BOOK II

THE MAN

XVII

THE MONOGRAM

I had made my promise to Miss Meredith with an apparent hopefulness

which may have deceived her, but did not deceive myself. When the glow

of my first enthusiasm passed, I sat down in the solitude of my own

room to reconsider the events of the day, but one thing was clear to

me, and that was the unpromising nature of the task I had set myself

to perform. What excuse had I for the self-confidence I had shown?

What means were at my command which were not also at the command of

the police? She herself had asked this same question, and I had

parried it. But I could not parry the demands of my own intelligence.

They must be met and answered. But how? In vain I pondered ways and

means; laid innumerable plans and relentlessly discarded them;

projected interviews which I knew were fruitless, and worked myself

through labyrinths of reasoning which ended in nothing and left me no

farther advanced at the end than I was in the beginning.

Wearied at last in mind and body, I retired, and during my sleep had

an inspiration upon which I proceeded to act early the next morning.

Revisiting Sam Underhill's apartment, I told him my difficulty and

opened up my scheme. Sam Underhill, with all his faults and numberless

eccentricities, was a good fellow at bottom, and just the man to

respect my confidence. He was, besides, the only person within the

range of my acquaintances who could assist me in the plan I had

formed; a plan which demanded the active cooperation of someone not so

well known to the police as myself. Hampered as I was by my well-known

connection with the Gillespie poisoning case, I could not personally

make a move towards the ravelment of its mystery without subjecting

myself to the curiosity of the people among whom my investigations

might carry me, even if I escaped drawing upon myself the attention of

the District Attorney's office and the suspicion of the men whose

business I was in a measure attempting to usurp. But he was a free

agent; he could come and go without arousing distrust or awakening

professional jealousy. At all events he, and he alone, could put me

into communication with the private detective whom I had decided to

employ. As I had always been accustomed to visit Sam's rooms, my

presence there at any hour of the day or night would raise no comment.

I had only his laziness to fear, a laziness which with him was as

marked a characteristic as it was with Alfred Gillespie, whom he so

carelessly criticised.

Seated with him over an impromptu chafing-dish breakfast, I first

tested his good nature by a sally or two, and finding it well up to

the mark, took him, as I have already said, sufficiently into my

confidence to rouse his interest; then I put the blunt question:

"Which of the three Gillespie boys do you, upon mature reflection,

consider the most capable of the crime attributed to this family?"

His manner changed at once.

"Oh, come now!" he cried, "don't calculate upon putting me in that

box. Like the rest of the world I prefer to await developments before

committing myself on so delicate a matter. Why, Outhwaite, prejudice

is as bad as the hangman! If I had settled positively in my own mind

which of the three had emptied that phial of poison into the old

gentleman's evening glass, I would not impart my convictions. These

fellows have enough to carry without my throwing the least weight into

so trembling a balance."

I girded myself for the struggle.

"Wait," said I; "have I fully made clear to you Miss Meredith's

position?"

"Yes, I comprehend that well enough."

"Very well, then. Which is most important; to assist this unhappy

woman to escape from her anomalous position, or to prevent prejudice

from being formed in my mind, when you know how impossible it would be

for me to misuse it to my advantage?"

"I am not so sure of that," he retorted. "I don't know of a fellow

more likely to be carried away by his convictions than yourself. If

you were not a lawyer you would be doing all sorts of quixotic things;

but, being hemmed in by professional conventionalities, you show some

restraint, though not enough to warrant me in trusting you with my

opinion on this matter--since it is only an opinion."

Naturally, I became eager to know what lay behind this break. Opinions

are not formed without some show of reason, and the lightest reason

might suffice to put me on the track I sought. He saw my resolution in

my face, and made an effort to resist.

"I am as sorry as you are for Miss Meredith," he drawled, helping me

to fresh coffee. "If I had seen her the day she gave her testimony I

might be sorrier still; but I did not have that pleasure, and so am

willing to leave the matter with those whose duty it is to see that

justice is meted out to the guilty."

"Do you think their efforts are likely to be successful?"

"Oh, the question will be solved some day."

"Do you think so?"

At this repetition of the phrase, which I had made forcible by my

intonation, he raised his eyebrows and, emptying his cup before

answering, gave me an opportunity to add:

"With nothing to go upon but an accusation which, while involving all

three of Mr. Gillespie's sons, specifies none, how can any official

action be taken beyond that very ordinary one of submitting the whole

household to a continual surveillance? Unless fresh evidence comes in,

or conscience drives the guilty to confession, weeks, months, nay,

years will go by, and the hand which hesitates to move now will

hesitate still; justice needing something more definite to go upon

than a suspicion equally divided amongst three men."

"You are right there, but what can you do to better the situation? It

appears to me that you will have to wait too."

"Which contradicts your former assertion."

"Very possibly; man is full of contradictions at so early an hour as

this, and with only one cup of coffee between him and the possible

nightmare of the night before."

"Drink another cup, then, while I tell you what my hopes are. Guided

by impressions which more than once in my life have proved infallible,

I mean to run my man down till he succumbs to the pressure I will

bring upon him, and confesses. This, I believe, can be done if all my

force is concentrated on one man. At all events it is the only way I

see of attaining the desired end. Now, will you assist me to choose

the one out of these three most open to attack?"

