The Web of the Golden Spider

by Frederick Orin Bartlett

  CHAPTER IX

  _A Stern Chase_

  Wilson came out into the night with a sense of the world havingsuddenly grown larger. He stood on the broad stone steps of thelibrary, breathing deep of the June air, and tried to get some sort ofa sane perspective. Below him lay Copley Square; opposite him thespires of Trinity Church stood against the purple of the sky likelances; to the right the top of Westminster was gay with its roofgarden, while straight ahead Boylston street stretched a brilliantavenue to the Common. Wilson liked the world at night; he liked therich shadows and the splendor of the golden lights, and overhead theglittering stars with the majestic calm between them. He liked thenight sounds, the clear notes of trolley bell and clattering hoofsunblurred by the undertone of shuffling feet. Now he seemed to haverisen to a higher level where he saw and heard it all much moredistinctly. The power and, with the power, the freedom which he feltwith this tremendous secret in his possession filled him with newlife. He lost the sense of being limited, of being confined. A minuteago this city, at least, had imprisoned him; now his thoughts flewunrestrained around half the globe. But more than anything else itmade him stand better in his own eyes before the girl. He need nolonger await the whims of chance to bring her to him; he could go insearch of her. Somehow he had never thought of her as a girl to be wonby the process of slow toil--by industry; she must be seized andcarried away at a single coup. The parchment which rustled crisply inhis pocket whispered how.

  The chief immediate value of the secret lay to him in the power itgave him to check Sorez in whatever influence he might have gainedover the girl. As soon as he could convince Sorez that the girl'spsychic powers were of no use to him in locating the treasure, hewould undoubtedly lose interest in her. Strangely enough, Wilson feltno moral scruples in retaining the map which he had found soaccidentally; to him it was like treasure-trove. If it rightlybelonged to anyone, it belonged to this fanatical priest and hispeople.

  In some way, then, he must communicate with Jo before it was too late.He knew that it was impossible to locate her through the telephone;the numbers were not all recorded in the book, and Central was notallowed to divulge the location of any of them. However, he would tryto reach her again over the wire in the morning. If unsuccessful atthis, he must wait for her letter. In the meanwhile he would haveplenty to do in pursuing further investigation into the history andtopography of the country covered by his map. Of course, a greatdifficulty ahead of him was lack of funds. But, if worse came toworse, he thought it might be possible to interest someone in theproject. There were always men readier to finance a venture of thissort than a surer and less romantic undertaking. He would feel better,however, to investigate it alone if possible, even if it cost him agreat deal of time and labor. All those problems, however, were forthe future--its present worth lay in the influence it gave him withSorez.

  He came down the library steps and started to cross the square with aview to walking, but he found his legs weak beneath him. The bestthing he could do now, he thought, was to devote some attention to therecovery of his strength. He still had the change from his tendollars, and with this recollection he felt a fresh wave of gratitudefor the man who had helped him so opportunely. He must look him uplater on. He boarded a car and, going down town, entered a restauranton Newspaper Row. Here he ordered beefsteak, potatoes, and a cup ofcoffee. He enjoyed every mouthful of it and came out refreshed butsleepy. He went up town to one of the smaller hotels and secured aroom with a bath. After a warm tub, he turned in and slept withoutmoving until he awoke with the sun streaming into the room. He feltthe old springiness in his body as he leaped out of bed, and a courageand joy beyond any he had ever known at thought of Jo and thetreasure. These two new elements in his life came to him in themorning with all the freshness and vividness of their originaldiscovery. In the full glare of the morning sun they seemed even morereal than the night before. He drew the parchment from beneath hispillow, where he had hidden it, and looked it over once more beforedressing. No, it was not a dream; it was as real a thing as thecommonplace furnishings of the room.

  He took a plunge in cold water and hurried through his dressing inorder to reach the post-office as soon as possible. He could notbelieve his eyes when he came downstairs and saw the clock handspointing at twelve. He had slept over fourteen hours. Without waitingfor breakfast, he hurried up town and inquired for his mail. There wasnothing. He was bitterly disappointed for he had felt sure that shewould write him. It did not seem possible that he could go on waitingpatiently without at least one more talk with her. Though he knew itwas against her wish, he made up his mind to call her up once more. Hewent to the nearest telephone and, asking for the number, received atthe end of five minutes the reply:

  "That number doesn't answer, sir."

  "There must be some mistake. I used it yesterday."

  "I'll try again."

  He waited several minutes. The droning voice came once more.

  "I get no answer, sir."

  "Ring 'em hard. I know there is someone there."

  But nothing Central could do roused any reply. Either the line was outof order or the occupants of the house refused to answer the call. Heleft the booth with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong withthe girl. He should not have allowed her to leave the telephonewithout telling him her address. It was possible she was held aprisoner--possible that Sorez, failing to persuade her to go with himin any other way, might attempt to abduct her. Doubtless she had toldhim her story, and he knew that with only an indifferent housekeeperto look after the girl no great stir would be made over herdisappearance. Like dozens of others, she would be accounted for ashaving gone to the city to work. The more he thought of it, the moretroubled he became. One thing was certain; under these circumstanceshe could no longer remain passive and wait for her letter. The chanceswere that she would not be allowed to write.

