The end of dreams

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I When the Mask Slipped 9

II The Arrest 25

Chapter I When The Mask Slipped

JgEATRICE COLLAMER awakened suddenly and thoroughly. She was not startled, nor had she any sense of fear, and yet she felt that something unusual was occurring. Darkness surrounded her, and she had no conception of the time. It might be anywhere between eleven o’clock and dawn; though it seemed as if she had slept several hours.

The sound of measured breathing coming through the open door from the next room told her that her mother still slumbered peacefully. From the street occasionally came the usual and undisturbing night noises of a quiet neighborhood, and from beyond, the subdued roar that passes in a city for silence.

For several moments she lay and listened, but there was no other sound. The possibility of burglars she quickly dismissed; one does not have much fear of burglars on the eighth floor of a wellfilled apartment house.

Still she lay and listened, with no inclination to go to sleep again, unsatisfied and curious. And with the waiting came a desire to know the hour. She would go to the dining room where she could see the clock, and also get a drink of water.

Quietly she rose, so as not to disturb her mother, and, thrusting her feet into soft bedroom slippers and slipping on a dressing gown, stepped into the hallway. The faint light of the night, coming through the windows, dimly located the walls and doors, and outlined the furniture in uncertain masses, and she was able to make her way noiselessly and expeditiously.

As she paused at the dining room door, she thought she heard a slight noise as if some one had moved. Then her hand found the electric switch, and the room was flooded with light. For a second or two the glare blinded her; then she gasped, and caught at the door jamb.

Standing by the sideboard, with a bundle in his hand, was a man, tall and well-built, and wearing a black mask! ll

With a growl he turned as if he would throttle her and prevent the scream he expected. Then he caught himself and, giving a smothered, half -articulate cry, stood for a moment as if petrified with astonishment.

“ Beatie ! ” he exclaimed, “ Y ou! Beatie!”

Her breath almost stopped, and her heart seemed to rise up and choke her. Not in ten years had anyone called her by that name. And the voice! Her pulse raced, and her brain was in a whirl. Memories, doubts, fears —

He recovered himself first. Tossing the bundle on the table, where it fell with a chink which told that its contents were such scant loot as the Collamer flat afforded, he sprang to the open door of the pantry. There he paused momentarily, and turned once more toward her.

AS HE SPOKE HIS MASK DROPPED FROM HIS FACE.

“ Forget !” he exclaimed, in a low, tense voice.

As he spoke the fastening of his mask gave way, and it dropped from his face.

In Beatrice’s eyes shone the horror of confirmed, yet almost unbelievable, suspicions.

“Demas!” she screamed.

With an oath, which she did not hear because she had crumpled down senseless in the doorway, he jumped to the open window of the pantry, climbed out on the fire escape, and was gone.

The first thing that Beatrice realized, as she gradually came to her senses, was that she was in bed, and that there was a rumble of voices near by. Then from the confusion of sounds came words that she distinguished.

“ — not the slightest cause for alarm, Mrs. Collamer,” a voice was saying — a voice that sounded like Dr. Runciman’s, making her wonder why he was there. “ Merely a fainting fit which was quite the natural effect of the adventure — if we may judge by the evidences of a visit in the dining room. Miss Beatrice evidently came upon the intruder unexpectedly to both of them. Then she screamed and fainted, and he, seeing how he had disturbed a lady, quickly withdrew in a very gentlemanly way down the fire escape.”

She opened her eyes and saw the doctor standing at the bedside, with unkempt hair and beard awry as if he had hurriedly responded, from his apartments on a lower floor, to an emergency call. Near by stood her mother working her hands together nervously. It was not yet morning, and under the glare of the incandescents Mrs. Collamer looked ghastly and scared. Beatrice took a long breath.

“ Yes,” she said a little weakly, “ that was the way, Doctor.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the doctor, stooping and resting his fingers on the wrist that lay so inert on the bed. “ All right again, eh? No,” he interrupted himself, as Beatrice made a movement to sit up, “not yet. Your pulse does not quite meet with my approval.”

As her functions resumed their normal activity, her strength returned rapidly; and with this strength came the remembrance of the meeting in the dining room.

