“Some one has worked upon your mind,” replied the Red Envoy. “You have betrayed yourself. More than that: you have betrayed our cause.”
Stanley Berger became suddenly rigid; his eyes stared ahead. He clenched his fists.
“You have been released,” said the Red Envoy, in even tones. “That is customary with those who have done their work for the cause. But you know the terms of that release. Silence. Absolute silence.”
Berger nodded.
“You know what happens to those who betray the cause.” The Red Envoy’s voice came like the sound of doom. “They are our worst enemies. We may let other enemies wait; but not those who have betrayed us. We strike them quickly.”
Again Berger nodded.
“I feared this,” said the Red Envoy solemnly. “I feared that you would unwittingly betray the cause. I came to talk with you — to help you leave the country.
“I still offer you that opportunity. But you must first undo this work. Bring out paper, and another envelope. Are there stamps here?”
Berger nodded as he opened the table drawer and produced the required envelopes. The masked man extinguished the ceiling light. The room was illuminated only by the table lamp.
“Write this note,” directed the Red Envoy. “Start it with ‘Dear Sir,’ as you began the letter to Harry Vincent.”
Berger wrote the first words; then followed the masked man’s dictation.
“The suicide of Jonathan Graham has left me miserable and unhappy. He was my friend and benefactor. My grief is overwhelming me.
“I do not feel that I can go on. I can work for no other man. The shock has left me helpless. Standing powerless, and watching the man I admired leap to his death, is something that I can never forget.
“When you receive this letter, I shall be gone.”
Stanley Berger awaited further instructions.
“Sign the letter,” said the Red Envoy. “Write two more like it. Sign all of them.”
The young man obeyed, while the man in the crimson mask walked slowly back and forth across the room.
When the task was completed, the Red Envoy stopped beside the table.
“Now address three envelopes,” he said. “One to Harry Vincent exactly like the envelope I opened. Address the others to any two persons whom you know. One of them — both if you wish — should be connected with Jonathan Graham’s office.”
Stanley Berger addressed the envelopes. The Red Envoy applied the stamps carefully; then folded the letters and put them in the envelopes. He pocketed the three messages.
“Stanley Berger,” said the Red Envoy, in a quiet, solemn voice, “I have offered you help. You may leave to-morrow for South America.
“Instructions will be given you by telephone at exactly seven to-morrow morning. But remember” — the lips moved slowly beneath the crimson mask — “you would have betrayed our cause. You cannot control your future.
“While you live, you may again fail to preserve silence. Death is the punishment for those who betray. We do not accept excuses.”
The Red Envoy thrust out an arm. In his gloved hand he held a small box. He opened it, and revealed three pills within. He laid the box upon the table and stepped away.
Stanley Berger’s eyes grew large with horror. He stared at the box and its contents, and through his tortured brain flashed thoughts of doom.
Close by, a living menace, stood the Red Envoy, coldly watching the effect of his action. Then, satisfied that Berger understood, the masked man silently left the room.
Stanley Berger did not hear him go. Realization had dulled his senses.
His mind reverted to the letters that he had written.
“When you receive this letter, I shall be gone — “
Gone! He had not stated his destination. The words that the Red Envoy had dictated had held more than one meaning.
Gone! Berger knew that he must go — somewhere where he could never tell his true story. He thought of the confession that he had written; the letter which the Red Envoy had intercepted.
Berger’s hand trembled as he reached for the little box.
The young man mumbled incoherent words; then suddenly his hand became steady as he lifted the box and poured the pills into his other hand.
When the distant clock struck twelve, all was silent in the apartment. The lamp still shone upon the table, and its rays, gleaming to the floor, revealed the dead body of Stanley Berger.
CHAPTER IX
HOW VINCENT ESCAPED
HARRY VINCENT waited in darkness after the girl had gone. A multitude of thoughts overwhelmed his throbbing brain.
Who was the girl? Why had she saved him?
The first question was unanswerable. Harry felt that he could explain the second. He was sure that the girl had reciprocated the interest which he had felt for her. She had left him, alone, in a place that was virtually a prison; but he was positive that she had some plan for his escape.
A speck of light suddenly showed through the panel in front of him. Harry placed his eye to the spot.
Through a tiny hole in the revolving wall, he could see the large room of the Pink Rat, yet he was quite invisible in his compartment.
The lights had been turned on in the den, and the whole scene lay before him. The sudden attack had caused chaos.
The patrons of the Pink Rat were desperate crooks. The brief battle in the darkness had caused some to look for safety, while others had sought to participate in the fracas.
One man was sitting on a bench, rubbing the side of his face. He was the one whom Harry had punched in the dark.
Volovick was standing in the center of the room, uninjured. Evidently he had managed to ward off the bench which Harry had hurled upon him.
Broken bottles, and fragments of shattered glasses strewed the place. Two policemen were there. They had been attracted by the shots. But they seemed to be making a very halfhearted investigation.
A ruddy-faced, shrewd-nosed man was explaining matters to them. Harry decided that the fellow must be the proprietor of the Pink Rat. If so, the place was well-named. The man looked something like a pink rat himself.
Harry could not hear the discussion, but evidently the officers were satisfied that no one had been injured.
This upstairs den was protected through political influence. Nothing short of actual open murder could have brought on a raid.
Murder had been attempted, it was true. Harry shuddered as he realized that he had been the intended victim. But it had been planned as a quick, quiet murder, with no noise.
Thanks to the unknown girl, the scheme had been frustrated.
For a moment, Harry was tempted to beat against the revolving wall, to attract the attention of the policemen. But on second thought he decided to wait.
There were a dozen persons in that room who would testify that he was the cause of the trouble. He could be framed with ease.
After all, he was safe here for the time being. Why should he invite more trouble?
The girl had promised to return, Harry had confidence in that promise.
He scanned the lighted room. There was not a woman in the place, let alone the one he sought. The feminine patrons had evidently been escorted out; the girl had probably slipped away in the darkness.
Two rough-looking waiters began to clear up the debris, and the policemen left. Quiet was restored. The few patrons who remained took their places at the tables, and the waiters brought them drinks.
Volovick remained. So did the man who had drawn the knife. The others — Harry could see nearly a dozen of them — were fit companions for those men.
It would be suicide to attempt an escape now. There was only one thing to do — wait until the gang had gone. Then, Harry hoped, the girl would return to release him.