CHAPTER XXII
UNMASKED
Quintus Fogerty was as unlike the typical detective as one couldimagine. Small in size, slight and boyish, his years could not readilybe determined by the ordinary observer. His face was deeply furrowed andlined, yet a few paces away it seemed the face of a boy of eighteen. Hiscold gray eyes were persistently staring but conveyed no inkling of histhoughts. His brick-red hair was as unkempt as if it had never known acomb, yet the attire of the great detective was as fastidiously neat asif he had dressed for an important social function. Taken altogetherthere was something mistrustful and uncanny about Fogerty's looks, andhis habit of eternally puffing cigarettes rendered his companionshipunpleasant. Yet of the man's professional ability there was no doubt;Mr. Merrick and Arthur Weldon had had occasion to employ him before,with results that justified their faith in him.
The detective greeted the young ladies with polite bows, supplemented byan aimless compliment on the neatness of their office.
"Never would have recognized it as a newspaper sanctum," said he in histhin, piping voice. "No litter, no stale pipes lying about, no cursingand quarreling, no excitement whatever. The editorial room is the indexto the workshop; I'll see if the mechanical department is kept asneatly."
He opened the door to the back room, passed through and closed it softlybehind him. Mr. Merrick made a dive for the door and followed Fogerty.
"What's the verdict, Arthur?" asked Louise curiously.
"Why, I--I believe the verdict isn't rendered yet," he hastily replied,and followed Mr. Merrick into the pressroom.
"Now, then," cried Patsy, grabbing the major firmly, "you'll not stir astep, sir, until you tell us the news!"
"What news, Patricia?" Inquired the old gentleman blandly.
"Who was Thursday Smith?"
"The identical individual he is now," said the Major.
"Don't prevaricate, sir! Who was he? What did he do? What is his rightname?"
"Is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, orare ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?"
"Be good, Daddy! Tell us all about it," said Patsy coaxingly.
"The man Thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of RobinsonCrusoe's man Friday."
"Major, you're trifling!"
"Or mayhap an ex-president of the United States, or forby the senatorfrom Oklahoma. Belike he was once minister to Borneo, an' came home in ahurry an' forgot who he was. But John Merrick will be wanting me."
He escaped and opened the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, heturned and added:
"Why don't ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the funfor yerselves? I suspect there's an item in store for ye."
Then he went in, and they took the hint and entered the pressroom in afluttering group. Fogerty stood with his hands in his pockets intentlywatching the Dwyer girls set type, while at his elbow Mr. Merrick wasexplaining in a casual voice how many "m's" were required to make anewspaper column. In another part of the long room Arthur Weldon wasleaning over a table containing the half-empty forms, as if criticallyexamining them. Smith, arrayed in overalls and jumper, was cleaning andoiling the big press.
"A daily newspaper," said the major, loudly, as he held up a warningfinger to the bevy of nieces, behind whom Hetty's pale face appeared,"means a daily grind for all concerned in it. There's no vacation forthe paper, no hyphens, no skipping a day or two if it has a bad cold;it's the tyrant that leads its slaves by the nose, metaphorically, andhas no conscience. Just as regularly as the world rolls 'round the pressrolls out the newspaper, and human life or death makes littledifference to either of the revolutionists."
While he spoke the Major led the way across the room to the stereotypingplant, which brought his party to a position near the press. Smithglanced at them and went on with his work. It was not unusual to havethe pressroom thus invaded.
Presently Fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, andstood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of thecomplicated machine. Smith, feeling himself under observation, glancedup again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective Fogertygave a cleverly assumed start and exclaimed:
"Good God!"
Instantly Thursday Smith straightened up and looked at the manquestioningly. Fogerty stretched out his hand and said, as if in wonder:
"Why, Melville, old man, what are you doing here? We wondered what hadbecome of you, all these months. Shake hands, my boy! I'm glad I'vefound you."
Smith leaned against the press and stared at him with dilated eyes.Everyone in the room was regarding the scene with intense but repressedexcitement.
"What's wrong, Harold?" continued Fogerty, as if hurt by the other'shesitation to acknowledge their acquaintance. "You haven't forgotten me,have you? I'm McCormick, you know, and you and I have had many a goodtime together in the past."
