AT a sporting goods store that afternoon he ran into Jerome Dangerfield again. He had just bought a dozen balls when he saw the millionaire and his two attendants. He was not minded to be observed of them, so slipped into the little room where putters may be tried and drives be made into nets. From where he was he could hear Dangerfield’s disagreeable, rasping voice. His grievance, it seemed, was that other golfers were able to get better balls than he. He badgered the clerk until the man found spirit to observe: “If there was a ball that would make a dub play good golf it would be worth a fortune to any one.”

Trent was able to see the look of anger the capitalist threw at him. And this anger he saw reflected on the faces of the two attendants. Decidedly any lone man pitting his courage and wit against the Dangerfield entourage would need sympathy.

“Send me a half-gross up to Sunset Park Hotel,” he heard Dangerfield say as he walked away, still frowning.

“I hope you don’t have many of that kind to wait on,” Trent said sympathetically. He was always courteous to those with whom he had dealings.

“He’s the limit,” said the clerk; “and from the way he looked at me I guess the boss will hear of it. Seemed to think there was a ball that would make him drive two hundred and fifty and hole a twenty-foot putt and I was trying to hide it from him. You wouldn’t think it, but he’s one of the richest men living. Gee, it makes me feel like a Socialist when I think of it!”

The clerk wondered why it was a superb golfer, as he knew Trent to be, was modest and courteous, while a man like Dangerfield was so overbearing.

Before he went home Trent looked up Sunset Park in a golfer’s guide. It was a little-known course among the Berkshires, with only nine holes to its credit. The rates of the hotel were sufficiently high to make it clear only the rich could play. It was probably one of these dreary courses where a scratch player would be a rara avis, a course to which elderly men, playing for their health, gravitated and made the lives of caddies miserable.

It was a curious thing, Trent thought, that while this morning he knew nothing of Dangerfield, by night he knew a great deal. An evening paper told him why the millionaire was going to the Berkshires. There was to be a wedding in high society and the bride was a niece of Mrs. Jerome Dangerfield. The ceremony would take place at the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, and a bishop would unite the contracting parties. The fancy dress ball to be held would be the most elaborate ever held outside New York. A great pavilion was to be erected for the occasion in the grounds of the bride’s magnificent home, and Newport would be for the moment deserted. It was rumored that the jewels to be worn would exceed in value anything that had ever been gathered together this side the Atlantic, and so on, two columns long.

It explained very clearly why the Jerome Dangerfields were going to Sunset Park. The collective value of the jewels appealed particularly to Trent. He wondered if the Mount Aubyn ruby would shine out on that festal night. And if so how would it be guarded? It would be less difficult to disguise the detectives in fancy costume than in evening dress. Of course the owner of such a world-famous gem might wear an imitation as the Baroness von Eckstein had done. But if Clarke had painted her aright this was an occasion when an ambitious woman would be willing to take risks.

The proprietors of the Sunset Park Hotel were glad to accommodate Mr. Anthony Trent with a bed and bathroom for a little over a hundred dollars a week. It was a very select resort, they explained, attracting such people as the Jerome Dangerfields and their friends.

The golf course was owned by the hotel and the first tee was on the lawn a few yards from the front piazza. On the morning following his arrival, Trent, golf clubs already allotted to a caddy, waited to see what kind of golf was played. They were indifferently good but he betrayed little attention until he saw Dangerfield coming. Immediately he went to the tee but did not make his first shot until the millionaire was near enough to see. Playing alone as was the capitalist – for few were yet on the links – he had not to wait as he must have done had the other been playing with a partner. The first green was distant one hundred and sixty yards from the tee. A brook with sedgy reeds was a fine natural hazard, and as the green was on an elevated plateau with deep grass beyond, it was not an easy one to reach. Dangerfield dreaded it.

Dangerfield saw a tall, slim young man correctly clad in breeches and stockings, using a mashie, drop his ball neatly on the green within putting distance of the hole. Later he saw the hole done in two which was one under par.

“Who is that man?” Dangerfield demanded of his caddie.

“Never seen him before,” the lad answered.

Dangerfield took his brassey and went straightway into the brook. He saw, however, as he was ball hunting, this stranger make a wonderful drive to the second – two hundred and fifty yards, the enthusiastic caddie swore. Meanwhile the millionaire continued to press and slice and pull and top his ball to such effect as to do the double round in one hundred and forty-two. Nothing exasperated him so much as to find the game mock his strength and desire. A power wherever money marts were, he was here openly laughed at by caddies. He was discovering that rank on the links is determined by skill at the game alone. What mattered it that he was the great Jerome Dangerfield. What had he done the round in? What was his handicap?

