The Yellow Note

CHAPTER I. Realization

RICHARD SANDLEY threw back his head and laughed until the tears started from his eyes and his sides ached so that he was forced to hold them with his hands,

Attorney Marger frowned a bit at the younger man's hilarity, and waited patiently for the fit to come to an end so that the conversation could be resumed. Sandley's laughter turned to a soft chuckle after he had regained his breath, and there was an expression of merriment around his eyes.

“So you do not believe it?” Attorney Marger asked. “You are convinced that I am talking nonsense?”

“N-n-nonsense, yes,” Sandley managed to gasp. And he was off in another gale of laughter, seemingly unable to control his emotions, though he attempted to do so.

“Well, Richard, those are my deductions, and I stand ready to wager that in the end I'll be proved right,” Marger told him, leaning back in his chair and assuming the expression of a man who knows what he is talking about. “It is rather an astonishing thought, I suppose, but we meet with such things continually in this day and age.”

Attorney Marger was a strong, healthy-looking fellow, whose hair was just turning gray at the temples. He was a lawyer of State-wide reputation, a man who had often refused to accept political honors—honest, sincere, hard-working, clever, almost a genius.

Marger was Sandley's confidential man of business, and a warm personal friend besides, though Sandley was only twenty-five and Attorney Marger almost twice that age. Marger had been a companion of Sandley's father, and when he had passed away and left a million or more to his son, he had left also the suggestion that Marger be allowed to handle the estate—and so it had been.

“Nonsense, Marger, old bear,” Sandley said again, trying hard to cease his laughter. “Your love for me is too great; that is the trouble. You are almost like a second father, your friendship is so firm. Let some little, insignificant thing happen, and you can see in it a conspiracy to put me down and out or rob me of my wealth, health, good name, and friends. Now, suppose that we look at this thing in a sensible manner.”

“Do you suppose I would have bothered you about it and said what I did if I hadn't already looked at the thing in a sensible manner, and from every viewpoint?” Marger asked. “I tell you, Dick, that you have some powerful enemy, or enemies, and that there is a deliberate attempt being made to cause your ruin. There's not the slightest doubt about it.”

“And what have I ever done to cause such enmity?” Sandley wanted to know. “You are handling my estate, so you know that I have not raided the market and made financial foes, or anything like that. I have wronged no man or woman. I have not even had a minor controversy of any sort with anybody. I have a host of good friends, and no enemy of whom I am aware. It—it is just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence, you call it?” Attorney Marger asked. He bent forward across the table and tapped it with the tips of his fingers as he talked. They were in the library of Sandley's magnificent country place at the edge of the city. “Let us examine this coincidence, as you call it, Dick.”

“Very well.”

“Three weeks ago,” said the attorney, “in some mysterious way your yacht caught fire and burned to the water's edge, and two of the crew perished.”

“Yes.”

“A few days later two of your polo ponies were found dead. They had been poisoned.”

“Oh, I say! They died from some stomach trouble that overtook them during the night, I grant you that. But the veterinary said that it might have been caused by something in the food—I forget the exact words he used.”

“It was done cleverly so that it would appear the ordinary food was to blame.”

“I cannot agree with you, Marger,” Sandley said. “But continue the recital.”

“Very well,” the attorney replied. “Your rooms in town were gone through and many objects of value taken.”

“Some burglar was responsible for that. There have been a lot of burglaries recently.”

“Last week you were driving your high-powered roadster to the races, intending to enter the gentlemen drivers' free-for-all. Just before you started your car was wrecked. Somebody had tampered with it. If that accident had happened during the race, while you were driving at high speed, you'd have been crippled or killed.”

“Oh, heavens, Marger!” Sandley gasped. “An auto may fail one at any minute—flaw in the metal, you know. Very simple. It just happened that the steering gear2”

“Laugh it away, if it pleases you,” Marger said. “That is not all.”

“Go ahead with the evidence,” said Sandley, sitting back in his chair as though amused.

“Always glad to accommodate,” Marger answered with a trace of anger in his voice. “You have a big cattle ranch in Texas, and a nice slice of your annual income is from that. Last week your superintendent reported by wire that some mysterious disease had appeared, and before it could be controlled it had carried off three thousand head of yearling steers. That was a big loss, Dick; it will make a big difference in your income this year.”

“Cattle are liable to diseases, aren't they?”

“Certainly. But this particular disease is to be found in no other place in the entire State, and the conditions on the ranch are such that it could not develop there, according to experts, unless the germs were deliberately introduced.”

“You mean that somebody deliberately inoculated my stock?”

