Chapter XXXVIII In Capitals of Red
In a moment Barry had recovered himself. After all, the sheets being identical did not prove that they had come from the same shop. No doubt there were hundreds of stores in New York which kept that kind of paper in stock. It was an odd coincidence, that was all.
“This is the sort I want,” he said quietly, meeting the girl’s curious glance with indifference. “About two quires will be enough—with one package of envelopes.”
His perfect ease of manner seemed to reassure her, and she glanced at the paper he held out, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you even a quire,” she said, reaching up to a shelf behind her and taking down a box. “I noticed when I sold a sheet and envelope this afternoon that there were only a few left.”
“This afternoon!” Lawrence exclaimed, with well-simulated surprise. “I wonder if it could have been my friend Davis, who wrote this letter? Was he tall and slim and dark?”
“That’s him,” the girl answered. “He was dressed swell, too, and wore a high hat.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” Barry commented. “Well, give me what you have. I suppose you’ll be getting in some more of the same kind soon.”
“I’m afraid not,” she returned, wrapping the few sheets with accustomed deftness. “The firm that supplied us with this has gone out of business. This box is three or four years old. It got lost in the stock, and I only ran across it about a week ago, and put it on sale. You’d have a hard job locating a bit of it anywhere in town. We’ve got some which is just as good, though.”
It was with difficulty that Lawrence made an easy, casual answer, paid for the paper, and left the shop. The girl’s explanation had left no doubt in his mind that the thing which had seemed so impossible was true. The man in black and the agent of those who had kidnaped Shirley Rives had both come to this obscure little shop to purchase writing paper.
It was incredible that there could be any connection between the two, yet Barry had seen so many apparently impossible things transpire within the past week that he began to doubt everything.
Out of the whole intricate medley of events, however, one fact stood clear and distinct: The men who had sent both letters must be living somewhere within a comparatively short distance of the little shop. University Place is not a main artery, like Broadway or Sixth Avenue; people do not pass through it, as a rule, unless they have business there or live in the neighborhood. There are no car lines on it—it is a sort of back eddy, away from the rush and turmoil and passing of great throngs.
But, now that he was sure Shirley’s place of captivity was not so very far away, Barry could not make up his mind what to do. He could traverse the streets one by one, to be sure, but what would that accomplish? It was scarcely likely that chance would again direct his footsteps as it had done in sending him here from Union Square.
Puzzled and undecided, he told the chauffeur to follow him, then set out slowly toward Fourteenth Street. If he only had some one with whom to talk things over it would be much easier. Two heads are always better than one; and even Jock Hamersley might be able to suggest some feasible plan.
“I suppose there’s nothing to prevent my hustling up and getting the old chap,” he murmured as he reached the corner of the busy cross street. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Hang it all! I believe I’ll do it.”
He turned toward the taxi, which had come to a stop beside the curb, and had almost reached the door when a newsboy darted toward him, waving a sheet with gaudy scareheads.
“Wuxtry!” he shrilled, thrusting the paper under Barry’s nose. “All about banker’s suicide! All about turrible shootin’! Wuxtry! Paper, mister?”
Lawrence shook his head impatiently, and was about to step into the taxi when his eyes fell upon the flaming headlines of the paper, and for a second his heart almost ceased to beat:
Trust Company Official Shoots Himself! Julian Farr, of the Beekman Trust, Blows His Brains Out. Defaulter in Many Thousands, He Leaves Behind a Confession Exonerating Former Employee.
Without a word, Barry snatched the sheet and thrust a coin into the boy’s hand.
“Never mind the change,” he said hoarsely.
Eagerly, feverishly, his eyes raced over the lines of large print. It was the old, old story, sordid in detail, inevitable as to conclusion. Julian Farr, cashier of the Beekman Trust, had started in by living beyond his means, and, getting in a hole, used the funds of the bank to speculate with. Once, when exposure threatened, he had saved himself by the despicable device of throwing the blame upon another man. The second time such a thing was impossible, and so, penniless, desperate, with a bank examiner due the following day, he had solved the whole problem, after the fashion of many cowards, with a little piece of lead.
The one graceful, decent action, which stood out in vivid contrast to all the rest, was the full and complete confession he had left behind, taking the responsibility of that first defalcation and explaining in detail how entirely blameless Barry Lawrence was. And, as the latter read the last word of this printed document, his eyes sparkled and a great joy surged through him.
He was free again—free from the shackles of suspicion and accusation which had been fastened upon him so unjustly! His name was no longer tarnished. It had been cleared in a manner which could leave no doubt in the mind of a single soul concerning his absolute honesty.
Then, like a flash, he came back to the present. What did this matter—what did anything matter when Shirley Rives was still in the hands of this unknown gang? He was wasting precious time, and, thrusting the paper into his overcoat pocket, he jerked open the door of the taxi.
“The Yale Club—and hustle!” he said tersely as he stepped hastily into the car.