He particularly wanted to humble Stephen Goswell, president of the First Agricultural Bank of New York City. Goswell was a year ahead of him at the game and had the edge on him so far. Goswell could manage short approaches occasionally, strokes that were beyond his own inflexible wrists. Now this tall, dark stranger had such strokes to perfection. The ball driven up into the air skimmed tree, wall or bunker and rolled up to the pin sweetly. Dangerfield quickly made up his mind. He would invite the stranger to play with him and then get hints which would improve his game fifty per cent.

“Morning,” he said later at the “Nineteenth Hole” where the stranger was taking a drink.

“Good morning,” said the stranger rather stiffly. “It is evident,” thought Dangerfield, “he does not know who I am.”

“Going ’round again after lunch?” Dangerfield demanded.

“I think so,” the stranger responded.

“We might play together,” said Dangerfield. “I haven’t a partner.”

“I’m afraid that won’t make a good match,” Trent told him. “Surely there is some one more your strength who would make a better match of it?”

“Huh!” grunted the other, “think I don’t play well enough, eh?”

“I know it,” said Trent composedly.

Dangerfield regarded him sourly.

“You’re not overburdened with modesty, young man.”

“I hope not,” the other retorted, “nothing handicaps a man more in life. I happen to know golf, though, and my experience is that if I play with a much inferior player I get careless and that’s bad for my game. I’m perfectly frank about it. You know next to nothing about the game. In your own line of work you could no doubt give me a big beating because you know it and I don’t.”

“And what do you suppose my line of work is?” snapped the annoyed mill-owner.

“I don’t know,” Trent commented. “Either a dentist or a theatrical producer.” As he spoke up sauntered one of the two men with whom he had seen Dangerfield in the subway.

“I’d like to hire some one to take the starch out of you,” Dangerfield said as he rose to his feet.

“Quite easy,” Trent returned, “almost any professional could.”

He watched the two walk away and chuckled. He had attracted the millionaire’s attention and he had rebuffed him. So far his programme was being carried out on scheduled time. The attendant had not looked at him with any special interest. It was unlikely in different clothes, under other conditions and in a strange place he would recognize him.

He did not play again that day. Instead he paid attention to some elderly ladies who knitted feverishly and were inclined to talk. He learned a great deal of useful news. For example, that the Dangerfields always had meals in their big private suite and rarely without guests from nearby homes. That they quarreled constantly. That Mr. Dangerfield never went to bed wholly sober. That he was given to sudden gusts of temper and only last year had beaten a caddie and had been compelled to settle the assault with a large money payment. That he was not above pocketing a golf ball if he could do so without being observed. That he had several times been seen to lift his ball out of an unfavorable lie into one from which he could play with greater chance of making a good stroke.

These petty meannesses Trent had already surmised. Dangerfield seemed to him that sort of a man. He was more interested in the dinner parties. But a man in such a position as he was had to be careful as to what questions he asked. People had a knack of remembering them at inopportune moments. Fortunately one of the ladies, who was a Miss Northend of Lynn, came back to it. She was a furious knitter and knitted best when her tongue wagged.

“Of course this hotel belongs to Mr. Dangerfield,” she babbled, “and that explains why they have a palatial suite here and can entertain even more readily than if they had a summer home, as their friends have. This is a very fashionable section. The women dress here as if they were in Newport. Every night Mr. Dangerfield goes down to the hotel safe and brings something gorgeous in the jewelry way for his wife to wear. There’s a private stairway he uses. I wandered into it once by mistake.”

“And sister was so flustered,” the other Miss Northend of Lynn told him, “that when he accused her of spying on him she couldn’t say a word. It really did look suspicious until he knew we were Northends and our father was his counsel once when he controlled the Boston and Rangely road.”

When these estimable maidens had finished, Anthony Trent knew all those particulars he desired. It was not the first time amiable gossips had aided him. But he played his part so well that Miss Fannie chided her sister.

“He wasn’t a bit interested in the Dangerfield wealth,” she said. “All a young man like that thinks of is golf.”

“Well,” said her sister, “I am interested and I’m frightened, too. When I think of all that amount of precious stones in the hotel safe, I’m positively alarmed. Every night she wears something new, her maid told the girl who looks after our rooms.”

CHAPTER XVIII
THE GREAT BLACK BIRD

THERE was exactly one week to the night of the fancy dress dance at the Uplands from the time that the Northend sisters gave the abstractor so much information. Every moment of it was carefully taken up by that calculating gentleman.

