The Midnight Passenger | Page 6

youth eagerly sped away to
the telegraph office and his half holiday.
The office staff were all filing out, wearied with the week's work, and
Robert Wade, Esq., the chief manager, stared in surprise as Clayton
passed him without a word, in answer to his stately greeting. He
watched the young man, who slowly descended by the stairway,
forgetting the ready elevator service. "What's up with Clayton?"
murmured the pompous official. "He forgot his manners!"
All unconscious of his strange actions, Randall Clayton slowly sought
the street level, waiting until his colaborers had all departed. He then
moved along again toward the window where the Danube view still
charmed the passerby.
Then, turning abruptly, he hurried away to a Broadway car, seeking the
solitude of the cosy apartment in the still respectable "Thirties," which
he had so long shared with Ferris.
He dared not, as yet, ask himself why Fate had shown him, a second
time, at that very window, the graceful figure of the beautiful unknown.
But, there, with the slender music roll still clasped in her delicate hand,
she stood, lingering a beautiful Peri in his path, on his return from the

meeting with Ferris.
And he was not deceived this time. For the blush of semi-recognition,
the womanly embarrassment as their eyes met in a sudden surprise, told
him that she also had lingered for a moment at their involuntary
trysting place.
It was in vain that he sought for any cogent reason for the reappearance
of the unknown dark-eyed beauty.
There was no veiled suggestion in her wistful eyes, no lure of the fisher
of men in the restrained mien of the lovely unknown. He paced his
room for half an hour, until the arrival of Ferris brought about an active
discussion of all their personal and business affairs which lasted until
the coupé arrived to bear them to the station.
In the long examination of their mutual interests, Clayton had strangely
forgotten to even mention the name of Miss Alice Worthington, for he
was still keenly aware of the gradual fading away of the ties of friendly
family intimacy which had once bound him to the Detroit household.
Moreover, loyal to his chum as he was, he could not forget how often,
in the past two years, he had seen letters lying on Ferris' table, bearing
the superscription of the woman who had been graduated by Fate from
that dangerous rank of "Little Sister."
Before Ferris finally turned over his keys, the cool lawyer laid his hand
gravely on Clayton's shoulder.
"Randall, my boy!" he said. "It's only fair to you to tell you that the
Fidelity Company makes private reports to Hugh Worthington upon the
inner life of all the bonded employees. Some of these documents have
always been forwarded through me. Evidently there have been some
new directions given on this matter.
"Worthington is a man who forgets nothing. You will be left alone.
You know your dangerous trust. Be always on your guard!
"For, even though born in its whirl, there are dangers in New York
which are sealed books to me, even now; and, you are a stranger here,
after all.
"Take care of yourself! Be watchful! There will be many jealous eyes
spying upon your every movement, and strange eyes at that."
They entered the carriage in a constrained silence, in the early nightfall,
and were soon whirled away toward the Forty-second Street Depot.
Some overhanging shadow seemed to dampen the ardor of that friendly

farewell, when the gliding train bore the lawyer away from his friend's
sight.
At that very instant the office boy, Einstein, darted out of the great
depot's main entrance and mingled with the passers by. "Now for Fritz
Braun," he chuckled. "She has caught on at last! He followed her to the
'Bavaria.' The lawyer is gone for good! The field is clear. There's a
twenty now in sight, and many a twenty to follow."

CHAPTER II.
TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY.

While Randall Clayton was lingering moodily over a lonely dinner at
the Grand Union, his office boy was dallying with a cigarette on the
front platform of a Fourth Avenue car.
Emil Einstein had safely sized up the friendly adieu of the two
room-mates, and was now hastening down to report his successful
infamy.
"Too late for Sixth Avenue!" the hard-faced boy muttered. "Catch him
at 'the Bavaria,' sure."
The round, gloating eyes of the young New York-nurtured Jew were
ablaze with a fierce thirst for pleasure.
Round shouldered, strongly built, his Semitic countenance was all
aglow with a superabundant vitality, and the pleasure-loving mouth
alone belied the keen intelligence of the wide set Hebraic eyes.
An elève of the gutters of New York's East-Side ghetto, dangerously
half educated at the free public schools,