CHAPTER XXVFATHER AND DAUGHTER
The girl would have screamed had not a hand been swiftly laid acrossher lips to stifle the sound. She tried to rise, but the shelf of rockbeneath which she crouched prevented her. However, she struggled untilan arm was passed firmly around her waist and a stern voice saidwarningly:
"Josie! Control yourself."
Instantly her form relaxed and became inert. She breathed hard and herheart still raced, but she was no longer afraid.
"Kiss me, Daddy!" she whispered, and the man obeyed with a chuckle ofdelight.
There was silence for a time, while she collected herself. Then sheasked in a businesslike tone:
"When did you get here?"
"Sunday," said he.
"Good gracious! You must have caught the first train after getting mywire."
"I did. A certain gang of unknown counterfeiters has been puzzling me agood deal lately, and I fancied you had located the rascals."
"I have," said Josie exultantly.
"Where?" he asked.
"The rascals are down below us this very minute, Daddy. They are at ourmercy."
"Old Cragg and Jim Bennett?"
"Yes; and perhaps others."
"M-m-m," mumbled O'Gorman, "you've a lot to learn yet, Josie. You'requick; you're persevering; you're courageous. But you lack judgment."
"Do you mean that you doubt my evidence?" she asked indignantly.
"I do."
"I've the counterfeit bill here in my pocket, which Cragg tried to passon the storekeeper," she said.
"Let me see it."
Josie searched and found the bill. O'Gorman flashed a circle of lighton it and studied it attentively.
"Here," he said, passing it back to her. "Don't lose it, Josie. It'sworth ten dollars."
"Isn't it counterfeit?" she asked, trying to swallow a big lump thatrose in her throat.
"It is one of the recent issues, good as gold."
She sat silent, rigid with disappointment. Never had she been asmiserable as at this moment. She felt like crying, and a sob really didbecome audible in spite of her effort to suppress it. Again O'Gormanpassed his arm affectionately around her waist and held her close whileshe tried to think what it all meant.
"Was that bill your only basis of suspicion, dear?" he presentlyinquired.
"No, indeed. Do you hear that noise? What are they doing down there?"
"I imagine they are running a printing press," he replied.
"Exactly!" she said triumphantly. "And why do these men operate aprinting press in a secret cavern, unless they are printing counterfeitmoney?"
"Ah, there you have allowed your imagination to jump," returned herfather. "Haven't I warned you against the danger of imagination? Itleads to theory, and theory leads--nine times in ten--to failure."
"Circumstantial evidence is often valuable," declared Josie.
"It often convicts," he admitted, "but I am never sure of its justice.Whenever facts are obtainable, I prefer facts."
"Can you explain," she said somewhat coldly, for she felt she wassuffering a professional rebuke, "what those men below us are printing,if not counterfeit money?"
"I can," said he.
"And you have been down there, investigating?"
"Not yet," he answered coolly.
"Then _you_ must be theorizing, Daddy."
"Not at all. If you know you have two marbles in one pocket and twomore in another pocket, you may be positive there are four altogether,whether you bother to count them individually or not."
She pondered this, trying to understand what he meant.
"You don't know old Cragg as well as I do," she asserted.
"Let us argue that point," he said quickly. "What do you know abouthim?"
"I know him to be an eccentric old man, educated and shrewd, with acruel and murderous temper; I know that he has secluded himself in thishalf-forgotten town for many years, engaged in some secret occupationwhich he fears to have discovered. I am sure that he is capable of anycrime and therefore--even if that bill is good--I am none the lesspositive that counterfeiting is his business. No other supposition fitsthe facts in the case."
"Is that all you know about old Cragg?" asked O'Gorman.
"Isn't it enough to warrant his arrest?" she retorted.
"Not quite. You've forgotten to mention one thing among hischaracteristics, Josie."
"What is that?"
"Cragg is an Irishman--just as I am."
"What has that to do with it?"
"Only this: his sympathies have always been interested in behalf of hisdowntrodden countrymen. I won't admit that they _are_ downtrodden,Josie, even to you; but Cragg thinks they are. His father was anemigrant and Hezekiah was himself born in Dublin and came to thiscountry while an infant. He imagines he is Irish yet. Perhaps he is."
There was a note of bewilderment in the girl's voice as she asked:
"What has his sympathy for the Irish to do with this case?"
"Hezekiah Cragg," explained O'Gorman, speaking slowly, "is at the headof an organization known as the 'Champions of Irish Liberty.' For manyyears this C. I. L. fraternity has been growing in numbers and power,fed by money largely supplied by Cragg himself. I have proof, indeed,that he has devoted his entire fortune to this cause, as well as allreturns from his business enterprises. He lives in comparative povertythat the Champions of Irish Liberty may finally perfect their plans tofree Ireland and allow the Irish to establish a self-governingrepublic."
