The Substitute Prisoner | Page 9

Ward and his sister jumped out of the tonneau and entered the building. They found themselves in a busy office, consisting of a single room down the length of which a wooden rail interposed between visitors and employ��s.
"I wish to see Mr. Whitmore," Mrs. Collins informed one of the office boys.
"Hasn't come down yet," the boy replied.
"Is he often away as late as this?"
"No ma'am," said the boy. "He's usually here at nine o'clock."
"Has Mr. Beard been here this morning?"
"Not yet. But he telephoned he'll be here at twelve o'clock."
Ward consulted his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He questioned the boy but was unable to obtain any information as to the possible whereabouts of his employer or his secretary. So he and his sister decided to await them at the office.
The visitors looked sufficiently important to warrant the office boy ushering them into Whitmore's private office. As they passed down the railed corridor they elicited the further information that no one answering Collins's description had called that morning.
"He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the Grand Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.
They did not enter into further discussion of their impending financial ruin while awaiting Whitmore. Immediately on dropping into a chair Mrs. Collins seemed to draw within herself, surrendering to the harrowing thoughts that filled her mind. Ward also became deeply preoccupied with his own tangled affairs, his brain striving furiously to find some solution of the dilemma into which he was plunged.
They took no note of the passing time; but the minutes sped swiftly while they wrestled silently with the problems that had entered their lives and when Ward suddenly looked up the hands of the little brass clock on top of Whitmore's desk pointed to a quarter of twelve. An instant later the door of the office was flung open and a tall figure, clean-shaven, with clearly defined features, burst into the room.
On seeing the visitors the man paused, perplexed. It was plain that he was under great stress of mind. His face was haggard, his eyes were sunken, his mouth drawn, as if he had not yet recovered from some great shock.
"Ward--Mrs. Collins!" he stammered.
The voice recalled the woman out of the dreamy state into which she had lapsed. She scrutinized the man with eyes in which terror and suspense mingled.
"Mr. Beard--why!--something has happened!" she gave voice to her fear.
"Yes, something dreadful has occurred," he said, trying to avert his face.
A great fear shook the woman's frame. For an instant she raised her eyes imploringly, then lowered them.
"Then he has killed him--murdered him?" The words came as though each syllable wrenched her heart.
"Killed him?" repeated Beard with rising inflection. "Why, what do you mean?"
"My husband--Mr. Collins--he set out this morning to do it. For God's sake," she implored, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me what happened."
By a violent effort Beard recovered sufficient calm to note the agitation of the woman.
"Why, no," he said reassuringly, "Mr. Whitmore hasn't been killed."
"But what has happened?" demanded Mrs. Collins with a gesture of impatience.
"I cannot tell you," answered the secretary. "But something has occurred--a grave crisis has arisen in Mr. Whitmore's life. He will not be at his office for some time--perhaps not for weeks, or months, or years. But he asked me to communicate with you, to let you know that he will notify you the moment he returns. Meanwhile, he asks you to believe in him, even though he cannot write to you. More than that I cannot tell you."
Ward and his sister exchanged bewildered glances. The unexpected turn of events left them speechless. And, before they were able to recover their dazed senses, Beard slipped out of the office and lost himself among the small army of clerks and bookkeepers in the outer room.
Ward, finally observing that he was alone with his sister, bestowed on her a bitter smile.
"What a muddle!" he exclaimed. "Domestic trouble ... financial difficulties!... Whitmore vanished! What next?"
She stared at him through swimming eyes. Her lips moved but no sound came from them.
"Take the car home, Grace," he said in milder voice. "I'll go to the office and try to puzzle this thing out."
CHAPTER IV
What had become of Herbert Whitmore?
Like a thief in the night he had slipped out of his Fifth Avenue home, disappeared from his business, vanished like a specter, while the domestic tragedy of the Collinses paused in anticipation of his reappearance.
Beard, the confidential secretary, had taken possession of his employer's office, and to all inquiries regarding Whitmore's absence, made the same reply:
"He is gone indefinitely on a business trip."
Not even the persistent Collins was able to elicit anything additional. No further information was vouchsafed Mrs. Collins, who had taken up her abode with her brother; the financially troubled Ward, desperately fighting