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Under the Tiger's Claws; or, A Struggle for the Right (Version 2)

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<h2>CHAPTER II. WHERE TIDES MEET.</h2> Before making his departure, Nick again turned to the banker and said: “One more question occurs to me, Gilsey. How did you happen to discover that a deficit possibly exists in your cash, and under the circumstances stated?” “Well, it—it was a perfectly natural discovery in the course of to-day’s business,” Mr. Gilsey faltered. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</div> A subtle gleam showed for a moment in Nick’s keen eyes. “Do you know of anything, or have you ever heard anything, which at once led you to examine Kendall’s accounts when he failed to appear at his desk this morning?” he demanded. The banker hesitated for barely a second, and Nick cried curtly: “Come, come, Gilsey, there is something more. Let me have the whole business, all you know, or up go my hands and I drop the case. I thought you knew I was a man to be safely trusted, dear fellow. Come, come, what sent you to Kendall’s books so hurriedly?” The banker colored slightly, and now hastened to reply. “Well, Nick, to be perfectly frank with you, despite that I give no credit to the statement, it was said to me about two weeks ago that Kendall was given to gambling.” “Oh, ho! Gambling, eh? Who said so?” “A brother banker, Nick, whose name certainly is not material at this time.” “Well? Anything more?” “I asked Kendall about it that very day, and he denied the report and laughed it to scorn. I could not believe it of him, Nick, and did not.” <div class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</div> “What did your brother banker say, Mr. Gilsey?” “Merely that he had seen both Kendall and young Harry Royal one evening coming out of a gambling-house said to be owned and run by one Moses Flood.” “Ha! Moses Flood, eh?” muttered Nick, with a curious smile. “It must have been a mistake,” continued Gilsey, with augmented feeling. “Kendall is not a man of evil inclinations. It is not in his nature to have formed any relations whatever with a scoundrel who gambles for a living, and who runs a resort where——” “Stop just a moment, Gilsey,” interrupted Nick, with an odd little laugh. “A man of your limited experience is very prone to misjudge men out of his own circle in life.” “What do you mean, Nick?” “Just this, my dear Gilsey,” said Nick, more seriously. “I know Moses Flood even better than I know you. Understand me, now, I do not advocate gambling, nor do I defend him as a gambler, for such he certainly is, and in that respect he is an outlaw and a man to be shunned. I am opposed to gambling of all kinds, whether done with cards, or in a pool-room, or on a race-track, or in the stock exchange.” “Why, certainly, Nick, I already know that,” exclaimed 18 Gilsey, with a surprised expression in his gentle, blue eyes. “But what do you imply of this rascal?” “Merely this,” smiled Nick. “Aside from his vocation, which in every way I despise, Moses Flood is not a rascal. I know what I am talking about, Gilsey. Flood is a man whose word is as good as any man’s bond. He is as square a man as ever stood in leather. If he wanted to borrow half my fortune till to-morrow, with no better security than his word alone, he could have it, and I should sleep soundly to-night, knowing that he had it.” “You surprise me, Nick. I should not have formed that opinion of him.” “Oh, I am but incidentally setting you right as to the man,” added Nick. “He is not a ruffian, nor is he a rascal, save in one way. He is well educated, a student of the sciences, and an admirer of the fine arts. His bachelor quarters are filled with superb treasures and paintings well worth seeing, a veritable art gallery in fact. I know that he gives most liberally to charity, moreover, and I am informed that no man was ever enticed into or intentionally cheated in his gaming-place, which is open only to the very wealthy and most exclusive of our men about town.” “Still, if he——” “But that’s enough for Flood, my dear Gilsey. If your 19 man Kendall has been one of his patrons, I shall know it before midnight. At nine o’clock to-morrow morning I will meet you here, or communicate with you by telephone.” “And you expect——” “That I shall then have located Kendall? Most decidedly I do, Gilsey. Trust me to be discreet, however, and to have your wishes well in mind.” “A thousand thanks, Nick. I knew you would help me out.” “Surely, old friend,” said Nick, as they shook hands. “Let the case rest until