“ Oh! ” she cried, softly, as a shudder shook her body, and she covered her eyes with her hands.

Her mother knelt quickly at her bedside.

“ Don’t be frightened, Beatrice, dear,” she said. “ He’s gone now. He was only a burglar.”

“ Only — a burglar!” she repeated, bringing out the last word, after a pause, slowly and reluctantly, while her eyes looked beyond her mother, and into the past when she had seen that unmasked face so often, and when she had so gladly welcomed its appearance every day.

“Yes, dear,” her mother was saying; “ and we have sent for the police. They’re likely to be here any moment now.”

“The police?” A frightened look came into her eyes as she spoke, and her nerves were tense. “ How — how long since — ” She paused.

“Since your adventure?” said the doctor, looking at his watch. “ Um-m-m, nearly an hour, I should say.”

She relaxed again, and her eyes became calmer. Much might have been done in an hour.

“ And now,” went on the doctor, “ as you seem to be all right again, I think I’ll return to my hard-earned rest — ”

“ Oh, yes, Doctor, of course. I’m all right. It was too bad to disturb you. I’ll never forgive myself for being so foolish as to faint like that — ”

“Tut, tut! It seems that I don’t dare to joke. Of course you should have called me. Indeed, I should not have thought so highly of you if you had not fainted in a thoroughly womanly manner, under the circumstances. But you did, fortunately. And now I’ll say good — well, yes, good-morning.

I’ll step in again, and see how you are getting along when I get up.”

“ Try to sleep a little, Beatrice,” said Mrs. Collamer, when Doctor Runciman had gone, “so you will be thoroughly composed, and can tell the police all about it when they come. I’ll turn out the light, and he down on the couch in the other room. Doctor Runciman will tell the other people in the building that everything is all right.”

Beatrice nodded slightly and closed her eyes, but she did not sleep. Still she heard that voice, and saw that unmasked face — the same, and yet so different from what it had been ten years before. Could it be — She tried to disbelieve her own eyes and ears, and yet —

Twenty minutes later the bell sounded, and she heard her mother admit some one whose voice was deeply 18 masculine. Nearly an hour and a half, she thought, and it would be at least another half hour before the police were ready to take the trail.

Adam Holtsclaw, plain clothes man, who represented one branch of the city’s eff orts to prevent and to discover crime, did not look the part. His hair and eyes were light, and his face was almost as rosy and pudgy as an infant’s, while his girth suggested sedentary rather than active pursuits. Yet he went over the flat with quick, shrewd glances that took in all details. The case was entirely clear to him. The burglar had mounted the fire escape, entered the pantry window and gathered up such loot as was convenient. Then, when he was interrupted, he had escaped the way he entered.

“ I’ll talk to the young lady now, if you please, mum,” he said, finally.

It was Detective Holtsclaw’s boast that any person he met professionally he would always know at subsequent meetings, no matter when or where they occurred. Thus the light eyes were keen and critical when Beatrice entered wearing the same dressing gown she had on when the adventure occurred. They saw a woman of twenty-eight, not tall, yet seeming so from her slenderness and grace, with big grey eyes, and soft hair of a dusky brown that approached black, now coiled in hurried and careless masses about her head.

At the detective’s request, she related the incidents from the time she awakened until she had fainted.

“ Would you know the burglar if you saw him again?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, reluctantly, after a pause.

“ Um-m-m,” said the detective, as he eyed her sharply. “Did he do anything in particular to make you scream ?”

“Um-m-m; and you didn’t scream until his mask fell off?”

“ No-o-o.” Her reluctance increased appreciably.

The detective turned his eyes full on hers.

“ Had you ever seen him before? ” he asked.

She seemed to be thinking, and did not answer.

“Had you ever seen him before?” he repeated, not unkindly, but insistently.

“Yes — I think so,” she admitted.

“Why, Beatrice!” exclaimed Mrs. Collamer.