Smith passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed gesture.
"What name did you call me, sir?" he asked.
"Melville; Harold Melville, of East Sixty-sixth street. I'm sure I'mright. There can't be two like you in the world, you know."
Thursday Smith stepped down from the platform and with a staggering gaitwalked to a stool, on which he weakly sank. He wiped the beads ofperspiration from his forehead and looked at Fogerty with a halffrightened air.
"And you--are--McCormick?" he faltered.
"Of course."
Smith stared a moment and then shook his head.
"It's no use," he said despairingly; "I can't recall a single memory ofeither Harold Melville or--or his friend McCormick. Pardon me, sir; Imust confess my mind is absolutely blank concerning all my life previousto the last two years. Until this moment I--I could not recall my ownname."
"H'm," muttered Fogerty; "you recall it now, don't you?"
"No. You tell me my name is Melville, and you seem to recognize me as aman whom you once knew. I accept your statement in good faith, but Icannot corroborate it from my own knowledge."
"That's queer," retorted Fogerty, his cold eyes fixed upon the man'sface.
"Let me explain, please," said Smith, and related his curious experiencein practically the same words he had employed when confiding it to Mr.Merrick. "I had hoped," he concluded, "that if ever I met one who knewme formerly, or heard my right name mentioned, my memory would comeback to me; but in this I am sorely disappointed. Did you know me well,sir?"
"Pretty well," answered the detective, after a slight hesitation.
"Then tell me something about myself. Tell me who I was."
"Here--in public?" asked Fogerty, with a suggestive glance at thespectators, who had involuntarily crowded nearer.
Smith flushed, but gazed firmly into the faces surrounding him.
"Why not?" he returned. "These young ladies and Mr. Merrick accepted mewithout knowledge of my antecedents. They are entitled to as full anexplanation as--as I am."
"You place me, Melville, in a rather embarrassing position," declaredFogerty. "This is a queer case--the queerest in all my experience.Better let me post you in a private interview."
Smith trembled a bit, from nervousness; but he persisted in his demand.
"These people are entitled to the truth," said he. "Tell us frankly allyou know about me, and do not mince words--whatever the truth may be."
"Oh, it's not so bad," announced the detective, with a shrug; "or atleast it wouldn't be in New York, among your old aristocratic haunts.But here, in a quiet country town, among these generous andsimple-hearted folks who have befriended you, the thing is ratherdifficult to say."
"Say it!" commanded Smith.
"I will. Many New Yorkers remember the firm of Melville & Ford, thecleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to fleece thewealthy lambs of the metropolis."
"Confidence men!" gasped Smith, in a voice of horror.
"Yes, putting it mildly. You were both jolly good fellows and made ahost of friends. You were well-groomed, rode in automobiles, fre
quentedgood clubs and had a stunning establishment on Sixty-sixth street whereyou entertained lavishly. You could afford to, for there was where youfleeced your victims. But it wasn't so very bad, as I said. You chosethe wealthy sons of the super-rich, who were glad to know such popularmen-about-town as Harold Melville and Edgar Ford. When one set ofinnocents had been so thoroughly trimmed that they compared notes andbegan to avoid you, you had only to pick up another bunch of lambs, forNew York contains many distinct flocks of the species. As they couldafford to lose, none of them ever complained to the police, although theCentral Office had an eye on you and knew your methods perfectly.
"Finally you made a mistake--or rather Ford did, for he was not asclever as you were. He brought an imitation millionaire to your house; afellow who was putting up a brazen front on the smallest sort of a roll.You won his money and he denounced you, getting away with a pack ofmarked cards for evidence. At this you both took fright and decided on ahasty retreat. Gathering together your plunder--which was a royal sum,I'm convinced--you and Ford jumped into a motor car and--vanished fromNew York.
"The balance of your history I base on premise. Ford has been located inChicago, where, with an ample supply of money, he is repeating his NewYork operations; but Harold Melville has never been heard of until thisday. I think the true explanation is easily arrived at. Goaded bycupidity--and perhaps envy of your superior talents--Ford took advantageof the situation and, finding the automobile speeding along a desertedroad, knocked you on the head, tumbled you out of the car, and made offwith your combined winnings. The blow had the effect--not so uncommon asyou think--of destroying your recollection of your past life, and youhave for two years been wandering in total ignorance of what caused youraffliction."
