The Substitute Prisoner Part 4

"He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the Grand Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.

They did not enter into further discussion of their impending financial ruin while awaiting Whitmore. Immediately on dropping into a chair Mrs.

Collins seemed to draw within herself, surrendering to the harrowing thoughts that filled her mind. Ward also became deeply preoccupied with his own tangled affairs, his brain striving furiously to find some solution of the dilemma into which he was plunged.

They took no note of the pa.s.sing time; but the minutes sped swiftly while they wrestled silently with the problems that had entered their lives and when Ward suddenly looked up the hands of the little bra.s.s clock on top of Whitmore's desk pointed to a quarter of twelve. An instant later the door of the office was flung open and a tall figure, clean-shaven, with clearly defined features, burst into the room.

On seeing the visitors the man paused, perplexed. It was plain that he was under great stress of mind. His face was haggard, his eyes were sunken, his mouth drawn, as if he had not yet recovered from some great shock.

"Ward--Mrs. Collins!" he stammered.

The voice recalled the woman out of the dreamy state into which she had lapsed. She scrutinized the man with eyes in which terror and suspense mingled.

"Mr. Beard--why!--something has happened!" she gave voice to her fear.

"Yes, something dreadful has occurred," he said, trying to avert his face.

A great fear shook the woman's frame. For an instant she raised her eyes imploringly, then lowered them.

"Then he has killed him--murdered him?" The words came as though each syllable wrenched her heart.

"Killed him?" repeated Beard with rising inflection. "Why, what do you mean?"

"My husband--Mr. Collins--he set out this morning to do it. For G.o.d's sake," she implored, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened."

By a violent effort Beard recovered sufficient calm to note the agitation of the woman.

"Why, no," he said rea.s.suringly, "Mr. Whitmore hasn't been killed."

"But what has happened?" demanded Mrs. Collins with a gesture of impatience.

"I cannot tell you," answered the secretary. "But something has occurred--a grave crisis has arisen in Mr. Whitmore's life. He will not be at his office for some time--perhaps not for weeks, or months, or years. But he asked me to communicate with you, to let you know that he will notify you the moment he returns. Meanwhile, he asks you to believe in him, even though he cannot write to you. More than that I cannot tell you."

Ward and his sister exchanged bewildered glances. The unexpected turn of events left them speechless. And, before they were able to recover their dazed senses, Beard slipped out of the office and lost himself among the small army of clerks and bookkeepers in the outer room.

Ward, finally observing that he was alone with his sister, bestowed on her a bitter smile.

"What a muddle!" he exclaimed. "Domestic trouble ... financial difficulties!... Whitmore vanished! What next?"

She stared at him through swimming eyes. Her lips moved but no sound came from them.

"Take the car home, Grace," he said in milder voice. "I'll go to the office and try to puzzle this thing out."

CHAPTER IV

What had become of Herbert Whitmore?

Like a thief in the night he had slipped out of his Fifth Avenue home, disappeared from his business, vanished like a specter, while the domestic tragedy of the Collinses paused in antic.i.p.ation of his reappearance.

Beard, the confidential secretary, had taken possession of his employer's office, and to all inquiries regarding Whitmore's absence, made the same reply:

"He is gone indefinitely on a business trip."

Not even the persistent Collins was able to elicit anything additional.

No further information was vouchsafed Mrs. Collins, who had taken up her abode with her brother; the financially troubled Ward, desperately fighting off ruin, could learn nothing from the silent, inscrutable Beard.

Then, one morning, unostentatiously as he had disappeared, Whitmore returned to his office. He wore a new spring coat, a new soft hat, new gloves and shoes, an unfamiliar brown tie against a striped s.h.i.+rt-bosom, as if he had just stepped out of a haberdasher's shop.

Down the long aisle, between the two rows of desks he pa.s.sed, nodding with that air of pleasant kindliness that had endeared him to his hundreds of employes.

"Good morning, Mr. Whitmore--glad to see you back!" was fired at him with respectful familiarity from a score of clerks.

He smiled amiably, replying occasionally with a cheery rejoinder.

Evidently he was in excellent spirits.

Whitmore's private office, at the rear of the long hall, ran the full width of the room. It was part.i.tioned off from the main room by a gla.s.s part.i.tion through which he was at all times visible to his employes. The office contained no windows, being shut in on three sides by the thick walls of the building, and obtained its light through the gla.s.s paneling of the part.i.tion. The floor was covered by a green carpet and three or four chairs rested against the wall.

"Sam!" the merchant called to his office boy. "I shall be very busy with my papers this morning. Permit no one to enter my office and don't bring any visitors' cards."

Whitmore placed his hand affectionately on the boy's touseled hair.

"Don't forget my instructions!" he said pleasantly.

The merchant permitted the gla.s.s door of his office to remain open.

Divesting himself of his coat he dropped into the revolving chair at his desk and swung around so as to sit with his back toward the outer office.

Behind the transparent part.i.tion he worked, sorting papers and slipping them into pigeon-holes. Toward noon one of the clerks observed that the merchant had slipped down into his chair, that his head hung strangely to one side.

"What's the matter with Mr. Whitmore?" the clerk asked the office boy.

The two thrust their faces against the intervening gla.s.s, noting that the employer's limbs were rigidly outstretched and that one hand hung limply at his side while the other rested on the desk.

They tiptoed into the office, like guilty schoolboys bent on eavesdropping. A single glance at Whitmore's white face and they burst through the door, their faces distorted with terror.

"Something's happened to Mr. Whitmore!" shouted the clerk.

Drummond, the head clerk, leaped forward in a quick offer of a.s.sistance.

He remained a minute or two in the private office, then emerged, haggard, with eyes staring.

"Mr. Whitmore's been shot!" burst from his lips. "Get a policeman. He's dead," he added with a sob.

The news seemed to strike the office dumb. The clerks regarded each other like bewildered sheep, awed, terrified, a vague fear gripping their hearts. In the midst of their furious, living activity, the specter of death had suddenly appeared. It had crept in on them silently, stealthily, selecting the most s.h.i.+ning mark as its victim.

Unannounced, it had proclaimed the frailty of human life more effectively than if it had revealed itself in a lightning bolt. With noiseless, unseen hands, it had abducted the most beloved figure among them, deprived them forever of the kindly, fatherly personality of the man whom they had come to regard more as a friend than an employer.

Recovering from their first terror, the clerks left their desks and ma.s.sed forward toward the part.i.tion, but the head clerk waved them back.