The Chase of the Golden Plate (5 page)

CHAPTER II

When the Burglar awoke to consciousness he was as near heaven as any mere man ever dares expect to be. He was comfortable—quite comfortable—wrapped in a delicious, languorous lassitude, which forbade him opening his eyes to realisation. A woman's hand lay on his forehead, caressingly, and dimly he knew that another hand cuddled cosily in one of his own. He lay still, trying to remember, before he opened his eyes. Someone beside him breathed softly, and he listened, as if to music.

Gradually the need of action—just what action and to what purpose did not occur to him—impressed itself on his mind. He raised the disengaged hand to his face and touched the mask, which had been pushed back on his forehead. Then he recalled the ball, the shot, the chase, the hiding in the woods. He opened his eyes with a start. Utter darkness lay about him—for a moment he was not certain whether it was the darkness of blindness or of night.

“Dick, are you awake?” asked the Girl softly.

He knew the voice and was content.

“Yes,” he answered languidly.

He closed his eyes again and some strange, subtle perfume seemed to envelop him. He waited. Warm lips were pressed to his own, thrilling him strangely, and the Girl rested a soft cheek against his.

“We have been very foolish, Dick,” she said, sweetly chiding, after a moment. “It was all my fault for letting you expose yourself to danger, but I didn't dream of such a thing as this happening. I shall never forgive myself, because—”

“But—” he began protestingly.

“Not another word about it now,” she hurried on. “We must go very soon. How do you feel?”

“I'm all right, or will be in a minute,” he responded, and he made as if to rise. “Where is the car?”

“Right here. I extinguished the lights and managed to stop the engine for fear those horrid people who were after us might notice.”

“Good girl!”

“When you jumped out and fainted I jumped out, too. I'm afraid I was not very clever, but I managed to bind your arm. I took my handkerchief and pressed it against the wound after ripping your coat, then I bound it there. It stopped the flow of blood, but, Dick, dear, you must have medical attention just as soon as possible.”

The Burglar moved his shoulder a little and winced.

“Just as soon as I did that,” the Girl went on, “I made you comfortable here on a cushion from the car.”

“Good girl!” he said again.

“Then I sat down to wait until you got better. I had no stimulant or anything, and I didn't dare to leave you, so—so I just waited,” she ended with a weary little sigh.

“How long was I knocked out?” he queried.

“I don't know; half an hour, perhaps.”

“The bag is all right, I suppose?”

“The bag?”

“The bag with the stuff—the one I threw in the car when we started?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so! Really, I hadn't thought of it.”

“Hadn't thought of it?” repeated the Burglar, and there was a trace of astonishment in his voice. “By George, you're a wonder!” he added.

He started to get on his feet, then dropped back weakly.

“Say, girlie,” he requested, “see if you can find the bag in the car there and hand it out. Let's take a look.”

“Where is it?”

“Somewhere in front. I felt it at my feet when I jumped out.”

There was a rustle of skirts in the darkness, and after a moment a faint muffled clank as of one heavy metal striking dully against another.

“Goodness!” exclaimed the Girl. “It's heavy enough. What's in it?”

“What's in it?” repeated the Burglar, and he chuckled. “A fortune, nearly. It's worth being punctured for. Let me see.”

In the darkness he took the bag from her hands and fumbled with it a moment. She heard the metallic sound again and then several heavy objects were poured out on the ground.

“A good fourteen pounds of pure gold,” commented the Burglar. “By George, I haven't but one match, but we'll see what it's like.”

The match was struck, sputtered for a moment, then flamed up, and the Girl, standing, looked down upon the Burglar on his knees beside a heap of gold plate. She stared at the glittering mass as if fascinated, and her eyes opened wide.

“Why, Dick, what is that?” she asked.

“It's Randolph's plate,” responded the Burglar complacently. “I don't know how much it's worth, but it must be several thousands, on dead weight.”

“What are you doing with it?”

“What am I doing with it?” repeated the Burglar. He was about to look up when the match burned his finger and he dropped it. “That's a silly question.”

“But how came it in your possession?” the Girl insisted.

“I acquired it by the simple act of—of dropping it into a bag and bringing it along. That and you in the same evening—” He stretched out a hand toward her, but she was not there. He chuckled a little as he turned and picked up eleven plates, one by one, and replaced them in the bag.

“Nine—ten—eleven,” he counted. “What luck did
you
have?”

“Dick Herbert, explain to me, please, what you are doing with that gold plate?” There was an imperative command in the voice.

The Burglar paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Oh, I'm taking it to have it fixed!” he responded lightly.

“Fixed? Taking it this way at this time of the night?”

“Sure,” and he laughed pleasantly.

“You mean you—you—you
stole
it?” The words came with an effort.

