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  THE BLUE LIGHTS


  Illustration: A hasty examination of the sailing list showed her the
  astonishing truth. Richard was not on board.




  THE

  BLUE LIGHTS

  BY

  ARNOLD FREDERICKS

  AUTHOR OF

  THE IVORY SNUFF BOX, ETC.

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY

  WILL GREFE

  NEW YORK

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  PUBLISHERS

  COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY

  W. J. WATT & COMPANY




THE BLUE LIGHTS




CHAPTER I


The big, mud-spattered touring car, which for the past hour had been
plowing its way steadily northward from the city of Washington,
hesitated for a moment before the gateway which marked the end of the
well kept drive, then swept on to the house.

A man, stoutly built, keen of eye, showing haste in his every movement,
sprang from the machine and ascended the veranda steps.

"Does Richard Duvall live here?" he inquired, curtly, of the smiling old
<DW52> woman who came to the door.

"'Deed he do, suh. Does you want to see him?"

"Yes. At once, please. Tell him it is most important. My name is
Hodgman."

The servant eyed him with cool disfavor. "Set down, suh," she remarked
stiffly. "I'll tell him you is here."

The caller watched her, as she disappeared into the house, then cast
himself impatiently into a chair and lit a cigar.

He paid no attention to the attempts of two clumsy collie puppies to
attract his favorable notice, but contented himself with making a quick
survey of the wide comfortable veranda, with its big roomy chairs, the
wicker table, bearing a great jar of red peonies, the smooth green
lawns, swept by the late afternoon sun.

"Fine old place," he muttered to himself. "Wonder if I can persuade him
to go?"

As the car which had brought Mr. Hodgman on his hasty trip from
Washington dashed up to the front of the house, Grace Duvall, looking
very charming in a blue linen dress, was just approaching it from the
rear.

She held a pair of shears in her hand, and her apron was filled to
overflowing with hundred-leaf roses. "Dick--oh, Dick!" she called, as
she came down the long avenue of syringas and lilacs which led to the
house. "The sweet peas are nearly ready to bloom."

Richard Duvall, looking as simply pastoral as though he had never
tracked an international crook to cover, raised his head from the
flower bed, in which he had been carefully setting out circle after
circle of geranium plants.

"Are they?" he laughed. "That's good. Now all we need is a few good hot
days." He gathered up his trowel and rake, and started toward the barn.

Grace put her arm through her husband's and together they strolled
across the springy green turf, their faces smiling and happy. The
honeymoon showed no signs of waning.

This lovely old country place, in southern Maryland, had been one of
Richard Duvall's dreams for many years, and after his marriage to Grace
Ellicott, in Paris, it had become hers, as well. It was but a short time
after their return to America that they decided to make it a reality.

Grace had encouraged her husband in the plan of giving up, for a time at
least, his warfare against crime, his pursuit of criminals of the higher
and more dangerous type, and had persuaded him to buy the farm which had
once belonged to his mother's people, and settle down to the life of a
country gentleman.

His office was still maintained, under the able direction of one of his
assistants, but Duvall gave little or no attention to its affairs. He
was glad to withdraw, for the first time in over nine years, from
active work, and devote his energies to early potatoes, prize dogs,
hunters, and geranium plants--and, above all, to the peaceful enjoyment
of his honeymoon, and the making of Grace the happiest woman in the
world.

She, on her part, found in their present situation all the joys of
existence for which she had longed. With little or no liking for the
monotonous round of society and its duties, and a passionate love of
nature, she found in the many and complex duties of managing her part of
their extensive estate a far greater happiness than any which city life
could have offered her.

The considerable fortune which her husband's clever work while in Paris
had restored to her, had been safely invested in well paying securities,
and she found her greatest joy in utilizing at least a part of her
income in beautifying their new home.

Richard had steadily refused to make any use of the money. It was a
matter of pride with him, that his own savings had enabled him to
purchase the property; but when Grace proposed to build an addition to
the house, to provide him with a more comfortable library and work room,
or insisted upon having the roads throughout the place elaborately
macadamized, he was obliged to submit to her wishes. In this way, they
planned and built for the future, together.

The farm was a large one, comprising some two hundred acres, and the old
stone house surrounded by white oaks and tulip poplars had once been a
show place, before the declining fortunes of its former owners had
caused it to fall into a state of mellow and time-honored decay. Now all
was changed. Grace, with the able assistance of old Uncle Abe Turner, a
relic of ante bellum times, spent hours daily in bringing order out of
the chaos of tangled myrtle and ivy, overgrown box and hedge, thickets
of syringa and lilac bushes and weed-grown lawns.