morning. The few hours will make no great difference one way or the other. Be here at nine to-morrow morning, and you shall know the—well, let’s hope it will be, not the worst, but the best.” “Amen to that!” said Gilsey fervently. It was three o’clock when Nick Carter left the Trust Company building and emerged into Forty-second Street. As a matter of fact, the case did not appeal very strongly to the famous detective. His regard for Gilsey, much more than any feeling of interest in the affair, had led Nick to undertake the task imposed. As to the case itself, it then presented no unusual nor especially interesting features. If Kendall had been gambling, as Nick was then inclined to suspect, it was 20 very possible that he was an embezzler, and had already fled from the country. Yet Nick decided that he would be governed by Gilsey’s wishes until the following morning. Contrary to his anticipations, however, despite that Nick Carter was quick to see all the possibilities of a case, that into which he had now entered was destined to prove one of the most curious and absorbing, as well as most intensely exciting, that he had ever known. Nick’s first move for locating Kendall that afternoon was characteristic of him. He turned to none of the avenues of information to which the ordinary detective usually turns. Instead, he hastened to the Grand Central Station and boarded the first train for Fordham, his destination being the rectory occupied by the learned divine, Doctor Leonard Royal. Nick reasoned that if Harry Royal had visited Boston with Kendall, and Dora Royal was in love with him, either the clergyman or his daughter could give him the information he desired. As he approached the rectory, however, Nick met with a startling surprise. It was a fine old place, somewhat isolated, and was surrounded with no end of great shade trees, clusters of shrubbery, and high hedges. The dwelling itself, occupying the middle of the large estate, was a commodious wooden house, with deep verandas and 21 innumerable gables, and with a huge glass conservatory on the south side. Peering through the high hedge adjoining the side street as he approached, Nick halted, with a muttered exclamation of surprise. Two men, one of them the elderly rector, were just entering the outer door of the conservatory. The rector’s companion was none other than—Moses Flood, the gamester! “He here!” murmured Nick. “What the dickens does this signify? He is the last man I would expect to see visiting this clergyman. If Gilsey’s brother banker was right, there may be much more in this case than I anticipated. The way looks easy, and I guess I’d better learn what brings Moses Flood out here.” Having worked his way through the hedge, Nick crossed the grounds, carefully avoiding observation from the house, and presently darted under a cluster of lilacs close to the side wall of the great glass conservatory. There he could plainly view the scene within, and he presently found a break in one of the glass panes which enabled him to overhear all that was said—an interview that caused him to open his eyes still a little wider. The elderly rector was seated in a rustic chair, and his 22 benignant countenance evinced considerable perturbation and distress. Moses Flood, however, was standing beside a small wooden table near-by, and as the story progresses he is to figure so strongly and strangely that he deserves a careful description. He was about forty-five, tall and well built, inclining somewhat to stoutness. His wavy hair was tinged with gray, his head finely poised, and his smoothly shaven face strikingly strong and attractive. His features were clean cut and pale, his brow broad, his nose straight, and his lips noticeably thin and firm. His eyes were gray, as sharp and cold as steel, yet capable of remarkable expression. Obviously, it was the face of a man of superhuman will, and one rather inclined to quiet reserve and studious habits. He was scrupulously dressed. His black Prince Albert fitted like a glove and came nearly to the knees of his pearl-gray trousers. His shoes were small and carefully polished, and his silk hat, on the table beside him, was of the latest style. His only jewelry was a small, piercingly brilliant solitaire in his black satin tie. From head to foot he was without a sign of dust or blemish. This was the man whom Nick Carter had declared to be a rascal in only one way, and Nick fully appreciated 23 that gaming was not confined to cards alone, and for many of his estimable qualities Nick rather admired Moses Flood. The drift of the interview between the two