“Well, I'd hardly call it that,” remarked the Burglar. “That's a harsh word. Still, it's in my possession; it wasn't given to me, and I didn't buy it. You may draw your own conclusions.”

The bag lay beside him and his left hand caressed it idly, lovingly. For a long time there was silence.

“What luck did
you
have?” he asked again.

There was a startled gasp, a gurgle and accusing indignation in the Girl's low, tense voice.

“You—you
stole
it!”

“Well, if you prefer it that way—yes.”

The Burglar was staring steadily into the darkness toward that point whence came the voice, but the night was so dense that not a trace of the Girl was visible. He laughed again.

“It seems to me it was lucky I decided to take it at just this time and in these circumstances,” he went on tauntingly, “lucky for you, I mean. If I hadn't been there you would have been caught.”

Again came the startled gasp.

“What's the matter?” demanded the Burglar sharply, after another silence. “Why don't you say something?”

He was still peering unseeingly into the darkness. The bag of gold plate moved slightly under his hand. He opened his fingers to close them more tightly. It was a mistake. The bag was drawn away; his hand grasped—air.

“Stop that game now!” he commanded angrily. “Where are you?”

He struggled to his feet. His answer was the crackling of a twig to his right. He started in that direction and brought up with a bump against the automobile. He turned, still groping blindly, and embraced a tree with undignified fervour. To his left he heard another slight noise and ran that way. Again he struck an obstacle. Then he began to say things, expressive things, burning things from the depths of an impassioned soul. The treasure had gone—disappeared into the shadows. The Girl was gone. He called, there was no answer. He drew his revolver fiercely, then reconsidered and flung it down angrily.

“And I thought
I
had nerve!” he declared. It was a compliment.

CHAPTER III

Extravagantly brilliant the sun popped up out of the east—not an unusual occurrence—and stared unblinkingly down upon a country road. There were the usual twittering birds and dew-spangled trees and nodding wild flowers; also a dust that was shoe-top deep. The dawny air stirred lazily and rustling leaves sent long, sinuous shadows scampering back and forth.

Looking upon it all without enthusiasm or poetic exaltation was a Girl—a pretty Girl—a very pretty Girl. She sat on a stone beside the yellow roadway, a picture of weariness. A rough burlap sack, laden heavily, yet economically as to space, wallowed in the dust beside her. Her hair was tawny gold, and rebellious strands drooped listlessly about her face. A beribboned sombrero lay in her lap, supplementing a certain air of dilapidated bravado, due in part to a short skirt, heavy gloves and boots, a belt with a knife and revolver.

A robin, perched impertinently on a stump across the road, examined her at his leisure. She stared back at Signor Redbreast, and for this recognition he warbled a little song.

“I've a good mind to cry!” exclaimed the Girl suddenly.

Shamed and startled, the robin flew away. A mistiness came into the Girl's blue eyes and lingered there a moment, then her white teeth closed tightly and the glimmer of outraged emotion passed.

“Oh,” she sighed again, “I'm so tired and hungry and I just know I'll never get anywhere at all!”

But despite the expressed conviction she arose and straightened up as if to resume her journey, turning to stare down at the bag. It was an unsightly symbol of blasted hopes, man's perfidy, crushed aspirations and—Heaven only knows what besides.

“I've a good mind to leave you right there,” she remarked to the bag spitefully. “Perhaps I might hide it.” She considered the question. “No, that wouldn't do. I must take it with me—and—and—Oh, Dick! Dick! What in the world was the matter with you, anyway?”

Then she sat down again and wept. The robin crept back to look and modestly hid behind a leaf. From this coign of vantage he watched her as she again arose and plodded off through the dust with the bag swinging over one shoulder. At last—there is an at last to everything—a small house appeared from behind a clump of trees. The Girl looked with incredulous eyes. It was really a house. Really! A tiny curl of smoke hovered over the chimney.

“Well, thank goodness, I'm somewhere, anyhow,” she declared with her first show of enthusiasm. “I can get a cup of coffee or something.”

She covered the next fifty yards with a new spring in her leaden heels and with a new and firmer grip on the precious bag. Then—she stopped.

“Gracious!” and perplexed lines suddenly wrinkled her brow. “If I should go in there with a pistol and a knife they'd think I was a brigand—or—or a thief, and I suppose I am,” she added as she stopped and rested the bag on the ground. “At least I have stolen goods in my possession. Now, what shall I say if they ask questions? What am I? They wouldn't believe me if I told them really. Short skirt, boots and gloves: I know! I'm a bicyclist. My wheel broke down, and—”

Whereupon she gingerly removed the revolver from her belt and flung it into the underbrush—not at all in the direction she had intended—and the knife followed to keep it company. Having relieved herself of these sinister things, she straightened her hat, pushed back the rebellious hair, yanked at her skirt, and walked bravely up to the little house.