It was a gigantic task, yet a joyous one--as it ever is, to those who
came to it with the love of nature in their hearts. To Grace, the plants
and shrubs, the great strong oaks, the towering poplars, each seemed to
have a distinct personality. Under her energetic hand, the place once
more took on the aspect of well kept and orderly beauty which was such a
contrast to its former down-at-the-heels appearance. It seemed as though
the growing things realized the personal interest she took in them, and
responded as they never respond to the ignorant or unsympathetic.

Richard was concerned with his fields of timothy and clover, his early
corn, his berries and fruit trees, to say nothing of his collies, his
prize cows and Kentucky horses. In such a life, time never hangs
heavy--he was busy studying, planning, working, from morning to night,
and his active mind soon convinced his capable overseer and the farm
hands as well that, although Richard Duvall was by no means a
professional farmer, he could still show them a thing or two when it
came to the rotation of crops, the spraying of fruit trees, or the
proper treatment of worn out soils. These were aspects of farming life
which the hide-bound conservatism of the local farmers caused them to
jeer at, as newfangled notions gotten from books. Later when they saw
the man who farmed with his head as well as his hands gather in two
bushels where they had barely been able to secure one, they began to sit
up and take notice.

"I got the new hedges all set out today," Grace went on, as she patted
her husband's rather grimy hand. "They will be charming, against the
gray stone of the wall. But we must have new gate posts. The old ones
are likely to tumble into the road at any moment."

"I'll have Martin come out tomorrow and look them over. There's plenty
of stone--down in the lower pasture. Why not carry the wall right along
the whole front of the property? It ought not to cost a great deal."

"We will. And I'm going to have a new spring house built, too. The old
one is falling to pieces." She looked up at her husband as he deposited
the rake in the tool room and they started up the shaded walk toward the
house. "Aren't you glad, Dick, that we're _alive_?"

He pressed her arm. "Well--I should say so, little girl! Why do you ask
me that?"

"Oh--you know what your friends all said--that a man might as well be
dead, as buried out here in the country. I think they are the ones who
are not alive--cooped up in the city. Don't you?"

Richard nodded. He was thinking for the moment of his former active
life--when some battle of wits with a noted crook had kept him sleepless
for nights. "It's--rather different," he laughed. "Isn't it?"

"Yes--and much better. Don't you think so, dear? You wouldn't want to go
back to it--would you?"

"Not for anything in the world," he assured her, as he swept the newly
seeded lawns with a contented glance. "I liked the other life, of
course--the excitement, the danger of it; but this is better--much
better. Here, Don!" he called to a graceful collie which was barking
vociferously at some distant vehicle in the road. "Come here and be
quiet." He turned with Grace to the great vine-covered side porch and
sank contentedly into a rocking chair. "Well, little girl--it's been a
busy day, and I'm tired. We got the early rye all cut on the lower field
today. Guess we'll put in late potatoes, after it's plowed. Here,
Don--come back here! What's the matter with you?" He rose and whistled
to the dog, which was bounding across the lawn in the direction of the
road. "Come back, I say!"

"It's someone coming in," said Grace, uneasily. "In a machine. I wonder
who it can be?"

"Possibly Hudson, the veterinary. He was coming today, to look at that
heifer."

"He hasn't a machine like that. This is a big touring car." She turned
to her husband. "Hadn't you better go in and fix up a bit, Dick? It may
be company."

Duvall laughed. "If it is, they'll have to take me as I am," he said;
then again called to the dog.

A moment later the servant, who had interviewed the caller at the front
door, came out to the side porch. "Gentleman to see you, Mr. Duvall,"
she said. "Seems to be in a powerful hurry, too."

"All right, Aunt Lucy," said Duvall as he made his way to the front of
the house.

"Is this Richard Duvall?" the visitor asked, in a quick, almost
peremptory tone, as the detective joined him.

"Yes. That is my name. What can I do for you?"

The newcomer rose nervously from his chair and began chewing upon his
half-smoked cigar. "Had the devil of a time to find you, Mr. Duvall."

"You came out from Washington, I suppose," remarked the detective,
wondering what his visitor could want with him.

"Yes. Got your address from Hicks, of the Treasury Department. He said
you were about twelve miles out. I seem to have come about twenty."

"Perhaps you went around by way of Laurel. It's much further, that way.
What can I do for you, Mr.----" He paused interrogatively.

The man looked up at him quickly. "My name's Hodgman--Thomas Hodgman--of
New York. I represent John Stapleton."

"John Stapleton, the banker?" asked Duvall, surprised.

"Yes. You know him, don't you?"

"Yes. Quite well. I handled a case for him once--some years ago. Why?"
Duvall's face became grave. He began to realize that the interview was
likely to become suddenly important. John Stapleton, the
multi-millionaire banker, was not in the habit of sending messengers to
anyone, without good reason.

"So he said," went on Mr. Hodgman, resuming his chair. "That's why I'm
here. He wants you to take another--"

"Another?"