men almost immediately gave Nick Carter his cue. “You must hear me patiently,” Doctor Royal was tremulously saying. “I do not forget the past few months, Mr. Flood. I recall with profound feeling your many personal attentions to me, your liberality for charity, your almost princely generosity for the poor of my parish, and it is painful to me beyond expression when I realize how terribly I have been deceived.” Flood stood as motionless as a man of marble, and nearly as pale; yet his grave, strong face never once changed in a way to betray his secret feelings. “You feel, then, that you have been deceived?” said he inquiringly, with a peculiarly deep yet penetrating voice, then imbued with kindliness. “Dreadfully deceived,” replied the rector sadly. “Of my daughter, and the love for her you have just expressed, I cannot now speak.” “Good God!” muttered Nick, under his breath. “Flood is in love with the girl here.” “Of my son Harry,” continued the rector, “who of late 24 has been much absent from me while in college—ah, it breaks my heart, as it would that of his loving sister, to know that he places among his friends a man of your calling.” “This is the deception to which you refer, Doctor Royal?” “To what else, sir? I cannot forget that it was my dear boy who brought you here, and only to-day, when I had begun to regard you with almost brotherly affection, have you voluntarily told me the truth. You were represented to me to be in the ivory business. Alas! I now can see the significance of that. But I had all faith in my son, and looked for no such duplicity.” “Naturally not,” said Flood simply. “You have been a frequent visitor here, and have won the esteem of all my house, and God only knows how pained I am to learn the truth that must forever sever our friendship.” There were tears in the rector’s aged eyes, but Flood never moved nor changed. “May not a gamester be a true friend?” he asked gravely. “Not a worthy one—never!” “You feel sure of that?” “Absolutely.” <div class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</div> “Then you consider me a knave?” “Your vocation brands you as one.” “I will not undertake, Doctor Royal, to defend my vocation,” said Flood, with indescribable gentleness. “It would be vain for me to try to show one of your cloth that but very little moral difference exists between my methods and those of numberless institutions countenanced complacently both by law and society——” “There can be no extenuation——” “Hear me, please! I came here at your son’s solicitation, rather against my own will, and I believed my first visit would be my last. Fate decided otherwise. I met your only daughter—— Nay, sir, do not shudder! I have never yet spoken to her one word of love.” “God forbid!” “If her love were to have been given to me, it was my plan to relinquish my present business and turn to one honorable in the eyes of all. I first came to you, Doctor Royal, and told the whole truth. Believe me, despite your censure, even a gamester may love nobly. But no more need be said. I shall respect and be governed by a father’s will and wishes. Your manner and words show me that under no consideration can you deem me worthy.” <div class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</div> “No longer worthy of my roof—much less my daughter!” answered the rector, trembling, and in tears. Despite that Flood’s pale face remained as calm as stone, Nick, with his keen discernment, saw that the man was suffering beyond description, and, in a way, the kind-hearted detective pitied him. “Not of your roof? Ah, well, let it be so,” replied Flood, taking his hat from the table. Doctor Royal rose, trembling, to his feet. “Under the circumstances I cannot permit you to come here again,” said he brokenly. “I shall send for my son, and I hope soon to know the whole truth. God help me, sir, my two children are all I have in this life; and my daughter—I do not speak in judgment—a man like you can have no place in her pure, young heart.” Flood bowed with indescribable composure. “Yet a man like me, Doctor Royal, may be capable of a great love, and possibly capable of great self-sacrifice. No more, sir. I bid you good day.” “Stay!” pleaded the rector, deeply agitated. “There is still another reason why my daughter could not consider any proposal from you.” “Another reason?” “She is already engaged.” “Engaged!” Flood echoed, starting slightly. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</div> “It is not yet announced,” faltered the clergyman. “Had I known the nature and depth of your feelings, however, I would have told you earlier. But Mr. Kendall desired it kept quiet for a time, and——” “Kendall?” “Cecil Kendall—you have met him here once, I believe. He is an exemplary young man. In all ways worthy of my Dora.” For the first time the features of Moses Flood appeared to get the better of his iron will. His hand stole over his heart, his lips contracted and twitched convulsively for a moment, and his voice choked in his throat. “Does she, your daughter, love Cecil Kendall?” he asked. “Devotedly.” “Are you—are you—sure of that?” “Positively, sir. It would break Medora’s heart if any ill befell Mr. Kendall, or if——” “Please, sir,” interposed Flood, with cheeks utterly void of color. “You mean well, sir, and have not spoken unkindly. I shall not forget it, nor that you are the father of one more dear to me than life. I bid you adieu.” He bowed, put on his hat, then passed out of the conservatory 28 by the door they had entered, and strode across the broad grounds and into the quiet and secluded street. The rector tottered toward a door leading into the side of the house. He had barely reached it when, from behind a mass of shrubbery near-by, Nick Carter heard a mingled moan and sob that caused his heart to swell with sudden apprehension. He darted to the spot, and beheld a girl reeling, half fainting, with her face buried in her hands, and her pretty figure shaken through and through with welling sobs. One glance told Nick it was the rector’s daughter. With a bound he reached her side, taking her by the arm, while his own kindly face revealed a mingled solicitude and apprehension. “Hush, hush, my dear girl!” he cried softly. “You, too, have overheard, and you have met with a grievous trouble. Turn to me in this hour, and—hush! don’t let your father hear you. There may be a silver lining to the blackest cloud, my child. Let me be your friend in this hour of your grief.” The startled girl stared at him through her flooded eyes, and by the dropping of her hands revealed a face as sweet and innocent as that of an angel. Meantime, Moses Flood was hastening to the city, 29 where, later in the day, as he was approaching his famous gambling resort, he encountered on the street a woman who unceremoniously accosted him. The woman was Belle Braddon, arrayed in elaborate street attire. “Hello, Mose!” she exclaimed familiarly, with an arch glance and smile. Flood was not in a mood to be pleased with her familiarity, nor even to resent it. “Hello, Belle,” he replied, bowing gravely. “Oh, I say!” she quickly added, drawing nearer, with voice lowered. “You’d best look out for a bolt from the blue. One of your players is in hot water.” Flood’s cold, steel-gray eyes took on a look of interest. “What player, Belle?” he slowly demanded. “Confidentially, mind you, dear fellow!” “Surely.” “I refer to Cecil Kendall,” whispered the girl. “What of him?” “Gone lame. Short in his accounts.” “What?” Flood’s teeth had met with a snap, and his eyes were beginning to blaze. “Oh, I know what I’m saying,” Belle Braddon pointedly continued. “I’m in the same office with him, you 30 know. When it’s up to me to get wise to all that’s going on, I come mighty near doing it.” Moses Flood was calm again—strangely, preternaturally calm. “Do you know how much he is short?” “Only ninety thousand dollars!” exclaimed the girl, with a leer. “What is being done about it?” “Not much as yet, Mose.” “Tell me what.” “Oh, Gilsey wants to locate Kendall as quickly as possible, and has called in Nick Carter to do it for him.” “The dickens! Nick Carter, eh?” “Gilsey evidently thinks that Kendall believes he has left his tracks covered during his absence, and means to try to carry the deficit a while longer undetected. Gilsey is wise to it, though, but I reckon nothing will be done for a day or so.” “Is that all you know about it?” “That’s all now, Mose,” laughed the girl, with a wink. “Isn’t that enough?” Flood nodded. “Quite enough,” said he oddly. “Belle, dear, keep this to yourself till I give you permission to open your lips about it, will you?” <div class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</div> The girl colored deeply when thus addressed, and slipped her hand into his. “Sure thing,” she answered fondly. “You know I’d do anything for you, Mose.” “Do this, then, will you?” “Trust me.” “Not one word about it.” “I’m as dumb as an oyster—for your sake, mind you!” “I’ll not forget that part of it, Belle,” said Flood pointedly. Then he turned and moved on—and his face was a study for an artist. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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