“ One minute, lady,” said the detective, interrupting what might have been a flow of exclamations. “ Jist a little ca’mness now; we seem to be gittin’ a start. How long,” he asked, turning once more to Beatrice, “ since you had seen him before? ”

“ Oh,” her tone was low, but full of protest, “ten years — or more.”

“Where?”

“We went to the same college.”

“ Um-m-m,” said the detective, sagely; “and what was his name — then?”

Her voice sank even lower.

“ I won’t tell you,” she said.

“Why, Beatrice, child!” Mrs. Collamer’s voice rose in a shocked tone. “What do you mean? What is the matter with you? You must tell. It is the law. Who was he? ”

The girl raised her face, bitter with doubt and trouble, and her chin trembled.

“ I — ” Then burying her face in the broad upholstered side of the chair, she wound her arms about her head, as if to shut out everything, and sobbed.

Mrs. Collamer knelt at her side with soothing words of comfort and encouragement, while the detective cleared his throat and stroked his shaven chin. He was not a hard-hearted man, but duty was duty, so he held his place, silently waiting for the storm of emotion to pass, while he pictured to his own satisfaction something of the past. He could not believe, however, that a mere boy and girl affair like that could have been very serious, especially when they had not met in ten years, and the young man had manifestly become so impossible. His voice was softer than usual when he spoke.

“ You’d better tell me, Miss,” he said, “both for your own sake an’ his’n. If he’s jist gittin’ started wrong maybe we can give him a right steer, an’ if he’s all to the bad — well, you can’t do him no harm, an’ you may do other people lots o’ good. It’ll be better either way, an’ all ’round. Come on, now, what was his name?”

Pushing her mother away from her, Beatrice rose and walked to the door of her own room. There she turned toward the detective with her face set, the corners of her mouth drawn down, and the tears of bitterness ready to overflow.

“Demas Dayre,” she said, as she stepped into the other room, and closed the door behind her.

Chapter II

W HEN word came that the local police, at the behest of a detective from another city, had arrested Demas Dayre on a charge of burglary, the half dozen men who were sitting around the big fireplace, with its smouldering April evening fire, at the Sycamore club, stared at each other aghast. But only for a moment. Then they pounded their knees with their fists and laughed immoderately. The joke was unquestionably on Dayre.

“ It would make it seem a whole lot more real if we’d leave him in all night,” said Boyd Lenroot: “but that would come pretty near being mean.”

“You bet!” exclaimed Nace Forbush. “ The inside of a jail is no joke, even if there’s no scare about it. It’s up to us to get him out; then he can come back with us, and throw a little party for us to show his gratitude. Come on, everybody, and we’ll pick up some of the other fellows on the way there.”

So it was that half an hour later two touring cars stopped their chugging behind Forbush’s electric runabout in front of the police station, and eleven men, representing enough social, political, commercial and financial influence to go on the bond of any man charged with anything less than cold-blooded murder, climbed out and went to the rescue of Demas Dayre.

The desk sergeant’s room was not a wholly unpleasant or uncheerful place 26 with its ample supply of incandescents and its neutral tinted walls between it and the distress that was confined behind them. At the desk the sergeant sat in his blue and brass, busy with the routine of the night. In a far corner sat Demas and the visiting detective, who was smoking one of Demas’s cigars, and keeping an incidental watch over the prisoner.

Demas really looked the part of the daring man of action better than the detective except as to the eyes, which were large and dark brown and mild, and spoke only of kindliness and humanity. Otherwise he filled the requirements well. He was tall and slender, but muscular, with a rather sallow, beardless face, and hair some shades darker than straw color, which grew high on his forehead almost to the line 27 of incipient baldness, altogether not very accurately defining his thirty-three years. At a look one might have guessed him twenty-five; at another, over forty.

The general appearance and the confident manner of the company that came, the greetings that were exchanged, and the evident attitude of respect on the part of the desk sergeant, impressed the detective to a degree that eff aced official arrogance. Forbush assumed the responsibilities of the occasion.

“Good evening, Mr. — 55 Forbush hesitated, politely.

“ Holtsclaw , 55 responded the detective. “ Adam Holtsclaw, sir, at your service . 55 The detective was not to be outdone in politeness.

