The Yellow Crayon Part 2

"I'll have a try, sir," the man answered. "The d.u.c.h.ess was better known here, but some of them may have recognised her."

"She had no luggage, I presume?" Mr. Sabin asked.

"Her dressing-case and jewel-case only, sir."

"So you see," Mr. Sabin continued, "it is probable that she did not remain at the Waldorf for the night. Base your inquiries on that supposition."

"Very good, sir."

"From your manners and speech," Mr. Sabin said, raising his head, "I should take you to be an Englishman."

"Quite correct, sir," the man answered. "I drove a hansom in London for eight years."

"You will understand me then," Mr. Sabin continued, "when I say that I have no great confidence in the police of this country. I do not wish to be blackmailed or bullied. I would ask you, therefore, to make your inquiries with discretion."

"I'll be careful, sir," the man answered.

Mr. Sabin handed to each of them a roll of notes. The cabdriver lingered upon the threshold. Mr. Sabin looked up.

"Well?"

"Could I speak a word to you--in private, sir?"

Mr. Sabin motioned Duson to leave the room. The baggage porter had already departed.

"When I cleaned out my cab at night, sir, I found this. I didn't reckon it was of any consequence at first, but from the questions you have been asking it may be useful to you."

Mr. Sabin took the half-sheet of note-paper in silence. It was the ordinary stationery of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, and the following words were written upon it in a faint delicate handwriting, but in yellow pencil:--

"Sept. 10th.

"To LUCILLE, d.u.c.h.esse de SOUSPENNIER.-- "You will be at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the main corridor at four o'clock this afternoon."

The thin paper shook in Mr. Sabin's fingers. There was no signature, but he fancied that the handwriting was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He looked slowly up towards the cabman.

"I am much obliged to you," he said. "This is of interest to me."

He stretched out his hand to the little wad of notes which Duson had left upon the table, but the cabdriver backed away.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "You've given me plenty. The letter's of no value to me. I came very near tearing it up, but for the peculiar colour pencil it's written with. Kinder took my fancy, sir."

"The letter is of value," Mr. Sabin said. "It tells me much more than I hoped to discover. It is our good fortune."

The man accepted the little roll of bills and departed. Mr. Sabin touched the bell.

"Duson, what time is it?"

"Nearly midnight, sir!"

"I will go to bed!"

"Very good, sir!"

"Mix me a sleeping draught, Duson. I need rest. See that I am not disturbed until ten o'clock to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER III

At precisely ten o'clock on the following morning Duson brought chocolate, which he had prepared himself, and some dry toast to his master's bedside. Upon the tray was a single letter. Mr. Sabin sat up in bed and tore open the envelope. The following words were written upon a sheet of the Holland House notepaper in the same peculiar coloured crayon.

"The first warning addressed to you yesterday was a friendly one. Profit by it. Go back to Lenox. You are only exposing yourself to danger and the person you seek to discomfort. Wait there, and some one shall come to you shortly who will explain what has happened, and the necessity for it."

Mr. Sabin smiled, a slow contemplative smile. He sipped his chocolate and lit a cigarette.

"Our friends, then," he said softly, "do not care about pursuit and inquiries. It is ridiculous to suppose that their warning is given out of any consideration to me. Duson!"

"Yes, sir!"

"My bath. I shall rise now."

Mr. Sabin made his toilet with something of the same deliberation which characterised all his movements. Then he descended into the hall, bought a newspaper, and from a convenient easy-chair kept a close observation upon every one who pa.s.sed to and fro for about an hour. Later on he ordered a carriage, and made several calls down town.

At a few minutes past twelve he entered the bar of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and ordering a drink sat down at one of the small tables. The room was full, but Mr. Sabin's attention was directed solely to one group of men who stood a short distance away before the counter drinking champagne. The central person of the group was a big man, with an unusually large neck, a fat pale face, a brown moustache tinged with grey, and a voice and laugh like a fog-horn. It was he apparently who was paying for the champagne, and he was clearly on intimate terms with all the party. Mr. Sabin watched for his opportunity, and then rising from his seat touched him on the shoulder.

"Mr. Skinner, I believe?" he said quietly.

The big man looked down upon Mr. Sabin with the sullen offensiveness of the professional bully.

"You've hit it first time," he admitted. "Who are you, anyway?"

Mr. Sabin produced a card.

"I called this morning," he said, "upon the gentleman whose name you will see there. He directed me to you, and told me to come here."

The man tore the card into small pieces.

"So long, boys," he said, addressing his late companions. "See you to-night."

They accepted his departure in silence, and one and all favoured Mr.

Sabin with a stare of blatant curiosity.

"I should be glad to speak with you," Mr. Sabin said, "in a place where we are likely to be neither disturbed nor overheard."

"You come right across to my office," was the prompt reply. "I guess we can fix it up there."

Mr. Sabin motioned to his coachman, and they crossed Broadway. His companion led him into a tall building, talking noisily all the time about the pals whom he had just left. An elevator transported them to the twelfth floor in little more than as many seconds, and Mr. Skinner ushered his visitor into a somewhat bare-looking office, smelling strongly of stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Skinner at once lit a cigar, and seating himself before his desk, folded his arms and leaned over towards Mr. Sabin.

"Smoke one?" he asked, pointing to the open box.