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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