  He had intended to go out and see Danbury that afternoon, but he madeup his mind to take a car and go to Belmont on the chance of securing,through the local office, some information which would enable him totrace the house. If worse came to worse, he might appeal to the localpolice for aid.

  Before starting, he returned to the hospital and had his woundexamined. It was in good condition and the surgeon was able this timeto use a very much smaller dressing.

  "Will it need any further treatment?" Wilson inquired.

  "You ought to have the dressing changed once more, but on a pinch eventhat will not be necessary so long as the cut keeps clean. If,however, it begins to pain you, that means trouble. Don't neglect ita day if that happens. But I don't anticipate anything of the sort.Probably you can have the stitches out in a week."

  It was a relief to be able to go out upon the street again withoutattracting attention. The snapshot judgment upon every man with abandaged head is that he has been in a street fight--probably whileintoxicated. He bought a clean collar and a tie and indulged in theluxury of a shoe polish and a shave. When he stepped out upon thestreet after this he looked more like himself than he had for sixmonths. Had it not been for his anxiety over the girl, he would havefelt exultant, buoyant.

  The Belmont car took him through green fields and strips of woodsrich leaved and big with sap. The sun flecked them with gold and acooling breeze rustled them musically. After the rain of the nightbefore the world looked as fresh as though new made. He was keenlysensitive to it all and yet it mingled strangely with the hauntingforeign landscape of his imagination--a landscape with a backgroundof the snow-tipped summits of the Andes, a landscape with larger,cruder elements. He felt as though he stood poised between twocivilizations. His eyes met the conventional details of surroundingsamong which he had been born and brought up; he was riding on anopen trolley car, surrounded by humdrum fellow-passengers whopursued the sober routine of their lives as he had expected, untilwithin a day, to do, passing through a country where conditionswere settled--graded, as it were, so that each might lay his track andmove smoothly upon it; and yet his thoughts moved
among toweringmountains untouched by law, among people who knew not the meaning of astraight path, among heathen gods and secret paths to hidden gold.Yes, sitting here staring at the stereotyped inscription upon thewooden seat-back before him, "Smoking on the three rear seatsonly"--sitting here in the midst of advertisements for breakfastfoods, canned goods, and teas,--sitting here with the rounded backof the motorman and the ever moving brass brake before his eyes, hestill felt in his pocket the dry parchment which had lain perhapsfor centuries in the heart of a squat idol. While riding through thepretty toy suburbs in the comfort of an open car, he was still onewith Raleigh and his adventurous crew sailing the open seas; whilestill a fellow with these settled citizens of a well-orderedCommonwealth, he was, too, comrade to the reckless Quesada--lured bythe same quest. And this was not a dream--it was not a story--it wasdead, sober reality. The world about him now was no vision; he saw,felt, and smelled it; the other was equally real, he had shared in astruggle to possess it, he had the testimony of his eyes tosubstantiate it, and the logic of his brain to prove it. If the woundupon his head was real, if this girl in search of whom he was nowbent was real, if that within his pocket was real--if, in brief,he were not a lunatic in complete subjection to a delusion--then,however extravagant it might appear, all was real.

  The fact which made it substantial, as nothing else did, was thegirl--the girl and all she meant to him. It must be a very genuineemotion to turn the world topsy-turvy for him as it had. Thisafternoon for instance, it was she who filled the sunbeams with goldenlight, who warmed the blue sky until it seemed of hazy fairy stuff,who sang among the leaves, who urged him on with a power that placedno limit on distance or time. Within less than a day she had soobsessed him as to cause him to focus upon the passion the entirestrength of his being. The fortune of gold and jewels before him wasgreat, but if necessary he could sacrifice it without hesitancy tobring her nearer to him. That was secondary and so was everythingwhich lay between him and that one great need.

  He sought out the telephone exchange at Belmont at once and wasreferred to the superintendent. He found the latter a brisk,unimaginative man--a creature of rules and regulations.

  "Can't do it," he said gruffly.

  Wilson went a little further into details. The girl was very possiblya prisoner--very possibly in danger.

  "Go to the police with your story."

  "That means the newspapers," answered Wilson. "I don't wish the affairmade public. I may be altogether wrong in my suspicions, but they areof such a nature that they ought to be investigated."

  "Sorry, but the rule cannot be broken."

  Wilson spent fifteen minutes longer with him, but the man impatientlyrose.

  "That number is not listed," he said finally, "and under nocircumstances are we allowed to divulge it. You will have to go to thepolice if you want help."

  But Wilson had no idea of doing that. He still had one chance left--aruse which had occurred to him as he left the office. He went downstairs and to the nearest telephone, where he rang up Information.

  "Central?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "My line--Belmont 2748--is out of order. Can you send an inspector upat once?"

  "I'll see, sir."

  In a minute the reply came.

  "Yes, we can send a man right up."

