"No," returned Peter shortly, and hung up.
Getting next the number of the Leonardo Studios, he asked for Gilbert Blair.
"W-what--who?" came a stammering response.
"Mr. Blair--Mr. Gilbert Blair," repeated Peter.
"Why--why, he"s dead--Mr. Blair"s dead."
"No! When did he die?"
"Coupla months ago. Murdered."
"What!"
"Yep, murdered."
Peter hung up the receiver from sheer inability to do anything else.
Of course it couldn"t be true. Blair couldn"t have been murdered, and he must have misunderstood that last word. But his arm seemed paralyzed when he tried again to take hold of the telephone.
He sank back in his chair and tried to think.
His subconscious mind told him that he had not misunderstood--that Gilbert was murdered. He knew he had heard the word correctly, and people do not make such statements unless they are true.
His thoughts gradually untangled themselves and he began to grapple with the most important problems.
It was clear that he must learn what had happened in his absence. He wanted to get hold of Shelby and ask about Blair. He wanted to go right over to Blair"s place--but if--if _it_ had occurred two months ago there was small use going there now.
Also, he must preserve his incognito for the present, at least. His return would be blazoned in the papers as soon as it was known, and the effect on his father"s reputation would be most disastrous.
He must learn more facts--the facts he had already discovered were so amazing, what else might not be in store for him?
Concentrating on the subject of Blair"s death he concluded his best course would be to get a file of newspapers covering the past two months and read about it.
In a big newspaper office he accomplished this, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading up the case.
Of late the subject was not a princ.i.p.al one in the papers.
McClellan Thorpe was in prison, awaiting his trial, and the police, while still on the job, were not over aggressive.
Pennington Wise was not mentioned, so Peter had no means of knowing that that astute person was connected with the matter.
But the news of Thorpe"s arrest struck Peter a new blow. While not as chummy with Thorpe as with Shelby and Blair, Peter had always liked him and found it difficult to believe him guilty of Blair"s death.
Back to his hotel went the man registered as John Harrison, and, going to the restaurant for dinner, he ate and enjoyed a hearty meal.
After all, strange and weird as was the news he had heard, his parents were alive and well--and, strangest of all, they were not grieving at his death.
He was relieved at this, and yet, he was, in an inexplicable way, disappointed. It _is_ a blow in the face to learn that your loved ones are quite reconciled to your death because, forsooth, they get fool messages from you through the services of a fool medium!
Peter"s ire rose, and he was all for going to his father"s house at once, and then, back came the thought, how could he put that dear old man to the blush for having written that preposterous book?
From the papers, too, Peter had learned of the furor the book had made, of the great notoriety and popularity that had come to Benjamin Crane from its publication, of the enormous sales it had had, and was still having, and of the satisfaction and happiness the whole thing had brought to both Mr. and Mrs. Crane.
So, stifling his longing to go home and to see his people, Peter decided to sleep over it before taking any definite steps.
He had small fear of recognition. n.o.body in New York believed him alive, or had any thought of looking for him. His present appearance was so different from the portrait in the book that, after he had changed his looks still further by a different brushing of his hair, he felt there was no trace of likeness left save perhaps his blue eyes. And only one who knew him well would notice his eyes, and he had no expectation of running up against one who knew him well.
So, after dinner, he sat for a time in the hotel lobby, not wishing to mingle with his fellow men, yet not wishing to seem peculiar by reason of his evading notice.
Worn with the succession of shocks that had come to him, and weary of meeting the big problems and situations, he thought of diversion.
"Any good plays on?" he asked the news-stand girl, and his winning smile brought a chatty response.
"Plays--yes. Nothing corking, though. But say, have you seen the big movie?"
"No; what is it?"
""Labrador Luck," oh, say, it"s a peach! Go to it!"
"Where?" and Peter stopped himself just in time from exclaiming, "Labrador anything would interest me!"
"Over in N"York. Hop into the sub and you"re there."
Peter hopped into the sub and shortly he was there.
"Labrador Luck," he read from the big posters. "Monster production of the Tophole Producing Company. Thrilling scenes, thrilling plot, thrilling drama."
There was more detail as to the names of the Film Queen who was starred, and the Film King who supported her, but without stopping to read them Peter bought a ticket and went in.
The picture was under way, and as he sank into his seat he saw on the screen the familiar scenes of the Labrador wild.
Not quite true to nature were they, this Peter recognized at once, but he knew they were taken in a studio, not in Labrador itself, and he had only admiration for the cleverness with which they were done.
With a little sigh of pleasure he gave himself up to a positive enjoyment of the landscape, and, as the story went on, he was conscious of a vaguely familiar strain running through it.
Suddenly a scene was flashed on, and an episode occurred which was one of his own invention.
"Why," he smiled, "that"s my very idea! Now how"d they get that? Oh, I know, of course, such things often occur to various minds without collusion, but it"s sort of queer. If he follows up that lead, it will be awful queer!"
The lead was followed up, and, a bit bewildered, Peter sat gazing while the whole story was unrolled.
Greatly changed it was, greatly elaborated; the main plot side-tracked by a counter-plot; the number of characters multiplied by a score; yet, the mystery interest, the suspense element, the very backbone of the piece was the plot he and Blair had worked out while up in the Labrador wild.
"Labrador Luck!" he mused. "Fine name for it, too. The "Luck" being that old heirloom--just as I planned it. Wonder how it all came about?"
Then he realized how long he"d been away from Blair. How Blair, doubtless, supposed him dead, and, most naturally, the boy had gone on with the story, and here was the splendid result.