this and that corner in a way that might have confused anyone not perfectly acquainted with this section of the city.

"What d'ye mean by that talk, Fogerty?" demanded Big Bill.

"Of course it was Mershone who stole the girl," explained the detective, calmly; "we know that. But Mershone is a clever chap. He knew he was watched, and so he has never made a movement to go to his prisoner. But he grew restless in time, and when he met you, yesterday, fixed up a deal with you to carry me away, so he could escape."

Big Bill looked uncomfortable.

"You know a lot, Fogerty," he said, doggedly.

"Yes; I've found that human nature is much the same the world over,"

replied the detective. "Of course I suspected you would undertake to give Mershone his chance by grabbing me, and that is exactly what you have done. But, my lads, what do you suppose I have done in the meantime?"

They both looked their curiosity but said nothing.

"I've simply used your clever plot to my own advantage, in order to bring things to a climax," continued Fogerty. "While we are joy-riding here, a half dozen of my men are watching every move that Mershone makes. I believe he will lead them straight to the girl; don't you?"

Big Bill growled some words that were not very choice and then yelled to the chauffeur to stop. The other man was pale and evidently frightened.

"See here, Fogerty; you make tracks!" was the sharp command, as the automobile came to a halt. "You've worked a pretty trick on us, 'cordin'

to your own showin', and we must find Mr. Mershone before it's too late--if we can."

"Good morning," said Fogerty, alighting. "Thank you for a pleasant ride--and other things."

They dashed away and left him standing on the curb; and after watching them disappear the detective walked over to a drug store and entered the telephone booth.

"That you, Hyde?--This is Fogerty."

"Yes, sir. Mr. Mershone has just crossed the ferry to Jersey. Adams is with him. I'll hear from him again in a minute: hold the wire."

Fogerty waited. Soon he learned that Mershone had purchased a ticket for East Orange. The train would leave in fifteen minutes.

Fogerty decided quickly. After looking at his watch he rushed out and arrested a pa.s.sing taxicab.

"Ready for a quick run--perhaps a long one?" he asked.

"Ready for anything," declared the man.

The detective jumped in and gave hurried directions.

"Never mind the speed limit," he said. "No one will interfere with us.

I'm Fogerty."

CHAPTER XIX

POLITIC REPENTANCE

Perhaps no one--not even Mrs. Merrick--was so unhappy in consequence of the lamentable crime that had been committed as Diana Von Taer.

Immediately after her interview with Beth her mood changed, and she would have given worlds to be free from complicity in the abduction.

Bitterly, indeed, she reproached herself for her enmity toward the unsuspecting girl, an innocent victim of Diana's own vain desires and Charles Mershone's heartless wiles. Repenting her folly and reasoning out the thing when it was too late, Diana saw clearly that she had gained no possible advantage, but had thoughtlessly conspired to ruin the reputation of an honest, ingenuous girl.

Not long ago she had said that her life was dull, a stupid round of social functions that bored her dreadfully. She had hoped by adopting John Merrick's nieces as her _protegees_ and introducing them to society to find a novel and pleasurable excitement that would serve to take her out of her unfortunate _ennui_--a condition to which she had practically been born.

But Diana had never bargained for such excitement as this; she had never thought to win self abhorrence by acts of petty malice and callous cruelties. Yet so intrenched was she in the conservatism of her cla.s.s that she could not at once bring herself to the point of exposing her own guilt that she might make amends for what had been done. She told herself she would rather die than permit Louise to suffer through her connivance with her reckless, unprincipled cousin. She realized perfectly that she ought to fly, without a moment's delay, to the poor girl's a.s.sistance. Yet fear of exposure, of ridicule, of loss of caste, held her a helpless prisoner in her own home, where she paced the floor and moaned and wrung her hands until she was on the verge of nervous prostration. If at any time she seemed to acquire sufficient courage to go to Louise, a glance at the detective watching the house unnerved her and prevented her from carrying out her good intentions.

You must not believe that Diana was really bad; her lifelong training along set lines and practical seclusion from the everyday world were largely responsible for her evil impulses. Mischief is sure to crop up, in one form or another, among the idle and ambitionless. More daring wickedness is said to be accomplished by the wealthy and aimless creatures of our false society than by the poorer and uneducated cla.s.ses, wherein criminals are supposed to thrive. These sins are often unpublished, although not always undiscovered, but they are no more venial because they are suppressed by wealth and power.

Diana Von Taer was a girl who, rightly led, might have been capable of developing a n.o.ble womanhood; yet the conditions of her limited environment had induced her to countenance a most dastardly and despicable act. It speaks well for the innate goodness of this girl that she at last actually rebelled and resolved to undo, insofar as she was able, the wrong that had been accomplished.