“ Glad to meet you, Mr. Holtsclaw , 55 28 said Forbush, shaking hands — affability always being effective under such circumstances. “ We are all” — Forbush, with a wave of his hand, included the other ten unquestionably innocent bystanders — “ sure that some mistake has been made. Perhaps, if you are under no official restrictions, Mr. Holtsclaw, you would be willing to tell us about the case.”

“ Sure! ” agreed Mr. Holtsclaw, with his geniality expanding under the vivifying air of goodfellowship. “ The whole thing up to yet is on the records for anybody to read that wants to. It was a good job, an’ the man who done it ” — a graceful concession to the prisoner’s possible innocence — “ wasn’t no slouch either in nerve nor at his trade. But he made one mistake. You see it was this way. He chucks a rope over 29 the lower end o’ the fire escape in the court o’ the Mirador flats, climbs up it — hand over hand, I reckon; then climbs the fire escape to the pantry window o’ Mrs. Collamer’s flat on the eighth floor.”

“Mrs. Collamer?” exclaimed Demas, who was also hearing the details for the first time.

“Yes, Widow; lives with her grown daughter — um-m-m, le’s see — what was her name — um-m-m — Dor’ thy — naw, that wasn’t it — um-m-m — ”

“Beatrice,” suggested Demas, with something very close to emotion in his voice.

A gleam of triumph lighted the detective’s eyes at the success of his simple ruse.

“Sure!” he exclaimed. “That’s itl Maybe you knew ’em before?” so

“ I used to know Miss Collamer at college,” said Demas, steadily. “Go on with the story.”

The detective spared no effort. He told the story with gusto down to its minutest detail.

“ An’, ” he said, in conclusion, “ the whole thing was a bad break. You see you — um-m, that is, the burglar climbed one story too high. What he wanted was the flat below where a retail jew- ’ler lives whose wife’s got a trunkful of jew’ls. There ain’t much o’ anything in Mrs. Collamer’s flat worth stealin’, for she ain’t a bit rich.”

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Forbush, winking at Demas, who was leaning forward with the stern, set look of a man who is feeling much and striving not to show it. “ And how did you manage to identify your man so you could come 31 straight down here and make the arrest? ”

The detective’s chest swelled a little in anticipation of the effect he was going to produce.

“ Well, that’s jist where I didn’t quite finish the story. You see, when the mask fell off, Miss Collamer recognized the man. An’ though she didn’t want to give him away” — he looked knowingly at Demas — “ we persuaded her it was better, so she fin’ly said it was Demas Dayre, and bolted into the other room, an’ I could hear her cryin’ clean through the shut door. The rest, o’ course, was easy.”

The others, who were watching the detective, did not notice that Demas’s face had paled, and that his breath was coming rapidly.

“Good work, Mr. Holtsclaw,” said 32

Forbush. “It’s clear enough that you know your business all right. Now, when was it that this attempted robbery occurred? ”

“ Last Monday night.”

“Last Monday night, eh?” Forbush smiled a little.

“ Well, that is, early Tuesday morning. It was not quite three o’clock when I answered that hurry-up call.”

Forbush turned to the others.

“Wasn’t it last Monday night,” he asked, “that Kennedy gave his birthday party?”

“ Sure! ” came the chorus.

Again Forbush turned to the detective.

“Well, Mr. Holtsclaw, this either complicates the situation a good deal, or simplifies it immensely. I and all my friends here, as well as some others we can produce if desired, will be quite willing to testify that Mr. Dayre was at the table with us, at the Sycamore club, from ten o’clock Monday night until about three o’clock Tuesday morning when the party broke up. After that I walked up to the third floor of the club and saw Mr. Dayre go into his bedroom. The next morning I breakfasted with him at half past ten. So you see that it is manifestly impossible that he should have been within two hundred miles of Mrs. Collamer’s flat at the time the robbery occurred. As this is only Friday, of course the whole thing is fresh in our minds.” And he slowly turned an inquiring look on the sergeant.

