FOUND IN THE TIDE.
After the scene the detective had witnessed through Bristol Clara’s
assistance he made his way to another part of the city and entered a
little house, where he was confronted by Billy, the street rat.
The detective wanted to ascertain if the boy had picked up anything
new, and his first words startled him.
“They didn’t burn her up, Mr. Carter.”
“Didn’t burn who up, Billy?”
“Margie, you know.”
The detective as yet had heard nothing of the fire at which Margie
Marne nearly lost her life, and he lost no time questioning Billy.
The boy had heard of the fire through a fireman, and had gone direct to
the hospital, where he had held an interview with the girl herself.
“I’ll see her, too,” said Nick. “This is important, Billy, and Margie
must be seen.”
Imagine the astonishment of the girl when she saw Carter walking up the
aisle toward her.
A smile of pleasure overspread her face, and she held out her hand.
“This is indeed a great pleasure,” cried Margie. “We’ve been sending
after you, and just when we give you up here you come. I’ve been within
the shadow of death.”
“So Billy told me.”
“I wonder if Nora, my jaileress, escaped?”
“We will find that out by and by. Tell me the whole story, Margie, and
then we will see what can be done.”
The girl proceeded, and gave the detective the entire story of her
adventures while in the hands of Claude Lamont and under Nora’s care,
and Nick listened attentively.
“I think I can locate your jaileress,” said he, at the end of Margie’s
narrative.
“Do so. She didn’t treat me badly, only she was true to her master. She
started at the mention of your name, though.”
“Did she?” smiled Carter.
“It drove every vestige of color from her face.”
“She’s met me somewhere, then,” said the detective. “I want to see
Nora.”
Half an hour later the detective reached the scene of the fire, and
looked upon the ruins of Margie’s prison.
The house had been entirely destroyed, and some of the neighbors seemed
glad that it was so.
“None of us liked the tall, dark-faced woman, with the little, red scar
over her left eye,” said a woman who lived near the place, and whom the
detective addressed.
“What did you call her?”
“Oh, we never called on her at all. She was very exclusive.”
“Had no visitors, eh?”
“Yes, sometimes. A man would drop in, generally after dark, and stay
about half an hour.”
“You saw him, did you?”
“I couldn’t help it, you see, from where I live.”
“What was he like?”
“He was younger than the woman. He was always well dressed, like a
swell nabob, and carried himself like a sport.”
“Claude again,” thought Carter. “You never saw the woman go out?”
His last question was addressed to the neighbor.
“Not often. She remained at home, and seemed to attend to her own
business.”
“You’re sure about that scar, are you?”
“Bless you, yes. I saw it more than once, when we happened to meet in
the little grocery on the corner yonder. It was a real, red scar.”
Carter handed the woman a piece of money, which she did not refuse,
and went away. He went direct to police headquarters and to the famous
rogues’ gallery.
There he began to look through the large albums containing the faces
of criminals and suspects, and for nearly an hour he turned the thick
leaves industriously.
At last he stopped and leaned over the page.
His eyes seemed to become fastened upon a certain face, that of a
woman, angular and dark.
Turning to the proper entry he read a description of the woman whose
photographed face was before him, and he seemed to smile when he noted
that she had a brilliant red scar over the left eye.
“This must be our old friend,” said the detective. “This is Mag
Maginnis, the shoplifter, whom I sent up the river five years ago. I
didn’t see the scar then. She got it since, and the photograph is the
second one she’s had the honor of having in this collection. So Mag
started at mention of my name by Margie. No wonder. I filled her with
terror when I caught her in the dry-goods district in the very act of
plundering a counter. We’ll see.”
He shut the album and walked away.
The detective never let a trail get cold, and therefore he proceeded to
a part of the city where he hoped to strike Mag’s trail.
“The Lord deliver us! Here’s Mr. Carter!” cried a woman’s shrill voice,
as the detective opened a door and confronted a female at a table.
The woman had seen better days, for an air of refinement still lingered
about the place, the appointments of which were poor.
She sat bolt upright, looking into the face she had instantly
recognized, and the detective stood for a moment at the door.