“That is what your superintendent thinks, and what the State expert of Texas thinks, and both men certainly know all about stock. It was a direct blow at you.”

“Any more evidence?” Sandley wanted to know.

“I have an abundance of it,” Marger replied. “So much that, in the interests of the estate, I have seen fit to take certain precautions.”

“Of what sort?”

“I have engaged Philip Blane, the well-known private detective and criminal investigator,” Marger replied. “He has often done work for me, and he's a shrewd and clever man. Moreover, he keeps his business to himself. If there is something behind this—and he thinks there is—he'll find it; if there is not, he will so report, and nobody will be the wiser. And it isn't only the estate, Dick; it is yourself. This unknown enemy may seek to do you bodily injury.”

“I'm ready for him, whoever he is!”

“But he is the sort to strike from the dark, the kind who would never fight in the open. I merely ask that you be on your guard, even if you do not believe2”

“Which I do not.”

“Perhaps you'll be convinced in time, Dick. For the present, do me the favor of assuming a belief in what I have told you, and talk to Mr. Blane.”

“He is here?”

“I brought him with me.”

“Very well; we'll have him in here.”

A minute later Blane entered the library and greeted them. Sandley had met him before, for the detective held a high social position, and his work was as much for amusement as it was for profit. He did not look at all like a criminologist; the casual observer might have put him down for a young man-about-town. He was thirty-five, of medium size, well dressed, and pleasant.

“So we finally come together in a business way, Sandley,” Philip Blane said. “I have been given to understand that you do not believe you have an enemy lurking in ambush.”

“I don't—frankly.”

“Suppose we consider for the moment that you have. Will you aid me?”

“Certainly.”

“Have you had any trouble of a serious nature with any individual in the last year or so?”

“Not the slightest.”

“No financial deals that might have aroused the spirit of envy or revenge?”

“None. I have made no move in the market; have had no big losses and no big gains. The bulk of my estate is in securities, and there I leave it.”

“I see. How about women?”

“There is only one woman,” Sandley replied. “I am engaged to Miss Regina Mallen, and we expect to be married in about four months.”

“Um!” Philip Blane grunted. “I know the lady slightly; have met her several times. Were there any rivals?”

“Several,” said Sandley, smiling.

“Any in particular?”

“Again, several. But 1f you are entertaining the idea that one of my rivals may be trying to wreck me because I emerged from the contest victorious, you may as well drop it, Blane. My rivals are gentlemen of my own social set. I suppose that they were sorry to lose; but none of them is the sort to do such a thing as Marger intimated.”

“As far as you know, your father left no enemy who might now be trying to square things with the son?”

“I am certain that he did not,” Sandley replied instantly. “My father inherited his money and invested it securely and increased the family fortune. He was a student, a scholarly man—quiet, docile, given to study more than to anything else. He did not have a life of storm and stress in any meaning of the words.”

“It does seem rather puzzling,” Philip Blane admitted. “But I am convinced that you have an enemy and that he is powerful. What his motive is, I do not know as yet, but I'll try to find him and show him the error of his ways.”

“And I'll help you all I can,” Sandley said; “but I honestly think that you are wasting your time. These recent troubles happened at the same time—that is all. Trouble never comes singly, somebody has said. Of course, I've had quite enough, and hope they are at an end.”

Attorney Marger went away with Detective Blane, and for a time Sandley walked around the gardens in the rear and of the house, then went inside dressed to go to the city. He ordered a closed car, and went to the gardens again to wait for it. Gregory Krale found him there.

Krale was a man of Sandley's set, a bit older, fully as wealthy, and eligible, according to mothers with marriageable daughters. While Krale and Sandley never had been warm friends, they found their acquaintance agreeable. They belonged to the same clubs, were guests at the same affairs, and had many tastes in common.

“Going out to the country club, Sandley?” Krale asked. “Thought I'd stop and see.”

“Not to-day. I am going to town.”

“I understand that you have suffered a loss on your Texas ranch. Sorry to hear it.”

“Who told you that?”

“The boys were speaking of it at the club,” Krale replied. “I don't know who started the story. They were speaking about the run of bad luck you have been having.”

“Every man has it now and then,” Sandley replied. “It hasn't worried me much.”

“You'd better watch out!” Krale warned him. “It is bad medicine for rumors to get around that a man is having ill luck. Some people will get the idea that he is marked for financial slaughter. You'd better grin whenever you talk about it.”

“I intend to, Krale.”

“Let the general public get the idea that a man is frowned upon by bad luck, and they'll see in him nothing but a wreck and a failure thereafter.”

“Why croak about it?” Sandley asked. “A man would think that you were trying to sow the seed of failure in my mind. Great Scott! I lost a yacht that was fully insured, a couple of polo ponies I miss very much, and a few head of cattle.”