An Angel lived there—an Angel in a dizzily beflowered wrapper and a crabbed exterior. She listened to a rapidly constructed and wholly inconsistent story of a bicycle accident, which ended with a plea for a cup of coffee. Silently she proceeded to prepare it. After the pot was bubbling cheerfully and eggs had been put on and biscuits thrust into a stove to be warmed over, the Angel sat down at the table opposite the Girl.

“Book agent?” she asked.

“Oh, no!” replied the Girl.

“Sewing-machines?”

“No.”

There was a pause as the Angel settled and poured a cup of coffee.

“Make to order, I s'pose?”

“No,” the Girl replied uncertainly.

“What
do
you sell?”

“Nothing, I—I—” She stopped.

“What you got in the bag?” the Angel persisted.

“Some—some—just some—stuff,” stammered the Girl, and her face suddenly flushed crimson.

“What kind of stuff?”

The Girl looked into the frankly inquisitive eyes and was overwhelmed by a sense of her own helplessness. Tears started, and one pearly drop ran down her perfect nose and splashed in the coffee. That was the last straw. She leaned forward suddenly with her head on her arms and wept.

“Please, please don't ask questions!” she pleaded. “I'm a poor, foolish, helpless, misguided, disillusioned woman!”

“Yes'm,” said the Angel. She took up the eggs, then came over and put a kindly arm about the Girl's shoulders. “There, there!” she said soothingly. “Don't take on like that! Drink some coffee, and eat a bite, and you'll feel better!”

“I have had no sleep at all and no food since yesterday, and I've walked miles and miles and miles,” the Girl rushed on feverishly. “It's all because—because—” She stopped suddenly.

“Eat something,” commanded the Angel.

The Girl obeyed. The coffee was weak and muddy and delightful; the biscuits were yellow and lumpy and delicious; the eggs were eggs. The Angel sat opposite and watched the Girl as she ate.

“Husband beat you?” she demanded suddenly.

The Girl blushed and choked.

“No,” she hastened to say. “I have no husband.”

“Well, there ain't no serious trouble in this world till you marry a man that beats you,” said the Angel judicially. It was the final word.

The Girl didn't answer, and, in view of the fact that she had sufficient data at hand to argue the point, this repression required heroism. Perhaps she will never get credit for it. She finished the breakfast in silence and leaned back with some measure of returning content in her soul.

“In a hurry?” asked the Angel.

“No, I have no place to go. What is the nearest village or town?”

“Watertown, but you'd better stay and rest a while. You look all tuckered out.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” said the Girl gratefully. “But it would be so much trouble for—”

The Angel picked up the burlap bag, shook it inquiringly, then started toward the short stairs leading up.

“Please, please!” exclaimed the Girl suddenly. “I—I—let me have that, please!”

The Angel relinquished the bag without a word. The Girl took it, tremblingly, then, suddenly dropping it, clasped the Angel in her arms and placed upon her unresponsive lips a kiss for which a mere man would have endangered his immortal soul. The Angel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went on up the stairs with the Girl following.

For a time the Girl lay, with wet eyes, on a clean little bed, thinking. Humiliation, exhaustion, man's perfidy, disillusionment, and the kindness of an utter stranger all occupied her until she fell asleep. Then she was chased by a policeman with automobile lights for eyes, and there was a parade of hard-boiled eggs and yellow, lumpy biscuits.

When she awoke the room was quite dark. She sat up a little bewildered at first; then she remembered. After a moment she heard the voice of the Angel, below. It rippled on querulously; then she heard the gruff voice of a man.

“Diamond rings?”

The Girl sat up in bed and listened intently. Involuntarily her hands were clasped together. Her rings were still safe. The Angel's voice went on for a moment again.

“Something in a bag?” inquired the man.

Again the Angel spoke.

Terror seized upon the Girl; imagination ran riot, and she rose from the bed, trembling. She groped about the dark room noiselessly. Every shadow lent her new fears. Then from below came the sound of heavy footsteps. She listened fearfully. They came on toward the stairs, then paused. A match was struck and the step sounded on the stairs.

After a moment there was a knock at the door, a pause, then another knock. Finally the door was pushed open and a huge figure—the figure of a man—appeared, sheltering a candle with one hand. He peered about the room as if perplexed.

“Ain't nobody up here,” he called gruffly down the stairs.

There was a sound of hurrying feet and the Angel entered, her face distorted by the flickering candlelight.

“For the land's sakes!” she exclaimed.

“Went away without even saying thank you,” grumbled the man. He crossed the room and closed a window. “You ain't got no better sense than a chicken,” he told the Angel. “Take in anybody that comes.”