For example, on the following morning, Wednesday he played a round with the club’s champion, an amateur of some skill. Dangerfield posing for the moment as a warm admirer of the local player, followed the two on their match, betting freely on Blackhall, his clubmate. Also, he violated every rule of the royal and ancient game by speaking as Trent made his strokes. Never in his ten years of golf had Trent played such a game. It was characteristic of him to do his best when conditions were worst.

When the game was over at the thirteenth hole Dangerfield turned crossly to Blackhall.

“You played a rotten game!” he said.

“I never played a better,” that golfer exclaimed. “The whole trouble with me was that I was up against a better man.”

It may be observed that Blackhall was a sportsman.

Dangerfield was astonished and gratified next day when he was essaying some approaching to find Trent watching his efforts in a not unfriendly spirit.

“The trouble with you,” said the younger player graciously, “is that you chop your stroke instead of carrying through. I’ll show you what I mean.”

In the half hour he devoted to Dangerfield he improved the millionaire’s game six strokes a round.

“It would be no fun to play with you,” he said when Dangerfield again invited him, “but I hate to see a man trying to approach as you did when a little help could put him right.”

Thus were any Dangerfield suspicions disarmed. He helped him once or twice more and on every occasion insisted that the hovering attendant be sent away.

“Your keeper,” said Trent genially, “puts me off my stroke.”

“Keeper,” grinned Dangerfield, “I’m not as bad as that. He’s my valet.”

Two days before the ball at the Uplands it was observed that Anthony Trent visited the Nineteenth Hole more frequently and stayed there longer. He was playing less golf now. The bartender confided in Mr. Dangerfield, who was also a consistent patron, that he was drinking heavily.

“I guess,” said the tender of the bar with the sapience of his kind, “that he’s one of these quiet periodic souses. They tell me he has the stuff sent up to his room.”

“Too bad!” said Mr. Dangerfield, shaking his head as he ordered another.

It was true that to Trent’s room much dry gin and lemon juice found its way, together with siphons of iced carbonic. The carbonic and the lemon juice was drunk since a belated heat wave was visiting the Sunset Park Hotel. The gin found its way into his flower laden window boxes, which should have bloomed into juniper berries. Trent liked a drink as well as any other golfer, but he found that it just took the keen edge off his nerves. He was less keen to realize danger and too ready to meet a risk when he drank. As a conscientious workman he put it behind him when professionally engaged.

On the night of the ball he was, to quote a bell boy, dead to the world, which proves that bell boys may be deceived by appearances. On the night of the ball he was keyed up to his highest personal efficiency.

Physically he was at his best. His muscles were always hard and his wind good. The resisting exercises he practised maintained the former and a little running every day aided the latter.

The great costume ball was to take place on the third of September, when the sun would set at half-past six. The Uplands was no more than a half hour motor spin distant from the hotel. The time set was half-past nine, which meant few would be there before ten. It was plain then that Mrs. Jerome Dangerfield would not commence her preparations for dressing until after the dinner. She was devoted to the pleasures of the table, as her maid lamented when she harnessed her mistress within her corsets.

Looking from his window, Trent saw that the sun had retired behind clouds early in the afternoon. Darkness would not be delayed, and the success of his venture depended upon this.

Reviewing the amazing events of the evening of September the third, it is only fair to let Jerome Dangerfield relieve his feelings in a letter to his closest friend, the president of the First Agricultural Bank of New York.

“You were right in warning me not to bring the Mt. Aubyn ruby up to this place. It was Adele’s fault. She wanted it for the wedding. The damned thing has gone, Steve, vanished into thin air. If you told me what I’m going to tell you, I should say you were crazy. The people here and the fool police thought I’d been drinking. I’d had three or four cocktails, but what is that to me – or you? I was absolutely in possession of my senses.

“We dined early and we dined alone. At eight I went down for the jewels Adele wanted to wear. The ruby was the pièce de résistance of course. I went down my own private stairway as usual and unlocked the door leading from it to the hotel lobby. Devlin is here, and O’Brien, but they were both outside keeping tabs on strangers. The papers have played this costume ball up so much that every crook in the land knew what we had to offer in the way of loot. Graham, the hotel clerk, came with me to the private stairway and swears he pushed the door to as I started to go up the stairs. And he swears also that, although it wasn’t lighted as well as usual, there was nobody in sight. They are steep stairs, Steve, but they save me rubbing shoulders with every man or woman who might want to get acquainted in the public elevators; and, naturally, I wasn’t carrying a fortune where any crook could get a crack at me.

“Read this carefully. I was on the fifteenth step of the flight of twenty-two steps when the thing happened. The light was dim because one of the bulbs wasn’t working and the only illumination came from a red light at the head of the stairway.