“Let us hope that it ends there,” said Krale. “Come along to the club with me.”

“Not to-day, thanks.”

“And you'd better assure the future Mrs. Sandley that your ill fortune is only a temporary streak. I know Regina well, remember—knew her before you did, and would have won her myself if I could. I still think she is one of the most splendid women in the world, Sandley, but that doesn't make me blind to one small failing that she has.”

“And what is that?” Sandley asked. He did not take offense at Krale's words, for it was the truth that Gregory Krale had known Regina Mallen long before Sandley had made her acquaintance.

“She is a bit superstitious—inherits it from that grandfather of hers, I suppose,” Krale replied. “Let a black cat cross her path, and she'll go back home and lock herself in her rooms.”

“I've noticed that. But it only makes her the more adorable as far as I am concerned.”

“Nevertheless, Sandley you let her get the idea that you are in for a run of reverses, and Heaven alone knows what she may do.”

“Do you think that she would break the engagement,” Sandley asked, smiling, “if she feared I was headed for the rocks?”

“I hope not. I want to see her happy, and know that she can be, with you. Well—I must hurry along to the club. See you to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

“By!”

Gregory Krale left the garden, mounted his horse, and galloped down the highway toward the country club. Sandley started toward the front where he knew the car would be waiting, when the butler called to him.

“Telephone, sir,” he reported. “Gentleman says that the call is very important.”

“Did he give his name?” Sandley asked.

“Oh, yes, sir. It is Burt, sir, your man out at the hunting lodge.”

Richard Sandley hurried into the house and went to the telephone. As he put out his hand to pick up the receiver he seemed to feel a premonition.

“Hello!” he called. “That you, Burt? Anything the matter out there?”

“Yes, this is Burt, sir. There—there has been a fire, sir—a bad fire.”

“What?”

“The lodge is in ashes, sir.”

“What's that, Burt?” Sandley cried.

“It happened this morning, sir. I got up early and went to town to get some supplies. I'll swear that everything was all right then, sir. I built no fire, for I intended to give myself a treat and eat breakfast at the village restaurant. As I was coming back I saw the flames, sir. Half a dozen men were there already, but they were too late to do anything. The lodge burned to the ground, sir.”

“Was anything saved?” It seemed to Sandley that some other man was asking the question, that he was a disinterested spectator.

“Not a thing, sir,” Burt replied. “Not even your hunting trophies, sir. I—I am very sorry, of course, Mr. Sandley, but it was not my fault at all. And it all looks very mysterious to me, sir. I'd say the fire was set.”

“Very well, Burt. I'll send somebody down there to make an investigation. You are to remain in the village until you hear from me again.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a thoughtful expression in Richard Sandley's face as he turned away from the telephone. The hunting lodge, as it was called, was a magnificent structure in the mountains on the shore of a lake, a building quite pretentious in its way.

Sandley's father had been in the habit of going there for months at a time to study. The loss was considerable, in spite of the heavy insurance. What hurt Sandley most was the loss of valuable books that had belonged to his father, which had been left in the lodge library, and some of the family records and portraits.

Thinking that perhaps he did have an enemy lurking in ambush, although the thought seemed ridiculous, he decided it would be the wise thing to remain on guard continually.

He went out upon the veranda again, saw that the car was waiting on the driveway, and started to cut across the lawn toward it. Beside a clump of brush in his path he saw a folded yellow paper. It was unusual for such a thing to be there, so he stooped and picked it up.

It was a letter, he saw at a glance, but the envelope was missing. Sandley unfolded the brilliant-yellow sheet and read the typewriting on it:

If you are agreeable toward the enterprise regarding which you were sounded recently, kindly obey the following instructions. Be at the mouth of the alley behind the National Theater, in the city, Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock exactly. A well-dressed man, short, heavy set, with long black mustache, will stop there at that hour and light a cigar. He will wear a red carnation in his button-hole. Brush against him and say, “I beg a million pardons!” He will reply, “Make it two millions and we'll call it square.” Follow him when he walks away and he will take you to a place where you will receive further instructions.

Sandley gasped in astonishment, read the note a second time, turned it over and inspected it closely, and then thrust it into his coat pocket.

“Peculiar rot!” he told himself. “One of the servants, I suppose. Yes, one of the servants must have dropped it there. Wonder what it means? 'Agreeable toward the enterprise, eh?' Wonder if it has anything to do with my troubles?”

He shrugged his shoulders and went on toward the car, but gave a start of surprise when he noticed that the regular chauffeur was not at the door.

