                          The Brand of Silence A DETECTIVE STORY

                          By HARRINGTON STRONG




CHELSEA HOUSE 79 SEVENTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY

Copyright, 1919 by STREET & SMITH

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.




CONTENTS


       I. IN THE HARBOR

      II. THE GIRL ON THE SHIP

     III. SOME DISCOURTESIES

      IV. A FOE AND A FRIEND

       V. THE COUSIN

      VI. MURK--AND MURDER

     VII. EVIDENCE

    VIII. LIES AND LIARS

      IX. PUZZLED

       X. ON THE TRAIL

      XI. CONCERNING KATE GILBERT

     XII. BATTERED KEYS

    XIII. A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN

     XIV. MORE MYSTERY

      XV. A MOMENT OF VIOLENCE

     XVI. MURK RECEIVES A BLOW

    XVII. MURK IS TEMPTED

   XVIII. A WOMAN'S WAY

     XIX. COADLEY QUITS

      XX. UP THE RIVER

     XXI. RECOGNITION

    XXII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

   XXIII. A STARTLING STORY

    XXIV. HIGH-HANDED METHODS

     XXV. AN ACCUSATION

    XXVI. THE TRUTH COMES OUT




THE BRAND OF SILENCE




CHAPTER I

IN THE HARBOR


Now the fog was clearing and the mist was lifting, and the bright
sunshine was struggling to penetrate the billows of damp vapor and touch
with its glory the things of the world beneath. In the lower harbor
there still was a chorus of sirens and foghorns, as craft of almost
every description made way toward the metropolis or out toward the open
sea.

The _Manatee_, tramp steamer with rusty plates and rattling engines and
a lurch like that of a drunken man, wallowed her way in from the
turbulent ocean she had fought for three days, her skipper standing on
the bridge and inaudibly giving thanks that he was nearing the end of
the voyage without the necessity for abandoning his craft for an open
boat, or remaining to go down with the ship after the manner of skippers
of the old school.

Here and there showed a rift in the rolling fog, and those who braved
the weather and lined the damp rail could see other craft in passing.

A giant liner made her way past majestically, bound for Europe, or a
seagoing tug clugged by as if turning up her nose at the old, battered
_Manatee_.

Standing at the rail, and well forward, Sidney Prale strained his eyes
and looked ahead, watching where the fog lifted, an eager light in his
face, his lips curved in a smile, a general expression of anticipation
about him.

Sidney Prale himself was not bad to look at. Thirty-eight he was, tall
and broad of shoulder, with hair that was touched with gray at the
temples, with a face that had been browned by the weather. Sidney Prale
had the appearance of wearing clothes that had been molded to his form.
He had a chin that expressed decision and determination, lips that could
form in a thin, straight line if occasion required, eyes that could be
kind or stern, according to the needs of the moment. A man of the world
would have said that Sidney Prale was a gentleman of broad experience, a
man who had presence of mind in the face of danger, a man who could
think quickly and act quickly when such things were necessary.

He was not alone at the rail--and yet he was alone in a sense, for he
gave no one the slightest attention. He bent over and looked ahead
eagerly, waving a hand now and then at the men on passing craft, like a
schoolboy on an excursion trip. He listened to the bellowing sirens and
foghorns, drank in the raucous cries of the ship's officers, strained
his ears for the land sounds that rolled now and then across the waters.

"It's great--great!" Sidney Prale said, half aloud.

He bent over the rail again. A hand descended upon his shoulder, and a
voice answered him.

"You bet it's great, Prale!"

Sidney Prale's smile weakened a bit as he turned around, but there was
nothing of discourtesy in his manner.

"You like it, Mr. Shepley?" he asked.

"Do I like it? Does Rufus Shepley, forced to run here and there around
the old world in the name of business, like it when he gets the chance
to return to New York? Ask me!"

"I have my answer," Prale said, laughing a bit. "And judge, then, how I
like it--when I have not seen it for ten years."

"Haven't seen New York for ten years?" Rufus Shepley gasped.

"A whole decade," Prale admitted.

"Been down in Honduras all that time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you live to tell it? You are my idea of a real man!" Rufus Shepley
said.