“I’m afraid you’re to the bad, Mr. Holtsclaw,” said that official, shaking his head. “ Now that I recollect it, I saw

Mr. Dayre on Main street about nine o’clock Monday evening myself. After this evidence — these gentlemen are all known to me — of course you couldn’t expect — ” The sergeant let the tacit understanding of official courtesy finish the sentence for him.

Mr. Holtsclaw drew a long breath. He could recognize evidence when he heard it, and this was of a convincing kind.

“ No,” he said, reluctantly, “ I s’pose not. But it gits me, I tell you, it gits me.”

“Well,” said Demas, drily, “I’m glad it doesn’t get me.”

“How do you figger it out?” The detective’s manner was distressingly puzzled.

Demas shook his head.

“ I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that to somebody who knows more about such things than I do,” he said. “ But if you want to reach me you can generally find me at the Sycamore club where I live. Or, if it will help you any, I might go back with you.”

The detective shook his head dejectedly. The suspect was entirely too willing.

“No,” he said; “ I guess it wouldn’t be no use. I’ll have to git a new start. Somebody’s been wearin’ your mug or something like it. Maybe the girl had been thinkin’ about you, an’ bein’ all excited, of course — Oh, well.”

“And now if that’s all, gentlemen,” said Forbush, “we’ll not interfere further with your official duties.”

“I don’t see nothin’ more to it, Mr. Forbush,” said the sergeant.

The friends of the accused trooped 36 out to the sidewalk, with Demas and Forbush in the rear, and loaded themselves into their cars.

“ You’ll have to go slow for me,” said Forbush; “I’m shy of juice.”

“ Go slow nothing! ” exclaimed Lenroot, from his wheel. “ You come along the best you can with that imitation of yours, and we’ll have everything ready when you get there.” And the two cars were off, leaving Forbush and Demas standing on the steps of the police station.

“ Sorry to have bothered you,” said Detective Holtsclaw, as he passed out. “I’m off to catch the next train back, and find out about this bum steer I got.”

“ What’s your guess on it, Demas? ” asked Forbush.

Demas gazed down the electric glare 87 of the street after the detective who was rapidly striding away, then pushed his hat back reflectively.

“ Mighty queer thing,” he replied. “ Guess we’ll have to leave it to that detective to figure out. Let’s get back to the club, and — ”

He stopped. A closed carriage had just driven up to the curb. From it the house detective of the Metropolitan department store emerged, and held open the door for a woman who followed. She was tall and graceful, with a rather disdainful bearing; and was richly and tastefully dressed in a dark-colored traveling suit. Over her face was a dark veil.

Without a word the two entered the police station, and Demas and Forbush, impelled by a curiosity which left them quite as silent, turned and followed.

The store detective stated his case briefly. He had arrested the woman for shoplifting. She had been seen to take a jeweled belt buckle, and he believed that she had other goods belonging to the store concealed about her, though she had indignantly denied the accusation. He wanted her searched right away, as the store was still open and crowded, and he should be back at his post.

The sergeant picked up his pen and turned to the woman.

“ Your name? ” he asked.

She hesitated a moment, and then tossed her head as if in defiance.

“ Vashti Garwood/’ she answered.

“ Residence? ”

She did not reply.

“ Residence?” he repeated.

“ I’ll tell you nothing more,” she said.

3.9

There was determination in her tone, and the sergeant had no time to argue with her.

“ I’ll send you in to be searched,” he said. “ If you want to send for somebody to go on your bond, you might get that part of the business started first, and save time.”

For the first time the woman lifted her veil. Her features were almost classic in their beauty, with large lustrous eyes of a brown that was near to black, and the deep rose-leaf cheeks of the brilliant brunette.

As she looked around, her gaze, falling on Demas, lighted for a moment with recognition which faded as rapidly as it flashed.

“ No,” she said, turning again to the sergeant, “I don’t know anybody here. If you will let me go back to the

Grand hotel where I am staying, I will get enough money for a cash bond.”

“Well,” said the sergeant, slowly, “ I might— ”

The telephone bell rang, and he turned to the instrument at his elbow as if glad of the interruption.

“Yes,” he answered — “Yes; he’s here. — Yes; just slated her.”

The woman turned her eyes on him intently, eagerly.

