The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris/Chapter 7

ITH one of his wasted hands clasped in the cool, caressing fingers of his daughter, and with her plump, rosy cheek pressed tenderly against his own, withered and yellowed by a long, dragging siege of typhoid, W. Mandeville Clarke slept. It was a sleep of utter exhaustion, an exhaustion following closely upon the maelstrom of speculation and apprehension aroused by that unexpected encounter with Mr. John Smith in the Café de la Paix. Smith, of all men! What was he doing in Paris, so far away from his wicketed window? Why had he been arrested? And why had he submitted to arrest under the name of Clarke, with hardly a protest?

There was only one answer, of course, and that answered only part of the question: The disappearance of the United States bonds from the bank vault had been discovered. An order had been issued for his, Clarke’s, arrest on a charge of having made way with those bonds. That order had been turned over to the police of Paris for execution, and they had blundered. But how had they blundered? How was it possible to mistake Smith for Clarke? And why had Smith not delivered over to the arresting officer the real W. Mandeville Clarke, who was there under his very hands? It couldn’t have been that Smith hadn’t recognized him; the blazing, straight staring eyes left no room for doubt on that score. Then why—why?

Pondering these things, aghast at the hideous possibilities that paraded before his distorted vision in garish disorder, certain of nothing and fearful of all, Clarke had been lulled into uneasy slumber by the softly musical voice of his daughter, who talked of all things in the world save the strange meeting in the Café de la Paix.

Mr. Smith had been led away a submissive prisoner, and immediately he had gone Edna had hurried her father into a taxicab and they had been driven here—here to this shabby little apartment in the Rue St. Honore where she had found him, where he had been quartered for weeks, and where by force of indomitable will and splendid physique he had conquered his illness.

OR an hour or more after he had dropped asleep the girl sat beside him, motionless, vigilant, sensitive to his least movement, her clear blue eyes clouded by terror of some incomprehensible danger which threatened to overwhelm them. She had asked no questions; but a thousand were hammering insistently for answer. Why was her father, W. Mandeville Clarke, president of a bank and a financial power at home, skulking here in a pitiful little apartment under the name of Charles Roebling? Had there been some crime? She shuddered at the thought. If there had been no crime, why the necessity of this concealment? And who was this huge, hulking American, this so called John Smith, who, knowing Clarke, had submitted to arrest with scarcely a word of defense?

Her father—perhaps he was a thief! He had left home suddenly with the bare, bald statement that he was going to Paris, and once there he had utterly disappeared. Weeks and weeks had passed; then, tormented by an unnamed fear of some ghastly thing like this, she had come to find him. She had found him through a clue furnished by a friend of the family, found him just recovering from typhoid fever. If her father was a thief, then John Smith—John Smith—he was probably a detective! That was the only inference she had been able to draw from his answers to her questions that day in the Champs Elysées. But, on the other hand, if he was a detective, why had he permitted himself to be arrested as W. Mandeville Clarke?

After awhile she detached her slim fingers from her father’s feeble grip and rose noiselessly. For a minute or more she stood staring down on the emaciated frame of this man who was so much to her, who was so dependent upon her now in his helplessness, who was so near to her and yet so isolated by the pall of mystery which seemed impenetrable. Then suddenly there came a blinding, blurring rush of tears and she crept silently from the room.

HE door squeaked faintly as she closed it; but, slight as it was, the noise aroused Clarke. His feverish eyes opened wide and he sat up straight in bed. The bonds! He had dreamed of them, and fear for their safety had been born in that dream,—a strange,vivid vision of a desperate struggle with some straight staring, rugged faced, hulking man, some man who seemed to be—to be John Smith! In the dream he had lost the bonds! For a long time he sat listening, listening, then started to rise from the bed. It was an effort. Illness had sapped his strength, he was weak as a child, but the will of him came to his rescue, that merciless, all compelling will against which no man or thing had ever stood.

Made giddy by the effort, with the world swimming about him hazily, he rested for a minute beside the bed, steadying himself by the support it gave; then, his eyes aglitter, his heart pounding, he went staggering, reeling, across the room. From a shelf high up in the rickety wardrobe he took down a little leather bag and opened it with fumbling fingers. Inside, folded separately, and placed one upon another, were many papers, bound into a package by a rubber band, he thrust his fingers into the bag. The papers crackled at his touch and he laughed senselessly. They were safe!

With trembling hands he slid one of the sheets out and opened it. It was a United States bond, printed in the golden yellow that one instinctively associates with things of great value. On its face it bore the figures $10,000. There were one hundred and fifty of those bonds in the bag—one million five hundred thousand dollars! Here was not his fortune, but the means to a fortune that was to become millions and millions under his deft manipulations! Again he laughed, a mirth that was cracked, hollow.

After awhile he folded the bond, slipped it back under the rubber band, locked the little bag again, and stood swaying in the center of the room as if seeking a place to hide it. For weeks, during all the weary illness when he had lain unconscious, helpless, the little bag had remained safe and undisturbed. But now he had dreamed, and fear had been born in that dream. The bag must be hidden in some better, safer place safe from Smith, safe from chance discovery by his daughter!

An idea came! He could place the bag beside him, under the covers! There it would always be at hand, and with a revolver under his pillow—

T was an hour later, perhaps, that the door opened with the slight squeak that had aroused him, and his daughter entered softly. The mist of tears was gone now, the lingering, doubtful fear had passed from the blue eyes, and the scarlet lips were smiling bravely.

“Edna,” he said, and for a moment there was a return to the terse, masterful tone she had always known, “does it happen you have seen any account in the Paris edition of ‘The Herald’ of trouble in one of the banks back home? An embezzlement, perhaps?”

“No, Daddy. Why?”

So, whether or not there had been an order sent to the Paris police for his arrest, nothing had come out back home! There was yet a chance, in spite of Smith! A chance? No, an absolute certainty! Clarke closed his eyes and lay back smiling.