Shepley took a cigar from his vest pocket, bit off the end, lighted it,
and puffed a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air. Rufus Shepley was a
man of fifty, and looked his age. If human being ever gave the
appearance of being the regulation man of big business affairs, Rufus
Shepley did.

Sidney Prale had held some conversation with him on board ship, but they
had not become very well acquainted, though they seemed to like each
other. Each man seemed to be holding back, waiting, trying to discover
in the other more qualities to like or dislike.

"Ten years," Sidney Prale went on thoughtfully. "It seems a long time,
but the years have passed swiftly."

"I always had an idea," Rufus Shepley said, "that a genuine white man
who went to one of those Central American countries turned bad after the
first year and went to the devil generally. But you don't look it."

"The idea is correct, at that, in some instances," Prale admitted. "Some
of them do turn bad."

"They get to drifting, eh? The climate gets into their blood. Do you
know what I think? I think that, in seven cases out of eight, it's a
case of a man wanting an excuse for loafing. I knew a chap once who went
down to that part of the world. Got to drinking too much, threw up his
job, used to loaf all the time, married some sort of a half-black woman
who had a bit of coin, and went to the dogs generally."

"Oh, there are many such," Sidney Prale admitted. "But the majority of
them are men who made some grave mistake somewhere else and got the idea
that life was merely existence afterward. A man must have an incentive
in any climate to make anything of himself--and down there the incentive
has to be stronger."

"I assume that you--er--had the proper incentive," Rufus Shepley said,
grinning.

"I don't know how some persons would look at the propriety of it. I
wanted to make a million dollars."

"Great Scott! Your ambition was a modest one, I must say. And you
managed to win out? Oh, I beg your pardon! It isn't any of my business,
of course!"

"That's all right," Prale answered good-naturedly. "I don't mind. I'm so
happy this morning that I'm willing to overlook almost anything. And I
don't mind telling you that I've won out."

"A million in ten years," Shepley gasped.

"Yes; and with an initial capital of ten thousand dollars," Sidney Prale
replied. "I'm rather proud of it, of course. I suppose this sounds like
boasting----"

"My boy, you have the right to boast! A million dollars in ten years!
Great Scott! Say, would you consider being general manager of one of my
companies? We need a few men like you."

Sidney Prale laughed again. "Sorry--but I'm afraid that I can't take the
job," he replied. "I am going to have my little holiday now--going to
play. A million isn't much in some quarters, but it is enough for me. I
don't care for money to a great extent. I just wanted to prove to myself
that I could make a million--prove it to myself and others. And, ready
to take my vacation, I naturally decided to take it in New York--home!"

"Ah! Home's in New York, eh? Old friends waiting at the dock, and all
that!"

Sidney Prale's face clouded. "I am afraid that there will be no
reception committee," he said. "I didn't let anybody know that I was
coming--for the simple reason that I didn't know whom to inform."

"My boy!"

"I have a few old friends scattered around some place, I suppose. I have
no relatives in the world except a male cousin about my own age, and I
never communicated with him after going to Honduras. There was a girl
once----"

"There always is a girl," Shepley said softly, as Prale ceased speaking.

"But that ended ten years ago," Prale continued. "I stand alone--with my
million."

"You advertise that fact, my boy, and there'll be girls by the regiment
looking up your telephone number."

"And the right one wouldn't be in the crowd," Prale said, the smile
leaving his face again.

"Well, you are in for a fine time, at least," Rufus Shepley told him.
"There have been quite a few changes in New York in the past ten years.
Yes, quite a few changes! There are a few new boarding houses scattered
around, and a new general store or two, and the street cars run out
farther than they used to."

"Oh, I've kept up to date after a fashion," Sidney Prale said, laughing
once more. "I'm ready to appreciate the changes, but I suppose I will be
surprised. The New York papers get down to Honduras now and then, you
know."

"I've always understood," Shepley said, "that there are certain
gentlemen in that part of the world who watch the New York papers very
closely."

"Meaning the men who are fugitives from justice, I see," said Prale.

"I didn't mean anything personal, of course."

"It does look bad, doesn't it?" said Prale. "I went straight to Honduras
when I left New York ten years ago, like a man running away from the
law, and I have remained there all the time until this trip. And I have
been gone ten years--thereby satisfying certain statutes of
limitation----"

"My boy, I never meant to insinuate that----"

"I know that you didn't," Prale interrupted. "My conscience is clear,
Mr. Shepley. When I land, I'll not be afraid of some officer of the law
clutching me by the shoulder and hauling me away to a police station."