During this recital Smith sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon thespeaker's face, dwelling upon every word. At the conclusion of the storyhe dropped his face in his hands a moment, visibly shuddering. Thenagain he looked up, and after reading the circle of pitying facesconfronting him he bravely met Mr. Merrick's eyes.
"Sir," he said in a voice that faltered in spite of his efforts torender it firm, "you now know who I am. When I first came to you I was amere irresponsible hobo, a wandering tramp who had adopted the name ofThursday Smith because he was ignorant of his own, but who had no causeto be ashamed of his manhood. To-day I am discovered in my true guise.As Harold Melville, the disreputable trickster, I am not fit to remainin your employ--to associate with honest men and women. You will forgivemy imposition, I think, because you know how thoroughly ignorant I wasof the truth; but I will impose upon you no longer. I am sorry, sir, forI have been happy here; but I will go, thanking you for the kindlygenerosity that prompted you to accept me as I seemed to be, not as Iam."
He rose, his face showing evidence of suffering, and bowed gravely.Hetty Hewitt walked over and stood by his side, laying her hand gentlyupon his arm.
But Thursday Smith did not know John Merrick very well. The littlegentleman had silently listened, observing meanwhile the demeanor of theaccused, and now he smiled in his pleasant, whimsical way and caughtSmith's hand in both his own.
"Man, man!" he cried, "you're misjudging both me and yourself, I don'tknow this fellow Melville. You don't know him, either. But I do knowThursday Smith, who has won my confidence and by his manly acts, andI'll stand by him through thick and thin!"
"I am Harold Melville--the gambler--the confidence man."
"You're nothing of the sort, you're just Thursday Smith, and no moreresponsible for Harold Melville than I am."
"Hooray!" exclaimed Patsy Doyle enthusiastically. "Uncle's right,Thursday. You're our friend, and the mainstay of the _Millville DailyTribune_. We shall not allow you to desert us just because you'vediscovered that your--your--ancestor--wasn't quite respectable."
"That's it, exactly," asserted Beth. "It's like hearing a tale of anancestor, Thursday, or of some member of your family who lived beforeyou. You cannot be responsible, in any way, for another man'swickedness."
"As I look at it," said Louise reflectively, "you are just two yearsold, Thursday, and innocent of any wrongdoing before that day you firstfound yourself."
"There's no use our considering Melville at all," added Uncle Johncheerfully. "I'm sorry we ever heard of him, except that in one way itclears up a mystery. Thursday Smith, we like you and trust you. Do notdoubt yourself because of this tale. I'll vouch for your fairness andintegrity. Forget Melville, who has never really existed so far as anyof us are concerned; be yourself, and count on our friendship andregard, which Thursday Smith has fairly won."
Hetty was crying softly, her cheek laid against Thursday's sleeve. Theman stood as if turned to stone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyessparkling, and his head proudly poised.
Fogerty lighted a fresh cigarette, watching the scene with animperturbable smile.
Suddenly Smith awoke to life. He half turned, looked wonderingly atHetty, and then folded her thin form in his arms and pressed a kiss onher forehead.
Fogerty coughed. Uncle John jerked out his handkerchief and blew hisnose like a bugle call.
The major's eyes were moist, for the old soldier was sympathetic as achild. But Patsy, a little catch in her voice, impulsively put her armsaround the unashamed pair and murmured: "I'm so glad, Hetty! I'm soglad, Thursday! But--dear me--aren't we going to have any paperto-morrow morning?"
That relieved the tension and everybody laughed. Thursday released Hettyand shook Uncle John's hand most gratefully. Then they all wanted toshake hands, and did until it came to Fogerty's turn. But now Smith drewback and looked askance at the detective.
"I do not know you, Mr. McCormick," he said with dignity.
"My name's not McCormick; it's Fogerty," said the other, without malice."I was simply testing your memory by claiming to be an old friend.Personally I never knew Harold Melville, but I'm mighty glad to makeThursday Smith's acquaintance and will consider it an honor if you'llshake my hand."
Smith was too happy to refuse. He took Fogerty's hand.