LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter VII.

       The "Hour"

       Table of Contents

      As the minutes passed, many of them, Jimmie Dale sat there motionless, staring before him at the desk that was faintly outlined in the unlighted room. Then somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour. Five o'clock! He raised his head. YES! It could be done! There was a way! He had the germ of it now. And now the plan began to grow, to take form and shape in his mind, to dovetail, to knit the integral parts into a comprehensive whole. There was a way—but he must have assistance. Jason—yes, assuredly. Benson, his chauffeur—yes, equally as trustworthy as Jason. Benson was devoted to him; and moreover Benson was young, alert, daring, cool. He had had more than one occasion to test Benson's resourcefulness and nerve!

      Jimmie Dale rose abruptly, went to the rear window, and, parting the curtains cautiously, stood peering down into the courtyard. Yes, it was feasible; even a little more than feasible. The garage fronted the driveway, of course, to give free entrance and egress to the cars, but where the wall of the garage and the rear wall of the house overlapped, as it were, the space between them was not much more than ten yards; and here the shadows of the two walls, mingling, lay like a black, impenetrable pathway—not like that other shadow he had seen moving at the side of the garage, and that, if not for the moment discernible, was none the less surely still lurking there!

      Satisfied, Jimmie Dale swung briskly from the window, and, going now to his bedroom across the hall, undressed and went to bed—but not to sleep. There would be time enough to sleep, all day, if he wished; now, there were still the little details to be thought out that, more than anything else, could make or wreck his plans. A point overdone, the faintest suggestion of a false note where men of the calibre of those against whom he was now fighting for his life were concerned, would not only make his scheme abortive, but would place him utterly at their mercy.

      It was nine o'clock when he rang for Jason.

      "Jason," he said abruptly, as the other entered, "I want you to telephone for Doctor Merlin."

      "The doctor, sir!" exclaimed the old man anxiously. "You're—you're not ill, Master Jim, sir?"

      "Do I look ill, Jason?" inquired Jimmie Dale gravely.

      "Well, sir," admitted Jason, in concern; "a bit done up, sir, perhaps. A little pale, sir; though I'm sure—"

      "I'm glad to hear it," said Jimmie Dale, sitting up in bed. "The worse I look, the better!"

      "I—I beg pardon, sir?" stammered Jason.

      "Jason," said Jimmie Dale, gravely again, "you have had reason to know that on several occasions my life has been threatened. It is threatened now. You know from last night that this house is now watched. You may, or you may not have surmised—that our telephone wires have been tapped."

      "Tapped, sir!"—Jason's face had gone a little gray.

      "Yes; a party line, so to speak," said Jimmie Dale grimly. "Do you understand? You must be careful to say no more, no less than exactly what I tell you to say. Now go and telephone! Ask the doctor to come over and see me this morning. Simply say that I am not feeling well; but that, apart from being apparently in a very nervous condition, you do not know what is the matter."

      "Yes, sir—good Lord, sir!" gasped Jason—and left the room to carry out his orders.

      An hour later, Doctor Merlin had been and gone—and had left two prescriptions; one written, the other verbal. With the written one, Benson, in his chauffeur's livery, was dispatched to the drug store; the verbal one was precisely what Jimmie Dale had expected from the fussy old family physician: "Two or three days of quiet in the house James; and if you need me again, let me know."

      "Now, Jason," said Jimmie Dale, when the old man had returned from ushering Doctor Merlin from the house, "our friends out there will be anxious to learn the verdict. I was to dine with the Ross-Hendersons to-morrow night, was I not?"

      "Yes, sir; I think so, sir."

      "Make sure!" said Jimmie Dale. "Look in my engagement book there on the table."

      Jason looked.

      "Yes, sir, that's right," he announced.

      "Very good," said Jimmie Dale softly. "Now go and telephone again, Jason. Present my regrets and excuses to the Ross-Hendersons, and say that under the doctor's orders I am confined to the house for the next few days—and, Jason!"

      "Yes, sir?"

      "When Benson returns with the medicine let him bring it here himself—and I shall want you as well."

      Jimmie Dale propped himself up a little wearily on the pillows, as Jason went out of the room. After all, his condition was not entirely feigned. He was, as a matter of fact, pretty well played out, both mentally and physically. Certainly, that he should require a doctor and be confined to the house could not arouse suspicion even in the minds of those alert, aristocratic thugs of the Crime Club, prone as they would be to suspect anything—a man who had been knocked unconscious in an automobile smash the night before, had been in a fight, had been subjected to a terrific mental shock, to say nothing of the infernal drug that had been administered to him, might well be expected to be indisposed the next morning, and for several mornings following that! It might, indeed, even cause them to relax their vigilance for the time being—though he dared build nothing on that. Well, he had only to coach Benson and Jason in the parts they were to play, and the balance of the morning and all the afternoon was his in which to rest.

      He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to jot down memoranda. He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as the two men entered.

      Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly.

      Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a moment before he spoke.

      "Benson," he said, "the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn't it?"

      "Yes, sir," Benson answered promptly.

      "And there's space enough for, say, a man inside, isn't there?"

      "Why, yes, sir; I suppose so—at a squeeze"—Benson stared blankly.

      "Quite so!" said Jimmie Dale calmly. "Now, another matter, Benson: I believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of taking, shall we say, their 'best girl' out riding in their masters' machines?"

      "SOME might," Benson replied, a little stiffly. "I hope you don't think, sir, that—"

      "One moment, Benson. The point is, it's done—quite generally?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "And you have a 'best girl,' or at least could find one for such a purpose, if you were so inclined?"

      "Yes, sir," said Benson; "but—"

      "Very good!" Jimmie Dale interrupted. "Then to-night, Benson, taking advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after that until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that reprehensible habit."

      "I—I don't understand, Mr. Dale."

      "No; I dare say not," said Jimmie Dale—and then the whimsicality dropped from him. "Benson," he said slowly, "do you remember a night, nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me? You had, indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in that East Side neighbourhood."

      "I remember," said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply: "I wouldn't be here now, sir, if it hadn't been for you."

      "Well," said Jimmie Dale quietly, "the tables are turned to-day,

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