  "One thing more--from where does the inspector start? The house isclosed, but I'll send my man along to go up with him."

  There was a wait of a few minutes. Wilson almost held his breath. Thencame the answer:

  "The inspector leaves from the central office. Have your man ask forMr. Riley."

  "In twenty minutes?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Wilson went out and walked around the block. He had told a deliberate lieand was perpetrating a downright fraud, but he felt no conscientiousscruples over it. It was only after he had exhausted every legitimatemethod that he had resorted to this. When he came around to theentrance door again he found a young man standing there with a tool bagin his hand. He stepped up to him.

  "This Mr. Riley?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I was to tell you to go on right out to the house. The man isthere."

  "All right, sir."

  Wilson started on, but stopped to look into the drugstore window. Theman went down the street to the car corner. Wilson again circled theblock and waited until he saw Riley board the car on the frontplatform. He kept out of sight until the car had almost passed him andthen swung on to the rear. The stratagem was simplicity itself.

  At the end of a ten-minute ride the inspector swung off and at thenext corner Wilson followed. It was easy enough to keep the man insight, and apparently he himself had escaped detection. The inspectorapproached a modest looking house setting a bit back from the roadand, going to the front door, rang the bell. At the end of perhapsthree minutes he rang again. At the end of another five he rang athird time. The curtains were down in the front windows, but that wasnot uncommon in hot June days. The inspector went to the rear. In afew minutes he came back. He tried the door once more and then,apparently bewildered, came out. He hung around for some ten minutesmore, and then, returning to the corner, took the first car back.

  It seemed clear enough that the occupants of the house were gone, butWilson waited a few minutes longer, unwilling to accept thepossibilities this suggested. He even went up and tried the bellhimself. A servant from the neighboring house called across to him:

  "They all drove off in a carriage an hour ago, sir," she said.

  "How many of them?" he asked.

  "Mr. Davis and his aunt and his friend, the old man, and the younggirl--all of them."

  "But the servants----"

  "Ain't but one--old man Sullivan," she answered with some scorn.

  "And they went where?"

  "Lord, now how d' ye suppose I know that?"

  For a second Wilson looked so disconsolate that she offered her lastbit of information.

  "They took their trunks with 'em."

  "Thanks," he replied as he turned on his heels and ran for theapproaching car.

  He made it. During the ride in town his mind was busy with a dozendifferent conjectures, each wilder than the preceding one. He washoping against hope that she had written him and that her letter nowawaited him in the post-office.

  Reaching the Federal Building, he waited breathlessly at the tinywindow while the indifferent clerk ran over the general mail. With alarge bundle of letters in his hand he skimmed them over and finallypaused, started on, returned, and tossed out a letter. Wilson tore itopen. It was from Jo. It read:

  "DEAR COMRADE:

  I have made my decision--I am going with Dr. Sorez to Bogova, South America. I have just written them at home and now I am writing you as I promised. I'm afraid you will think, like the others, that I am off on a senseless quest; but perhaps you won't. If only you knew how much my father is to me! Dr. Sorez is sure he is still living. I know he used to go to Carlina, of which Bogova is the capitol. Why he should let us believe him dead is, of course, something for me to learn. At any rate, I am off, and off--to-day. The priest makes it unsafe for Dr. Sorez to remain here any longer. You see, I have a long journey before me. But I love it. I'm half a sailor, you know.

  I am writing this in the hope that you will receive it in time to meet me at the steamer--the Columba, a merchantman. It sails at four from Pier 7, East Boston. If not, let me tell you again how much I thank you for what you have done--and would do. From time to time I shall write to you, if you wish, and you can write to me in care of Dr. Carl Sorez, the Metropole, Bogova, Carlina. When I come back we must meet again. Good luck to you, comrade.

  Sincerely yours, JO MANNING."

  Meet her at the steamer! The boat sailed at four. It was now quarterof. He ran from the building to Washington street. Here he found acab.

  "Five dollars,"
he panted, "if you get me to Pier 7, East Boston, atfour o'clock."

  He jumped in and had hardly closed the door before the cabby hadbrought his whip across the flanks of the dozing horse. The animalcame to life and tore down Washington Street at a pace that threatenedto wreck the vehicle. The wheels skimmed sides of electric cars andbrushed the noses of passing teams. A policeman shouted, but the cabbytook a chance and kept on. Down Atlantic Avenue the light cab swayedfrom side to side, swerving to within a hair's distance of theelevated structure. They wasted five precious minutes at the Ferry.From here the distance was short. At one end of the wharf Wilsonsprang through the small group of stevedores who, their work done,were watching the receding steamer. He was too late by five minutes.But he pushed on to the very tip of the wharf in his endeavor to getas near as possible to the boat. The deck looked deserted save for thebustling sailors. Then Fate favored him with one glance of her. Shehad come up from below, evidently for a last look at the wharf. He sawher--saw her start--saw her hesitate, and then saw her impulsivelythrow out her arms to him. He felt a lump in his throat as, with hiswhole heart in the action, he in his turn reached towards her.