“Why are you driving?” he asked the man, who was his mechanic. “Where is Williams?”

“He is ill, sir,” was the reply. “He has not been feeling well for several days, and this morning he went into the city to see a doctor.”

“Um!” Sandley grunted. “Very well! Drive me into town, and to Miss Mallen's home first.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man touched his cap and closed the door of the car, then hurried to get behind the wheel.

Sitting comfortably in a corner of the big car, Sandley took the peculiar yellow note out of his pocket and began inspecting it again.

CHAPTER II. Exposure

IT is enough to say of Miss Regina Mallen that she was a spoiled daughter of society—pretty, refined, accomplished superficially in music and art, very much used to having her own way, and very desirable to a man in the same position.

Sandley had fallen deeply in love with her, and had conducted his wooing with such persistence and ardor that he had been successful. He adored her openly, yet he knew that she had a few minor faults, as any girl reared in the same environment might have had. Regina Mallen would have been highly indignant, perhaps, had anybody called her narrow-minded or mentally weak in some respects, yet she was in that condition.

Sandley entered her home, had himself announced, and waited eagerly for her to appear. When she did come into the room, in the company of her mother, Sandley knew instantly that there was something wrong. Regina had been weeping, and had been unable to disguise that fact with the aid of that which was on her dressing table.

She greeted him as though preoccupied, and sat down on the divan beside him. Her mother acted peculiarly, Sandley thought, and after greeting him left the room. Regina and Sandley found themselves alone for a private and confidential chat.

“You do not look well,” Sandley said to the girl, glancing at her swiftly.

He was astounded to see her lips tremble and the tears start from her eyes. As a usual thing, Regina did not show emotion.

“If there is any trouble—anything in the world that I can do to help you2” Sandley began again.

“I—I have been fighting myself all morning, Dick,” she said in a quivering voice. “It has been a terrific battle—and it isn't finished yet.”

“Fighting yourself?”

“Yes. I am a weak, foolish woman, I suppose, but I do not seem to be able to help it. Perhaps that is because I never have wanted to help it before.”

“May I know the cause of the trouble, Regina? I've never heard you talk this way before.”

“You—you have been having a great deal of misfortune recently, haven't you, Dick?” she asked, looking across the width of the big room instead of into his face.

Sandley tried to laugh, but the effort was a poor one. “A few minor troubles that happened within a few days of one another,” he replied.

“Your yacht, your cattle ranch, your roadster, the robbery of your rooms in town—Dick, it looks very bad! And now—your hunting lodge!”

“My hunting lodge?” Sandley gasped. “How, in Heaven's name, do you know anything about the hunting lodge? I didn't know about it myself until a moment before f left home, when my man, Burt, telephoned the news—and I have told nobody.”

“That is what ts puzzling me, too, Dick,” Regina Mallen answered, looking up at him again. “Some man telephoned a short time ago and insisted on talking to me. He said that it was very important and concerned you, and, naturally, I hurried to the telephone. He told me about the hunting lodge burning and remarked that it was another piece of bad luck for you. I—I failed to recognize his voice, and he hung up and broke the connection without telling me his name.”

“I'd give a lot to know it!” Sandley exclaimed with a trace of anger in his voice. “He seems to have had instant information. My man thinks that the fire was incendiary, and I am beginning to think the same thing, though I scoffed at the idea at first.”

“And that is not all. I have received an anonymous letter that troubles me.”

“May I see it?” he asked.

“Yes, Dick.”

She had it ready, and handed it to him. It was another yellow note, typewritten and inclosed in a common, white envelope, upon which the name and address had been printed with a pen. Sandley read the thing quickly.

Miss Mallen: We have nothing at all against you, except that you are concerned in the fortunes of Richard Sandley. You perhaps are aware that he has suffered several misfortunes recently. He is to suffer many more. A wise young lady would think at least twice before allying herself with a man marked for destruction. If you persist in remaining his friend and betrothed, you may expect to have troubles of your own, as will every one who is associated with the man.

There was no signature. Richard Sandley felt his anger growing as he read, and when he had finished he looked up quickly to find Regina watching him closely. Her lips were trembling again, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“You know that I love you,” she said. “I have admired many men, but until you came along I did not take a deep interest in the affairs of any. I knew at once that you were the one I wanted. But I am such a little coward, Dick. I want to stand by you, and I am almost afraid.”

“My dear girl, never be afraid of an anonymous letter or the person who would write one,” Sandley told her.

“It is not that altogether, Dick. It is your bad luck, too,” she replied. “When a person begins to have a run of bad luck it usually lasts.”

