An Oregon Girl Part 17

CHAPTER V.

That night, heavily veiled, she entered the park, alone. She was familiar with the contour and walks and knew the location of the long steps, but in her agitation, she thoughtlessly took to the walk on the left of the main entrance.

The darkness was not deep. Above could be seen stray fleecy clouds, flitting athwart the vast realms of s.p.a.ce, while the atmosphere near the earth's surface was laden with a thin vapor. Down low on the horizon, above the line of hills, swung the half-moon, aglow with soft pale light, while the nearby electric arcs were scarcely affected by the haze that enveloped them. Every element seemed to have conspired to make the night a fit one in its baneful purpose.

As she proceeded, endeavoring to control her fears, though her heart beat wildly with misgivings, the stillness of the night was broken only by the sound of her own footfalls on the cement pavement, and ever and anon were mingled with the distant attenuated sounds of belated cosmopolitan life. At times her walk would be rapid, then slow and hesitating, almost a halt, as she approached some indefinite object, and as the clouds sped hurriedly across the face of the moon, grotesque shadows loomed up suddenly, shying her into moments of terror until discovered to be fantastic bushes or other odd-shaped growths.

Her sustained, keen, alert watchfulness preyed severely upon her tense nerves. At length she arrived at the place she thought designated in the note. She stepped off the walk onto the gra.s.s, and stood under the deeper darkness of a cedar. The stillness was profound; so much so that she fancied she could hear the throb of her own tumultuous heart.

And to add to the unseasonable moment, the weird, uncanny howl of a jackal, confined in the park menagerie, pierced the night air and caused cold s.h.i.+vers to race up and down her frame.

"It's a lonely spot," she whispered to herself. "And this is the top of the long walk. Now the time--yet! I can see no one. I do not feel safe."

Just then a man moved slowly from the shadows near the fountain. He leisurely walked toward the reservoir. She watched him for a moment, until the pale moonlight again faded away, and darkness shut him from view. Then, as if by inspiration, she suddenly remembered that the note directed her to the top of the "long steps." In her excitement, she had taken the wrong direction, and was then at the top of the long walk.

Cautiously as possible, she crept down the bank, crossed the bridge, that spanned the park's main artery, and though confusing in the darkness, she at last found her way to the appointed place without meeting or seeing anyone, but with nerves almost snapping asunder, and so fatigued that her limbs trembled.

She sat on a bench near a clump of small firs to get a little rest, and while peering through the darkness, which at that point was faintly illumined by the ma.s.s of distant lights spread over the city before and beneath her, she made out the figure of a man walking leisurely on the drive below where she was sitting.

She arose to her feet, and silently stepped in the deep shadow of a clump of trees, and watched him. She took him to be the same man she had seen a little while before near the fountain. As she watched him, another man, who had been concealed in the grove of trees, recently trimmed out to make way for the traditional group of Indians in bronze, "The Coming of the White Man," and which now graces the spot--stole up with cat-like tread behind her, and then, quite close, halted, and silently stood regarding her.

Virginia was watching the stranger on the road, almost directly below her, with such intense eagerness as to be quite unconscious of the dark shadow behind her.

"Perhaps I am being watched," she thought. "I will go down the steps."

She turned about, and was terrified to discover a roughly-clad man at her elbow. Her heart seemed to stop its beat.

"What do you mean? Who are you?" she gasped.

The man lifted his hat, bowed and softly said: "Bees a-note a da fraid, Signora de Virginia. Eesa nota-a do you-a da harm. I come to da meet-a you."

His easy, respectful manner rea.s.sured her. Relieved, she said: "Then it was you who sent me the note this morning?"

"He, he, he, he," he chuckled low, but exultantly. "Eesa tole-a da self a-da letta would-a da fetch a-you."

"What do you want--what am I--who are you?"

He turned his head aside, and muttered to himself. "She doesn't recognize me as the old cripple," and evaded a direct answer by asking her: "Donna you da know-a me?"

"Your voice sounds like"--and she thought of the old cripple who intruded on Mr. Harris' grounds a few nights since. "Yes--what"-- And she halted, unable to frame her thoughts into words.

He laughed low and gutturally. "He, he, he, he, eesa be a da fine-a artiste. Make-a da boss actor--like-a Salvina--bime by, eh?"

"You--you--you kidnapped little Dorothy," she almost shrieked, forgetting her fear, and searching him with glittering eyes.

Jack Sh.o.r.e, for it was he, chuckled gleefully.

"You make-a da wild-a guessa, Signora, Eesa not-a da old-a cripple."

"You were in disguise, a beggar. I gave you money. What have you done with the child?"

"What-a da child-a?" he asked, gruffly.

"Dorothy Thorpe!"

"He, he, he, he," he again chuckled, and sharply turned on her: "Who tole-a you, Eesa gott-a da kid?"

"What did you want to meet me here for? Was it not to tell me where Dorothy is?"

"Oh, he, he, he, he," he laughed. "Eesa jessa da thought-a youda like-a see me--alone--at night, Signora." And he watched her from the corners of his eyes, as, with bent head, he muttered:

"Turnoppsis, carrotsis, ca-babbages, black-a da boots, steal-a da chil. Anyting dees-a gett-a da mon. Go back a da sunny Italy!"

"What was your motive for kidnapping the child?" she asked, without heeding his significant answer.

"Da mon!" he promptly replied. Up to that moment he had equivocated.

"You are frank," she rejoined, and then asked: "Is Dorothy safe?"

"Youse-a da bet she's a da safe," he proudly replied.

"Ah!" It was a sigh of glad relief that she uttered, for she believed the man's statement to be true, and with the information her spirits rose.

"How many of you are there in this?" she quietly asked.

"Eesa not-a da beeze, jess-a da myself."

"You told me you sent the note requesting this meeting. Who wrote it?

It was not you!" she demanded.

Jack was not expecting so pointed a question and was thrown somewhat off his guard by her abrupt eagerness. He answered thoughtlessly--or, it may have been, indifference to the importance.

"Eesa my good-a da friend."

"So there are at least two of you in this 'over the road' business?"

Chagrined, he thought how easily he had been trapped. "Hang it! I didn't mean to make a break like that." And then he exclaimed, between his teeth, for he realized too late the slip of his tongue.

"See-a da here. Da mon. Eesa want. How much-a you-a da give to gett-a back-a da kid? Speak a da quick."

Virginia perceived he was getting angry and restless.

It was about that time that Sam, who was lying on his stomach in a slight depression, peered over the rise in the ground a short distance from the two. He was a little too far away to hear distinctly, except occasional words, as their voices were pitched in a low key.

"How much will I give?" replied Virginia, surprised, and then her voice lowered again.

"You are a poor man, no doubt, but you have your liberty, which is priceless, and I warn you of the severe penalty for the offense you are committing. It is most dangerous business."

"Liberty, wid out-a da mon! Eesa be d.a.m.n! Say, Signora, yous-a come-a down wid a da handsome da mon--Eesa take de kid--wid da longa golda hair so nicey da s.h.i.+ney, and da bigg-a da brown eyes."