"Even if one did, a cool million will buy lots of bail," Rufus Shepley
said.

The fog was lifting rapidly now. Here and there through the billows of
mist could be seen the roofs of skyscrapers glistening in the sun.
Sidney Prale almost forgot the man at his side as he bent over the rail
to watch.

"Getting home--getting home!" he said. "I suppose no man ever gets quite
over the home idea, no matter how long he remains away. Ten years ought
to make a change, but I find that it doesn't. I'll be glad to feel the
pavements beneath my shoes again."

"Sure!" said Rufus Shepley.

"Confound the fog! Ah, there's a building I know! And there are a few I
never saw before. We're beginning to get in, aren't we? Ought to dock
before noon, don't you think?"

"Sure thing!"

"A hotel, a bath, fresh clothes--and then for hour after hour of walking
around and taking in the sights!" Prale said.

"Better engage a taxi if you expect to take 'em all in before night, my
boy," Shepley said.

"I forgot! We haven't any too many taxis in Honduras. I had a car of my
own, but sold it before I came away."

"You let the busy auto agents know that, and you'll have a regiment of
them----"

"And there!" Sidney Prale cried. "Now I know that I am home! There is
the Old Girl in the Harbor!"

Prale removed his cap, and a mist came into his eyes that did not come
from the foggy billows through which the ship was plowing. The sun was
shining through the murk at last, and it touched the Statue of Liberty.
The great figure seemed like a live thing for a moment; the mist made it
appear that her garments were waving in the breeze.

"Now I know that I am home!" Sidney Prale repeated.

"She sure is a great old girl!" Rufus Shepley agreed. "Always glad to
see her!"

"Well, I've got to get ready to land; I'm not going to waste any time,"
Prale said. "I'm glad that I met you--and perhaps we'll meet again in
the city."

"Hope we do!" said Shepley, grasping Prale's hand. "Our factories are
out in Ohio, but the company headquarters are in New York, of course.
Here's my business card, my boy. And I generally put up at the
Graymore."

Sidney Prale took the card, thanked Rufus Shepley, and hurried down the
deck toward his stateroom, one of the best on the ship. Rufus Shepley
looked after him sharply.

"Went straight to Honduras and stayed there for ten years, eh?" Rufus
Shepley said to himself. "Um! Looks bad! I never put much stock in those
Honduras chaps--but this one seems to be all right. Never can tell,
though!"

Sidney Prale, still smiling, and humming a Spanish love song, reached
his stateroom and threw open the door; and just inside, he came to a
stop, astonished.

Somebody had been in that stateroom and had been going through his
things. The contents of his suit case were spilled on the floor. A bag
was wide open; he had left it closed and in a corner less than an hour
before.

Prale went down on his knees and made a quick inspection. There did not
seem to be anything missing. A package of papers--business documents for
the greater part--had been examined, he could tell at a glance, but none
had been taken.

"Peculiar!" Prale told himself. "Some sneak thief, I suppose. No sense
in complaining to the ship's officers at this late hour, especially
since nothing has been stolen. Makes a man angry, though!"

He put the suit case on the table and began repacking the things that
had been scattered on the floor. Then he gathered up his toilet
articles, bits of clothing he had left out until the last minute, a few
souvenirs of Honduras he had been showing a tourist the evening before.
He turned toward the berth to pick up his light overcoat.

There was a sheet of paper pinned to the pillow, paper that might have
been taken from an ordinary writing tablet. Sidney Prale took it up and
glanced at it. A few words of handwriting were upon the paper, words
that looked as if they had been scrawled hurriedly with a pencil that
needed sharpening badly.

"Retribution is inevitable and comes when you least expect it."

The smile fled from Sidney Prale's lips, and the Spanish love song he
had been humming died in his throat. He frowned, and read the message
again.

"Now what the deuce does this mean?" he gasped.




CHAPTER II

THE GIRL ON THE SHIP


Sidney Prale folded the piece of paper carefully and slipped it into his
wallet. Winning a fortune in ten years in a foreign country had taught
Prale many things, notably that everything has its cause and effect, and
that things that seem trifles may turn out to be of great importance
later.