“How’s that?” the sergeant continued to address the transmitter. — “Oh, you found it, did you? ”

The woman emitted a hardly perceptible sigh of relief as if something hoped for had happened.

“Oh, yes,” the sergeant went on to the telephone, “if you say so. Huh? Don’t want to take any what? Oh, chances, I see. All right; it’s all off.”

He hung up the receiver, and turned to the store detective.

“ The manager of the store says they’ve found that belt buckle, and wants us to let the woman go,” he said.

The store detective looked disgusted.

“Well,” he grumbled, “I s’pose — Oh, well, what’s the dif ? It’s all a part of the job, I guess. All right.”

“ In that case, I suppose you have no objection to my taking the carriage back to my hotel without your company,” said the woman, with frosty politeness.

“ Naw,” he answered, shortly.

As she turned to leave, she gave a slight bow that seemed to include everybody in the room. Once more her eyes rested for a moment on Demas, but this time without any definite expression. He met her gaze merely as an interested 42 and naturally somewhat sympathetic onlooker. Then she dropped her veil again, and with erect, dignified and graceful mien, passed out of the room.

Demas and Forbush reached the door just as her carriage drove off.

“Gee! Wasn’t she a peach?” exclaimed Forbush, gazing after the vehicle.

“ Rather impressive,” agreed Demas.

“Well, if I’ve got anything she wants to shoplift, all she’s got to do is to say so, and I won’t lock it up. But I don’t believe she stole anything. Something’s mixed in this business.”

“ I hope so for her sake,” said Demas, as they climbed into the runabout. “It’s no fun being arrested; I’ve tried it.”

Forbush laughed, as he pulled the lever.

“ There does seem to be a good deal doing in police circles tonight, doesn’t there? ”

“More than a-plenty. It has jarred my nerves.”

“ Oh, cheer up! We’ll be back to the club in five minutes, and the boys will have some nerve medicine for you waiting on the table.”

Three or four blocks farther on Forbush spoke again.

“ My guess is that she is an actress,” he said. “ What do you think? ”

“Who?” Demas’s thoughts had been far afield.

“ Why, the Juno that didn’t steal the belt buckle.”

“ Oh. Um-m-m, well, she might be. She certainly seems to possess the most important element of success in the profession.”

“You bet! I’m going to see every show in town next week, and see if I can’t locate her. Here we are,” he added, as they pulled up at the curb.

Chapter III

TKTHATEVER may have been the mystery of Demas Dayre’s arrest, there was none about Demas Dayre himself. Left alone in the world at the age of twenty-three with a modest competence, just after finishing his college course, he had come to the city from the little town in which he was born and brought up, as many another young man has done, and, as many another young man has not done, had, by fortunate and judicious investments, increased that competence until it was something more than merely modest; more than sufficient, indeed, for 46 his needs, which were neither extravagant nor complex. For the first five years of his residence he had lived at the Grand hotel, and then, after having helped to found the Sycamore club, he had taken up his quarters there and had since remained. He never talked much about himself, either as to his past experiences or future hopes; hut his present advantages made it clear that he was privileged to lead the idle and rather aimless life that is so much envied even when it is unexciting and harmless. Thus it was that he had every reason not only to be content, but to gather in for his own, from time to time, his full share of enjoyment.

And yet, as he sat there at the table with his eleven rescuers, wearing his habitually serene expression, he was neither happy nor contented. The jest 47 passed and the song rose, and Demas smiled, but he was even less talkative than usual.

“Oh, cheer up, Demas!” cried Lenroot. “ All you need is a little speed. You can live it down if you live fast enough.”

“ I suppose all of you would be willing to help on that system? ”

“ Sure ! ” It was a chorus.

“ Ho ! ” exclaimed Lenroot, as a hall boy entered with a salver. “A message from the gods ! Or, hold ! Things are moving pretty lively to-night — perchance it is from the goddesses. What will the little gentleman have next?”

The boy, impassive from severe but correct training, presented the note to Demas. It was hotel stationery, and the superscription was in a woman’s 48 writing — a bold chirography that spoke of personal daring.