“Nonsense!” Richard Sandley exclaimed. “This note proves that it is not bad luck at all, but that some unknown enemy of mine is working the mischief. I do not mind telling that you, Regina, it has been suspected and that a well-known private detective is already working on the case. There is nothing to be afraid of, my dear. It is a crime to have you bothered with it.”

“But it worries me so, Dick,” she said. “How can I help worrying and being anxious?”

“Ignore it, Regina. Try to forget the entire thing,” he told her. “Get your mind fixed on something pleasant. We'll fight this out, and, of course, I'll take instant steps to see that you are well protected night and day.”

“I want to be true to you, Dick, to stand by you. I want to conquer my cowardice,” she said. “The easiest thing, of course, would be to break the engagement.”

“If you wish to do that2” Sandley began, his heart heavy at the thought of it.

“But I don't want to do it, Dick!” she protested. “My love for you is deeper than that, you see. If you have to fight some enemy, I want to fight that enemy, too.”

“Then we'll defeat him, whoever he is!” Sandley declared with conviction. He took her in his arms for an instant, and then got up. “I must see to things,” he continued. “I'll have you well cared for, and in such a manner that you'll not be annoyed at all. You must go ahead as though nothing at all had happened; keep all your engagements, and do not feel afraid. I don't like to see the tears in your eyes, you know.”

Out in the car again, and on his way to the club, Sandley felt the old fighting spirit dominating him, and was glad that it was so. What bothered him most was the fact that he could not guess at the identity of his hidden enemy, nor the motive for the enmity. He went over his past life carefully, especially the last few years of it, and couldn't remember a thing that might lead another person to take such elaborate steps to wreck him and his fortunes.

At the club he got into communication immediately with Philip Blane. When Blane reached his side Sandley told him all that he knew and showed him the two yellow notes. Blane promised to take immediate steps to have Miss Mallen protected, and carried away with him the note that had been addressed to her.

Then there was nothing more for Sandley to do, except hold a telephone conversation with Attorney Marger and tell him the new developments and admit that Marger had been right. He did not care to go to the country club for a round of golf, as he had no desire to meet Gregory Krale and the others.

After a time he realized what was troubling him. He didn't care to sit idly on the side lines and let Detective Blane and others fight his battles. He wanted to get into the fight himself.

Once more he made an effort to think what man could be his enemy, and was forced to give up the problem. Perhaps, he thought, it was a case of Richard Sandley being made to suffer for the offense of somebody else.

He took from his pocket again the yellow note he had found on his front lawn and perused it. Again he wondered who could have dropped it on the grass near that clump of brush. It indicated that somebody close to him was in league with his enemies, and Sandley did not like that thought.

Then it flashed upon him that he could get into the fight himself, that here was the way open for him. He could keep the rendezvous mentioned in the note and see who met the man wearing the red carnation. The principal thing, as Sandley saw it, was to learn the identity of his enemy, so that the fight would be more fair and even.

He ate luncheon at the club and then went to his rooms and dressed in a dark suit and put on a cap. Having made a mental note of what was on the yellow scrap, he slipped it into his pocket and started downtown.

Five minutes before the hour mentioned Sandley walked past the mouth of the alley behind the theater, crossed the street at the corner, and came back on the other side, watching carefully.

He saw the man with the red carnation finally, but did not see anybody else in the vicinity. He could tell that the man who wore the carnation was puzzled because nobody approached him. Then another idea came to Sandley. Why not play the game himself? He could play it for a time, at least, until discovery came, and possibly he could find out something of interest.

He stepped briskly across the street and eyed the man who wore the red carnation. Immediately that man began lighting a fresh cigar. Sandley brushed against him, said the words as the letter instructed, and received the proper answer.

“Be on time after this,” growled the man who wore the carnation. “The big boss doesn't care for men who aren't punctual.”

Then he started up the street, and Sandley followed him at a distance, as instructed. After several blocks the man ahead turned off the main avenue and went along across street for a short distance, doubled back to the avenue again, slowed down as he approached a taxicab stand, and indicated clearly that Sandley was to come nearer and overhear his directions.

As he walked past, Sandley heard his man give an address to a chauffeur. He engaged a cab of his own and gave the same address, and told the driver to take plenty of time. He did not want to arrive ahead of the man with the carnation.

The cab lurched through the busy streets and went toward the poorer section of the city. Sandley had known it well years before, but it had been some time since he had visited it. Here was a maze of cheap shops and cheap lodging houses, corner resorts that had been watched by the police in the old days, and some of which were still under surveillance.

He left his cab at a corner and walked along the street toward the address. The locality looked innocent enough. Foreign children were playing, pushcart men were crying their wares, women were calling to one another from the windows.