“I was holding the jewel box in both hands resting it almost on my chest when the thing happened. There was suddenly a noise that might have been made by the beating of wings and something swooped out of nowhere and hit me on my wrists with such violence that I went backwards down the stairs and was unconscious for more than ten minutes. On each wrist there is an abrasion that might be caused by the sharp bill of a big bird. I’m bruised all over and have three stitches over one eye.

“I found the box lying on one of the steps closed as I had held it. The only thing that was missing was the Mt. Aubyn Ruby!

“Devlin and O’Brien have all kinds of theories but I told them I wanted the stone back and if they didn’t get it I wouldn’t have them any longer in my employ.

“Devlin says he will swear a car passed him on the Boston road yesterday containing some Continental crooks who used to operate along the Italian and French riviera. He’s full of wild fancies and swears I shall get the ruby back. I’m not so sure. I’ve given up the theory that it was a great black bat which hit me, but whatever it was it was a stunt pulled by a master craftsman who is laughing at Devlin and his kind. Can you imagine a crook who would leave behind what this fellow did?

“I wish you’d go to the Pemberton Detective Agency and get them to send some one up here capable of handling the situation. I shall be coming down to New York as soon as I’m able. I’m too much bruised to play golf but when I do I shall win some of your money. I’ve had some lessons from a crackerjack golfer up here who goes round the eighteen holes in anything from seventy-two to seventy-eight. My stance was wrong and I wasn’t gripping right.”

So much for Jerome Dangerfield. When Devlin and O’Brien examined the scene of the crime they immediately noticed that some fifteen feet above the ground level a stained glass window lighted the stairway. “Of course,” they exclaimed in unison, “that is the solution.” But the theory did not hold water, as the soil of the flower-beds showed no sign of a ladder or any footmark. They had been raked over that afternoon and the gardener swore no foot but his had set foot in this enclosed garden which supplied the hotel tables with blooms. An examination of the window showed no helpful finger marks. It was an indoor job, they declared, amending their first opinion.

But they were thorough workmen in their way. For instance: Anthony Trent, reclining fully dressed across his bed with cigarette stubs and emptied glasses about him within thirty minutes of the robbery, was evidently in fear of interruption. An onlooker would have seen him take three gin fizzes in rapid succession until indeed his face wore a faint flush. He listened keenly when outside his door footsteps lingered. And he was snoring alcoholically when the hotel clerk entered, bringing with him Messrs. Devlin and O’Brien.

“He’s been like this for days,” Graham, the clerk, asserted. “If it wasn’t that he was no trouble and made no noise I should have told him to get out. A pity,” Graham shook his head, “one of the pleasantest-spoken men in the hotel, and some golfer, they tell me.”

“You leave us,” Devlin commanded. “We are acting for the boss and it’ll be all right.”

Out of the corner of his eye Trent watched the two trained men make a thorough examination of his room and effects. Indeed, their thoroughness gave him ideas which were later to prove of use. But they drew blank. They examined the two fly rods he had brought with him and a collapsible landing net with great care, tapping the handles and balancing the rods. They sighed when nothing was found.

“This guy is all right,” said O’Brien.

“I don’t know,” said Devlin. “He looks a little too much like a moving-picture hero to suit me. He may have it on him.”

At this moment Trent sat up with an effort and looked from one to the other of the visitors. As drunken men do, it appeared not easy to get them in proper focus.

Devlin was not easily put in the wrong. His manner was most respectful.

“Mr. Dangerfield wants you to join him in a little game of bridge,” he began ingratiatingly.

“Sure,” said the inebriate. “Any time at all.” He attempted to get up.

“You can’t go like this,” Devlin assured him. “You’d better sober up a bit. Take a cold bath.”

O’Brien obligingly turned the water on and five minutes later Devlin assisted him into the tub, while O’Brien examined the clothes he had left in his sitting-room.

Then the two left him abruptly and made no more mention of bridge or Dangerfield. Trent rolled on the bed chuckling. The honors were his.

The great black bird swooping from nowhere to relieve Dangerfield of his great ruby and other stones of value, to strike that worthy upon his strong wrists with such startling effect as to make him fall down a dozen steps, was capable of a simpler explanation than he had supposed.

Trent, a week before the robbery, had observed with peculiar attention the window leading to Dangerfield’s private stairway. He could see one easy approach to it and one of greater difficulty. The first was approach by a step-ladder. The second was a great arm of the enormous tree that reared its head above the hotel roof. This arm hung down from the roof almost twenty feet above the little window. He believed that his weight would bring it swaying down to the window-ledge. He tried it one moonless night and found the scheme feasible. Already the chiller mountain breezes following the heat spell were making visitors close their windows. On the evening of the third of September he stole from his room by climbing over the roof until he came to the side where the big tree was. In one hand he held a coil of rope to hold the branch when his weight was taken off it. This rope he tied to the iron staple of the shutter outside the window. It was easy to open this.