"Yes. Another case. Quick."

"It's quite out of the question."

"Nonsense! This is important. Money's no object; name your own terms."

"It isn't a question of terms, Mr. Hodgman. I have withdrawn, for the
time being at least, from active professional work."

"I know." The visitor flicked the ashes impatiently from his cigar and
sought nervously in his pockets for a match. "That's what they told me
at your office, in New York. Said you were on your honeymoon, and didn't
want to be bothered."

"That's true. I don't."

"I told Mr. Stapleton that. He sent me to see you; said you might change
your mind, when you heard about the case."

"It is quite impossible. I do not care to take up any detective work at
present."

Mr. Hodgman fidgeted nervously in his chair. "You must listen to what I
have to say, Mr. Duvall, at any rate. Mr. Stapleton would not hear to my
returning, after seeing you, without having explained to you the nature
of the case."

Duvall leaned back, and began to fondle the long moist nose of the
collie which sat beside his chair. "If you insist, Mr. Hodgman, I will
listen, of course; but I assure you it will be quite useless."

"I hope not. The case is most distressing. Mr. Stapleton's only child
has been kidnapped!"

"Kidnapped!" Duvall sat up with a start, every line of his face tense
with professional interest. "When? Where?"

"In Paris. The cablegram arrived this morning. I don't know the details.
Mrs. Stapleton has been spending the winter abroad. Mr. Stapleton was to
join her this month. She is living at their house in the Avenue Kleber,
Paris. The child was out walking with a nurse. It has been stolen.
That's all I know."

"When did it happen?"

"Yesterday morning. Mrs. Stapleton did not cable at first, believing
that the boy would be found during the course of the day. Naturally she
did not wish to alarm her husband needlessly, and the Prefect of Police,
it seems, had assured her that the child would undoubtedly be recovered
before night. It wasn't. This morning Mr. Stapleton got a long cablegram
from his wife, telling him of the boy's disappearance. He's half crazy
over the thing."

"What is he going to do?"

"I don't know. He sent me to see you at once. I'm his secretary, you
know. When I couldn't find you in New York, he told me to come here. I
arrived in Washington an hour ago, and came right out. Mr. Stapleton
said if any man on earth could find his boy for him, you could."

"I suppose the thing is a matter of blackmail--ransom--"

"Very likely. They will probably demand a huge sum. No requests have
been made, as yet, so far as I know. These fellows usually wait a week
or two, before showing their hand, to give the unfortunate parents a
chance to worry themselves half to death. I suppose they figure that
then they'll be more likely to come across with the money."

"Yes. That's the scheme. A rotten business, too. Hanging is too good for
such wretches!"

"That's what I say. Of course you can understand how Mr. Stapleton
feels."

"Of course. He will sail at once, I suppose."

"That's the worst of it. He can't go till Saturday. Tomorrow's
Thursday--that's three days off. There's a deal on here involving
millions--something he's been working to put through for months. Of
course he doesn't consider anything like that, when it comes to his
child; but he's got to think of his associates--men who have intrusted
their money to him. He can't possibly sail before Saturday. He wants you
to go ahead of him. There's a fast boat leaving in the morning. You
could take that. We can have a conference tonight. It will mean mighty
quick work, though." He glanced at his watch. "After six now. There's no
train till midnight--the sleeper. But Mr. Stapleton told me to charter a
special. We can be in New York by one o'clock in the morning, if we
start right now." He looked at Duvall in eager expectancy.

The latter frowned, his gaze wandering off to the distant fields, where
the newly plowed earth reminded him of his plans for the morrow. Yet
here was a man, a friend, who had helped him much, in the earlier days
of his career, begging him to come to his assistance in a matter almost
of life or death. It was a difficult decision that he was called upon to
make. The thought of leaving Grace hurt him deeply; yet she would prefer
to stay behind, in case he should go, to look after the affairs of the
place. With the assistance of the overseer and the hands, he knew that
she could manage everything during a brief absence on his part--it
seemed unlikely that the matter would require more than three or four
weeks, at the outside.

Mr. Hodgman broke in upon his thoughts. "You'll go, Mr. Duvall? Mr.
Stapleton is depending on you. He has the utmost faith in your
abilities. He knows your familiarity with Paris--the work you have done
there, in the past. He believes that, by intrusting the matter to a
fellow countryman, he will get his boy back again. He hasn't much faith
in foreign detectives. He's set his heart on having you start for Paris
at once. I can't go back and tell him that you have refused." Mr.
Hodgman spoke in a loud and earnest voice, due to his very evident
excitement. Neither he nor Duvall noticed that Grace had approached
them, and was standing in the open doorway of the house.

Before the detective had an opportunity to reply, Grace spoke. "What is
it, Richard?" she inquired, quietly.

Duvall rose, presented