In Secret | Page 8

trouble if we're caught."
"I know it. But what other way is there?" she inquired naively. "You
allowed me only twenty-four hours, and I WON'T back out!"
"What procedure do you propose now?" he asked, grimly amused, and
beginning to feel rather reckless himself, and enjoying the feeling.
"What do you wish to do?" he repeated. "I'm game."
"I have an automatic pistol," she remarked seriously, tapping her
fur-coat pocket, "--and a pair of handcuffs--the sort that open and lock
when you strike a man on the wrist with them. You know the kind?"
"Surely. You mean to commit assault and robbery in the first degree
upon the body of the aforesaid Herman?"
"I-is that it?" she faltered.
"It is."
She hesitated:

"That is rather dreadful, isn't it?"
"Somewhat. It involves almost anything short of life imprisonment. But
I don't mind."
"We couldn't get a search-warrant, could we?"
"We have found nothing, so far, in that cipher letter to encourage us in
applying for any such warrant," he said cruelly.
"Wouldn't the excuse that Lauffer is an enemy alien and not registered
aid us in securing a warrant?" she insisted.
"He is not an alien. I investigated that after you left this afternoon. His
parents were German but he was born in Chicago. However, he is a
Hun, all right--I don't doubt that.... What do you propose to do now?"
She looked at him appealingly:
"Won't you allow me more than twenty-four hours?"
"I'm sorry."
"Why won't you?"
"Because I can't dawdle over this affair."
The girl smiled at him in her attractive, resolute way:
"Unless we find that book we can't decipher this letter. The letter comes
from Mexico,--from that German-infested Republic. It is written to a
man of German parentage and it is written in cipher. The names of
Luxburg, Caillaux, Bolo, Bernstorff are still fresh in our minds. Every
day brings us word of some new attempt at sabotage in the United
States. Isn't there ANY way, Mr. Vaux, for us to secure the key to this
cipher letter?"
"Not unless we go up and knock this man Lauffer on the head. Do you
want to try it?"

"Couldn't we knock rather gently on his head?"
Vaux stifled a laugh. The girl was so pretty, the risk so tremendous, the
entire proceeding so utterly outrageous that a delightful sense of
exhilaration possessed him.
"Where's that gun?" he said.
She drew it out and handed it to him.
"Is it loaded?"
"Yes."
"Where are the handcuffs?"
She fished out the nickel-plated bracelets and he pocketed his torch. A
pleasant thrill passed through the rather ethereal anatomy of Mr. Vaux.
"All right," he said briskly. "Here's hoping for adjoining cells!"
To jimmy the glass door was the swiftly cautious work of a moment or
two. Then the dark stairs rose in front of them and Vaux took the lead.
It was as cold as the pole in there, but Vaux's blood was racing now.
And alas! the photograph of Arethusa was in his desk at the office!
On the third floor he flashed his torch through an empty corridor and
played it smartly over every closed door. On the fourth floor he took
his torch in his left hand, his pistol in his right.
"The door to the apartment is open!" she whispered.
It was. A lamp on a table inside was still burning. They had a glimpse
of a cheap carpet on the floor, cheap and gaudy furniture. Vaux
extinguished and pocketed his torch, then, pistol lifted, he stepped
noiselessly into the front room.
It seemed to be a sort of sitting-room, and was in disorder; cushions
from a lounge lay about the floor; several books were scattered near

them; an upholstered chair had been ripped open and disembowelled,
and its excelsior stuffing strewn broadcast.
"This place looks as though it had been robbed!" whispered Vaux.
"What the deuce do you suppose has happened?"
They moved cautiously to the connecting-door of the room in the rear.
The lamplight partly illuminated it, revealing it as a bedroom.
Bedclothes trailed to the floor, which also was littered with dingy
masculine apparel flung about at random. Pockets of trousers and of
coats had been turned inside out, in what apparently had been a hasty
and frantic search.
The remainder of the room was in disorder, too; underwear had been
pulled from dresser and bureau; the built-in wardrobe doors swung ajar
and the clothing lay scattered about, every pocket turned inside out.
"For heaven's sake," muttered Vaux, "what do you suppose this
means?"
"Look!" she whispered, clutching his arm and pointing to the fireplace
at their feet.
On the white-tiled hearth in front of the unlighted gas-logs lay the
stump of a cigar.
From it curled a thin thread of smoke.
They stared at the