Dropping silently on to the stairs, he unscrewed the bulb of the light until the staircase was in partial darkness. Tense, he knelt on the edge of the window and waited for the millionaire. And as the man came in sight he suddenly lifted from a step his landing net, the same collapsible one Devlin had examined with such care. But this time it was draped in dark material to conceal its form. The brass rim, sharp and heavy, struck Dangerfield’s wrists as he held the box by both hands on a level with his heart. Into the open net the precious casket fell silently. Trent was in his room ten minutes ere Dangerfield came to consciousness. His next move seemed strange and unnecessary. With a used golf ball in his pocket, he slid down the veranda posts until he came, by devious routes, to the shed in which the lockers were of those who used the links. It had long since been closed for the night. Parker unfastened Dangerfield’s locker and placed the ball in the pocket, where it lay with others of similar age and make.

He was able to return to his room unobserved. It was less than a half hour afterward that he received his call from the two detectives.

Although he was anxious to get on the links again and breathe the air of the pine woods, he was careful not to undo his artistic preparations. It was noticed that no more drink was sent to his room. There came instead ice water and strong coffee. He was getting over it, they said. Two days later he was out on the links and made a peculiarly bad round, taking ten more strokes than usual. Dangerfield watched him from the piazza. One of his arms was in a sling.

“Cut the rough stuff out,” said Dangerfield, “that’s the second time you topped your ball.”

Trent passed a hand across his face, possibly to hide a smile.

“I guess I’ll have to,” he returned simply. “It was that damned heat wave that got me going.”

It happened that the Dangerfields and Trent returned to New York on the same train. Devlin and O’Brien were in attendance. Trent noticed that when Devlin’s eye fell on the golf bag over his shoulder he frowned. So far the ruby had not been recovered and here was a piece of baggage that might hold crown jewels. Over Devlin’s broad shoulders his master’s golf bag was suspended. Cheerily and with respect he approached the crack player.

“Let me hold your golf bag, sir,” he said with a ready smile. “I’ll put it on the train for you.”

Trent relinquished it with relief. “Thank you,” he returned, “it will be a help.”

He had long ago noticed that his own bag and Dangerfield’s were alike save for the initials. They were both of white canvas, bound with black leather. Watching the smiling Devlin with a well-disguised curiosity, he saw that Dangerfield’s bag had been substituted for his own. Devlin had done exactly as Trent expected him to do and had, in the doing of it, saved him much trouble.

There were not many people in his Pullman. Dangerfield had his private car. None saw Anthony Trent open the ball pouch on the Dangerfield bag and extract therefrom an aged and somewhat dented ball. He balanced it almost lovingly in his hand. Never in the history of the great game had a ball been seen with the worth of this one. And yet he had so cunningly extracted its core and repaired it when once the Mount Aubyn ruby was nestling in its strange home that detection was unlikely, even were an examination made. A porter had the Dangerfield bag and Trent’s suitcase when Devlin came up to him. He was no longer obliging. He had spent wearisome hours in the privacy of the Dangerfield car examining every part of the Trent impedimenta. The task had wearied him and had been fruitless.

“You got the boss’s clubs,” he said shortly.

Languidly Trent examined what his porter carried.

“You’re to blame for it,” he answered, and as Mr. Dangerfield came up raised his voice a little. He knew Devlin suspected him, and he sensed that some day the two would meet as open foes.

“This man of yours,” cried Trent, “tried to give me your clubs instead of my own. I wouldn’t lose mine for anything.”

“You crack golfers couldn’t do anything without your own specially built clubs,” jeered the millionaire, “I believe it’s half the game.”

Trent smiled.

“There’s something in the ball, too,” he admitted, and had difficulty in keeping his face straight.

Mrs. Kinney was delighted to see her employer home again, and hurried to a convenient delicatessen store so that he might be fed. It was when she came back that her eye caught sight of the brass lamp from Benares.

Where had been the unsightly gap caused by her breaking of the red glass was now a piece which glittered gaily.

“Why, you’ve had it mended, sir,” she cried. “I feel I ought to pay for it, since it was my carelessness which broke it.”

“I’m glad you did,” he laughed. “If you hadn’t I shouldn’t have got this.” He looked at it with pride. “Do you know, Mrs. Kinney, I like this one better.”

“It makes the other ones look common though,” she commented.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I think I shall have to replace them, too.”