“You don’t want me, I hope?” asked the woman.
“Not at all, Sybil.”
“That’s good, but I couldn’t see how you would, seeing that I’ve been
good for three years.”
“I know that, and you’re to have all the credit, too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carter. But if you had come a little sooner you might
have seen an old friend,” and the woman laughed.
“What old friend was here, Sybil?”
“It was Mag. You remember her?”
In spite of his coolness the detective started.
“Yes,” continued the woman called Sybil, “Mag was here, and bade me
good-by. She’s going off. What’s happened, Mr. Carter? Mag wouldn’t
explain.”
“Where did she go, Sybil?” asked the detective, paying no attention to
the woman’s query.
“She did not tell me. But I never saw Mag in just the way she was. She
said she was tired of life, tired of pulling other people’s chestnuts
out of the fire, and now and then she acted like a person on the verge
of insanity. She may have gone to the river, for once or twice she
mentioned it in despairing tones.”
“How long has she been gone?” eagerly questioned the detective.
“Barely twenty minutes.”
“I’ll see you later, Sybil,” cried the detective, turning to the door.
“I must find Mag, if possible.”
“She’s Nora now, you know.”
“Yes, yes.”
“She dropped ‘Mag’ months ago, or soon after she came down the river.”
“But she’s Mag yet,” smiled Carter, and in another second the woman was
left alone wondering why he wanted to see Nora so badly.
There were many chances against Nick finding the woman he sought, but
he did not despair.
The piers of New York are many and long.
From them thousands have leaped to their death, or been thrown into the
waters after dark by those whose hands are red with crime.
More than once the detective’s trail had taken him to the docks, and
there he had picked up more than one clew.
Every dock in the city was known to Carter.
While among them he was at home, and knew where they began and ended.
The bare thought that this old criminal had gone to the river in a fit
of remorse, for he doubted not that she thought Margie had perished in
the fire, urged him on.
Of course, if Nora intended to commit suicide she had had ample time to
carry out her plans, but still there was a chance that she had changed
her mind.
The detective reached the river at a spot nearest the house he had just
left.
He could see nothing of the hunted woman, and no crowd such as gathers
on the piers when the body of a suicide has been discovered greeted him.
The detective walked along the river front for some distance with his
senses on the alert.
All at once he caught sight of something floating in the water, and he
stopped suddenly and leaned forward.
It did not take him long to see that the object was the body of a
woman, and Carter called a policeman who stood a short distance away.
“That’s the same woman!” cried the patrolman the moment he caught sight
of the body.
“What woman?” asked Carter.
“Why, sir, the woman who came down here three hours ago and asked me
some fool questions about the river.”
“Well?”
“I didn’t notice which way she went. But that’s her.”
Nick and the policeman managed to bring the body against the logs of
the pier, and the detective clambered down and hauled it up.
The burden was a heavy one, but the detective’s hand did not lose its
grip, and in time the body lay on the wharf, which it drenched.
The detective looked into the long face, and his gaze alighted upon a
little scar over the left eye.
“This is Nora--Margie’s jaileress, but she’s Mag Maginnis, the old
offender. She’s not to blame entirely for this. The hand of her master
drove her to suicide, and he shall pay for it!”
Carter seemed to speak the last words through clenched teeth, and his
voice told that he meant every word he said.
The policeman in the meantime called the patrol, and Nick had extracted
from the woman’s bosom a little flat package like a memorandum, which
he hastily transferred to his own pocket.
“That’s the end of one poor, storm-tossed soul,” muttered the detective
as he walked away. “I found Mag sooner than I expected, but we’ve not
heard the last of her.”
Half a block from the river front the detective nearly ran against a
man who came out of a house with a reputation none of the best and
walked off.
The walk and the well-known shoulders as revealed by the man caused
a light of recognition to leap up into Carter’s eyes, and his gaze
followed the fellow some distance.
“What brought you to the scene of Nora’s death, Claude Lamont?”
mentally queried the man of clews. “Did you have to hound the poor
creature to the last terrible act of her life?”