"But--why all this secrecy, Daddy?" she asked wonderingly.
"His work here is a violation of neutrality; it is contrary to thetreaty between our country and England. According to our laws HezekiahCragg and his followers, in seeking to deprive England of her Irishpossession, are guilty of treason."
"Could he be prosecuted for sympathizing with his own race?"
"No; for sending them arms and ammunition to fight with, yes. And thatis what they have been doing."
"Then you can arrest him for this act?"
"I can," said O'Gorman, "but I'll be hanged if I will, Josie. Cragg isan idealist; the cause to which he has devoted his life and fortunewith a steadfast loyalty that is worthy of respect, is doomed tofailure. The man's every thought is concentrated on his futile schemeand to oppose him at this juncture would drive him mad. He isn't doingany real harm to our country and even England won't suffer much throughhis conspiracy. But, allowing for the folly of his attempt to make hispeople free and independent, we must admire his lofty philanthropy, hisself-sacrifice, his dogged perseverence in promoting the cause so nearand dear to his heart. Let some other federal officer arrest him, if hedares; it's no work for an O'Gorman."
Josie had encountered many surprises during her brief career as anembryo detective, but this revelation was the crowning astonishment ofher life. All her carefully prepared theories concerning Hezekiah Cragghad been shattered by her father's terse disclosure and instead ofhating Old Swallowtail she suddenly found sympathy for his idealswelling in her heart. Josie O 'Gorman was Irish, too.
She pondered deeply the skilled detective's assertions and tried to fitthem to her knowledge of old Cragg's character. The story seemed toaccount for much, but not all. After a time she said:
"But this mysterious business of his, which causes him to write so manyletters and to receive so many answers to them--what connection can ithave with the Champions of Irish Liberty?"
"Very little," said her father, "except that it enables Cragg to earnmore money to feed into the ever-hungry maw of the Cause. Cragg's'business' is one of the most unique things of the sort that I haveever encountered. And, while it is quite legitimate, he is obliged tokeep it secret so as not to involve his many customers in adversecriticism."
"What on earth can it be?"
"It pertains to heaven, not earth, my dear," said O'Gorman dryly."Cragg was educated for the ministry or the priesthood--I can'tdiscover whether he was Catholic or Protestant--but it seems he wasn'tfitted for the church. P
erhaps he already had in mind the idea ofdevoting his life to the land that gave him birth. Anyhow, he was awell versed theologian, and exceptionally brilliant in theses, so whenhis money gave out he began writing sermons for others to preach, doinga mail-order business and selling his products to those preachers whoare too busy or too lazy to write their own sermons. He has a sort ofsyndicate established and his books, which I have examined withadmiration and wonder, prove he supplies sermons to preachers of alldenominations throughout the United States. This involves a lot ofcorrespondence. Every week he writes a new sermon, prints a largenumber of copies and sends one to each of his clients. Of course hefurnishes but one man in a town or city with his products, but thereare a good many towns and cities to supply."
"Is he printing sermons now?" asked Josie.
"Perhaps so; or it may be he is printing some circular to bedistributed to the members of the C. I. L. Jim Bennett, the husband ofthe postmistress here, was once a practical printer, and he is astaunch member of the Irish fraternity. Cragg has known of thisunderground cavern for years, and at one time it was a regularmeeting-place for his order of Champions. So he bought a printingpress and, to avoid the prying eyes of his neighbors, established ithere. That is the whole story of Cragg's 'crime,' Josie, and it isvery simple when once fully explained."
"Do you mean to say you've discovered all this in the two days sinceyou've been here?" asked the girl, in amazement.
"Every bit of it. I came prepared to arrest a gang of counterfeiters,and stumbled on this very interesting but quite harmless plot."
"Where have you been hiding since Sunday?" she inquired.
"Why, I didn't hide at all," he asserted. "Don't you remember giving mea ride yesterday in the Hathaway automobile?"
Josie sat silent. She was glad it was so dark under that shelf of rock,for she would rather her father did not read her humiliation andself-reproach.
"Daddy," she said, with a despairing accent, "I'm going to study to bea cook or a stenographer. I'll never make a decent detective--like Nan,for instance."
O'Gorman laughed.
"Poor Nan!" he exclaimed. "She's been more befuddled than you over thismysterious case. And Cragg is her own father, too. Come, Josie, it'sgetting late; let's go home."