He finished his packing, locked the suit case, put on coat and hat and
went out upon the deck. The _Manatee_ was docking. A throng was on the
wharf. Prale glanced at the buildings in the distance and forgot for the
time being the scrap of paper, because of his happiness at being home
again and his eagerness to land. Returning to New York after an absence
of so many years was in the nature of an adventure. There would be
exploring trips to make, things to find, surprises at every turn and on
every side.

The passengers were crowding forward now, preparing to go ashore. Sidney
Prale picked up his suit case and started through the jostling crowd.
Already those on board were calling greetings to relatives and friends
on the wharf, and Prale's face grew solemn for a moment because there
was nobody to welcome him.

"Not a friend in the world," he had said to Rufus Shepley that morning.

"A man with a million dollars has a million friends," Shepley had
replied. "The only trouble is, you can't enjoy that sort of friends
except by getting rid of them, unless you happen to be a miser."

Well, that was something, Sidney Prale told himself now. He had ample
funds, at least, and perhaps he could enjoy himself after ten years of
battling with financial sharks, of inspecting and working mines, of
cutting through dense forests and locating growths that could be turned
into wealth.

Prale put his suit case against the rail to wait until he could move
forward again. He looked down at the throng on the wharf, and up and
down the rail at his fellow passengers. Then he saw the girl again!

He had seen her before. The first time had been at Tegucigalpa, at a
ball given by some society people for charity. He had known her at once
for an American, and finally had obtained an introduction. Her name was
Kate Gilbert, and she lived in New York. It was understood that she was
of a wealthy family and traveling for her health. She was accompanied
only by a middle-aged maid, a giant of a woman who seemed to be maid and
chaperon and general protector in one.

That night at Tegucigalpa, Prale had talked to her and had danced with
her twice. He judged her to be about twenty-eight, some ten years
younger than himself. She was small and charming, not one of the
helpless butterfly sort, but a woman who gave indication that she could
care for herself if necessary.

Prale had been surprised to find her aboard the _Manatee_, but she had
told him that she was going home, that her health had been much
benefited, and that she felt she could not remain away longer. It had
seemed to Prale that she avoided him purposely, and that puzzled him a
bit. He could not understand why any woman should absolutely dislike
him. His record in Honduras was a clean one; it was known that he did
not care much for women, and surely she had learned that he was a man of
means, and did not think he might be a fortune hunter wishing to marry a
prominent heiress.

He had not spoken to her half a dozen times during the voyage. She made
the acquaintance of others aboard and, for the first few days, had been
busy in their company. The last three days had been stormy ones, and
Kate Gilbert had not been much in evidence. Prale judged that she was a
poor sailor.

Now she stopped beside him, the middle-aged maid standing just behind
her.

"Well, we're home, Mr. Prale!" she said.

"I suppose that you are glad to get home?"

"Surely!" she replied. "And I'll be angry if there are not half a dozen
to meet me when I land. I've been trying to spot some friends in that
crowd, but it is a hopeless task."

"I hope you'll not be disappointed," Prale said.

As he spoke, he glanced past her at the middle-aged maid, and surprised
a peculiar expression on the face of the woman. She had been looking
straight at him, and her lips were almost curled into a sneer, while her
eyes were flashing with something akin to anger.

Prale did not understand that. Why should the dragon be incensed with
him? He was making no attempt to lay siege to the heart of Miss Kate
Gilbert. He was no fortune hunter after an heiress. The expression on
the face of the maid amused Prale even while he wondered what it could
mean.

"Picked your hotel?" Kate Gilbert was asking.

"Not yet, but I hope to get in somewhere," Prale told her. "May I be of
assistance to you when we land?"

"Marie will help me, thanks--and there will be others on the wharf," she
answered.

A cold look had come into her face again, and she turned half away from
him and looked down at the crowd on the wharf. Sidney Prale looked
straight at her, despite the glare of the middle-aged maid. Kate Gilbert
was a woman who would appeal to a majority of men, but there seemed to
be something peculiar about her, Prale told himself. He knew that she
had avoided him purposely during the voyage, and that she had spoken to
him purposely now, yet had asked nothing except whether he had chosen a
