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He was aroused from this bitter revery by a rapping at the door. Opening, he admitted Slawson, his valet. The servile one handed him a letter with a special-delivery stamp on it.
"Excuse me for intruding, sir," said Slawson, meekly smiling, "but I knew this was urgent."
"All right. Get out!" growled Flint. When the man was gone, he fortified himself with a couple of morphine tablets, and ripped the long envelope. It was from Slade, he knew, of the Cosmos Agency.
With a rapid eye he glanced it over. Then uttering a sudden oath, he studied it carefully, under the electric bulb beside his dressing-table.
"Gods and devils!" he ejaculated. "What next?"
The letter read:
142A Park Row, New York City, June 28, 1921.
Isaac L. Flint, Esq.,
Idle Hour, Englewood, N. J.
Dear Sir:
Reporting in the matter of the young man who rescued your daughter, in the recent accident, let me say I have discovered his identity and some important facts concerning him. I take the liberty of thinking that your intention of rewarding him, when found, will be somewhat modified by this information.
This man's name is Gabriel Armstrong, age 24. Occupation, expert electrical and chemical worker. A Socialist and labor agitator, of the most dangerous type, because intellectual and well-read. A man of considerable power and influence in Socialist and labor circles. Has been something of a wanderer. Is well known to union men and Socialists, all over the country. A powerful speaker, and resourceful.
He was last employed at your testing-works on Staten Island. Discharged by your Mr. Herzog, about two weeks ago for having, I understand, been in possession of a certain red-covered note-book, which Mr. Herzog found in his pocket. This book is the same which you commissioned me to find, but which Mr. Herzog returned to you before I undertook the search for it. The inference is that this Armstrong is in possession of some private information about your work, which may make him even more dangerous. Herzog informs me that you and Mr. Waldron have had Armstrong blacklisted. But this seems of no importance to the man, as he is clever and can live anywhere, by casual labor and by working with the Socialists.
Armstrong is now at Syracuse. He has been tramping the roads. Have had two of my operators enter his room at the Excelsior Lodging House and search, his effects, while he was taking a bath. Can find nothing to give me any legal means of proceeding against him. He has some ready money, so a vagrancy-charge will not hold. If you wish me to resort to extreme measures to "get" him, kindly give me carte blanche, and guarantee me protection in case of trouble. The job can be done, but it may be risky, in view of his influence and backing among the Socialists and labor people. Before proceeding further I want to know how far you will support me.
Am having him shadowed. He cannot get away. As yet he suspects nothing. On receipt of your next, will take measures to put him away for a few months. I know that, once he lands behind bars, his finish can be easily arranged.
Trusting this information will prove satisfactory to you, and awaiting your further instructions, I am,
Very truly yours ,
THE COSMOS AGENCY,
Dillon F. Slade, Mgr.
Old Flint read this extraordinary communication twice through, then, raising his head, growled in his shrunken throat, for all the world like a wild beast. His gold tooth, gleaming in the light, made his rictus of passion more venomous, more malevolent still.
"The—the Hell-hound!" he stammered, his eyes narrowed with hate and rage. "Oh, wait! Wait till we land him! And this— this is the devil, the scum, that Kate, my daughter—"
He could not finish; but, clutching at his sparse gray hair, fell to pacing the floor and mouthing execrations. Had he been of the sanguine manner of body, he must inevitably have suffered an apoplexy. Only his spare frame and bloodless type, due to the drug, saved his life, at that first shock of rage and hate.
Grown calmer, presently, he took quick action. Seating himself at a desk in the corner of his bed-chamber—a desk where some of his most important private matters had been put through—he chose a sheet of blank paper, with no monogram, and wrote:
Take immediate action. Will back you to the limit, and beyond. Ten thousand bonus if you land him behind bars inside a week. Stop at nothing, but get results. F.
This he folded and put in an envelope which he addressed to Slade, and was about to seal, when another idea struck him.
"By God!" he exclaimed, smiting the desk. "It won't do to have this just some ordinary charge. The thing has got to be disgraceful, unpardonable, hideous!
"There are two things to be considered now. One is to 'get' him, in connection with that red book of my plans—to head him off from making any possible trouble in the development of the Air Trust.
"The other is—Kate! Nothing catches a woman, like martyrdom. If anything happens to this cur, and she suspects that I've done it, out of spite, all Hell can't hold her. I know her well enough for that . No, this fellow has got to be put away on some charge that will absolutely and utterly ruin him, in her eyes, for good and all—that will blast and wreck him, forever, with her. Something that, when I tell her, will fill her with loathing and horror. Something that will cause a terrible and complete revulsion of feeling in her, and bring her back to Waldron, as to a strong refuge in time of trouble. Something that will crush and quell her, utterly cure her of those idiotic, school-girl notions of hers, and make her—as she should be—submissive to my will and my demands!"
He pondered a moment, an ugly, crafty smile on those old lips of his; then, struck by sudden inspiration, laughed a dry, harsh laugh.
"The very thing!" he exulted, with the mirth of a vulture that has just found a peculiarly revolting mass of carrion. "Fool that I was, not to have thought of it before!"
Hastily he withdrew the letter from the envelope, opened it, and with eager hand wrote three short sentences. He read these over, nodded approval, and this time sealed and addressed the letter. Then he pushed an electric button over the desk.
"Have this letter carried to this address at once," he commanded Slawson. "Mr. Dillon Slade, 432 Highland Avenue, Rutherford, N. J. See? Special delivery won't do. Have Sanders take it at once, in the racer. No answer required. And after you've seen it start on its way, come back here. I want to go to bed."
"Yes, sir. All right, sir," the valet bowed as he took the letter and departed.
Ten minutes later, he was back again, helping old Flint undress.
Long after the Billionaire was in bed, in the big, luxurious room, with its windows open toward the river—the room guarded all night by armed men in the house and on the lawn outside—he lay there thinking of his plot, chuckling to himself over its infernal cunning, and filled with joy at the prospects now opening out ahead of him.
"Two birds with one stone, this time, for sure," he pondered. "Ha! They'll try to beat old Isaac Flint at this or any other game, will they? Man or woman, I don't care which, they'll never get away with it—never, so long as life and breath remain in me!"
Then, soothed by these happy thoughts, and by a somewhat increased dosage of his drug, the Billionaire gradually and contentedly fell asleep, to dream of victory, and vengeance, and power.
Not in weeks had he slumbered so peacefully.
But for many hours after her father was asleep, Catherine sat at her window, in a silk kimono, and with fevered pulses and dry eyes, with throbbing heart and leaping pulses, thought long thoughts.
Sleepless she sat there, counting the hours tolled from the church-spire in the town, below.
Morning still found her at the window, her brain afire, her heart laid desolate and waste by the consuming struggle which, that night, had swept and ravaged it.