"I don't like it; it is against all my principles, but if you must

know the exact state of my feelings on this matter, come to these

rooms to-night at nine sharp and I will allow you to hear from the

lips of a certain acquaintance of mine a story which may serve to give

you some enlightenment. He's not a man you will want to meet, so I

must ask you to content yourself with an easy chair in my den. _He_

will be received in this room, and the door yonder can be left

conveniently open. Do you object to this arrangement? It smacks of

conspiracy and other things not altogether agreeable; but it's the

best I can do for you at this time, and poor Yox won't care; it's your

feelings I am mainly considering."

"I will be here," I doggedly replied. I was resolved to let nothing,

not even my prejudices as a gentleman, interfere with the successful

pursuit of this undertaking. "Will his story contain any reference to

Miss Meredith?"

"Not the least in the world. Why?"

"Because I always find it difficult to sit still when I hear ladies

spoken of in any way short of the deepest respect; and you say he is

not a gentleman."

"He won't transgress to that degree. If he does, trust to my bringing

him to order. Sorry I must place an embargo on the cigars you will

find on the table. Smoking on your part would give away your presence;

for the man whose story you are coming to hear is one of those fellows

who smell a rat round the corner. In other words, he's a private

detective with whom I was once thrown in a peculiar way. What now?"

"Perhaps he's the very fellow I want. I have use for a private

detective."

"So--I--suppose."

This sentence, so long in coming, was uttered in a peculiar way, and

at the moment we were rising from table. Though I said nothing, I

experienced an access of courage. Unpromising as Sam's manner had

been, he was really in sympathy with me, and willing to lend me a

helping hand.

That day the law suffered, or, rather, I should say, such clients as

were misguided enough to come to my office. The uncertain nature of

the disclosure I awaited, and the doubt as to which of the three

brothers it would chiefly affect, kept me restless up to the hour set

apart for my return to Sam Underhill's room. Not till nine o'clock

arrived and I found myself in the small apartment called his den, did

I recover my poise and show anything like a steady countenance in the

long mirror stretched above the mantel. This has always been a

characteristic of mine. Great agitation up to the moment of action,

and then an unnatural calmness. In this case it was an event I

awaited; but the characteristic remained unchanged.

Sam Underhill, on the contrary, never appeared more at his ease. I

could hear him singing between the whiffs of his cigar, and, as I

followed the mellow strains of one of the finest tenors I have ever

known, I recalled the fact that I myself had not sung a note since the

experience which had made such heavy inroads into my life. Was I

growing misanthropic? Sam had not been without his dark days. I

remembered quite well all the talk that went about at the time of his

mad passion for Dorothy Loring,--that bewitching madcap who afterwards

found her match in Steve Wilson,--and I could not reconcile that

disappointment with his present gaiety.

But these reflections cannot be of any interest to my readers; enough

that they occupied me at the time and killed my impatience, till a

sudden stoppage in the strain I objected to warned me that the

expected visitor had arrived. I squared myself for the ordeal, held my

breath, and prepared to listen.

The greetings were commonplace. Sam is a proud chap and does not put

himself out much for anybody. To this man he scarcely showed common

courtesy. Perhaps he was afraid of awakening distrust by any betrayal

of interest in the coming interview; perhaps he recognised that a

barely civil greeting was all the man expected or desired.

"Halloo, Yox!"

"Good evening, Mr. Underhill."

"Did I ask you to call on me to-night?"

"You certainly did, Mr. Underhill, and set the hour."

"Well, well, I suppose you are correct. Sit down. My memory is not

much longer than this cigar, which you may observe is almost smoked

up. Have one, Yox; you won't get a better in your shop; and now, what

have you come to tell me?"

"Not much. Dennison bought seven shares last Tuesday and Little

invested in as many more yesterday. Both men show confidence, and

to-morrow's report will be all you can wish."

"Good! How much do I owe you? Will that do?"

I heard a rustle, then a short laugh preceding the remark, "You might

halve it and still please me. Oh, I'll take it. Not too much grist

comes to my mill."

Here there was a silence. Underhill was evidently lighting a fresh

cigar. When they spoke again it was to drift into generalities, to

which I listened with an impatience in marked contrast to the

complacency of Sam, who seemed just too tired to live; that is, if I

could judge from his tone and the total absence of interest he

expressed in anything said either by himself or his somewhat vulgar

guest. But suddenly there was a change, not in Underhill, whose voice

was even more languishing than before, but in myself; for I heard Sam

remark between two prolonged whiffs:

"What is that story you were trying to tell me the other night about

the row in lower ---- Street? I thought it promised to be interesting

at the time, but the other fellows were in such a hurry I couldn't

stay to hear it out. Tell it again, Yox, just as you did then; perhaps

it will wake me up."

The answer came more quickly than I expected.

"Oh, that? Well, I don't mind. It was a curious adventure and brought

me too near the police for me to forget it in a hurry. I wish I knew

who that fellow was. Did I show you the match-box I found in one of

the pockets of the coat he gave me? The monogram----"

"Never mind the monogram. We'll talk about that afterwards," broke in

Sam in the sleepiest tones imaginable. "I don't care so much about the

man as the way he acted. This struck me as being strange for a

gentleman. But begin, Yox; you relate adventures well. I have heard

you talk more than once."

Yox, who was not above flattery, hemmed, hawed, and launched out in

the following tale. I transcribe his words as nearly as I can remember

them. At first he did not interest me much.

"You see, I had business at old Mother Merry's. Do you know the place?

It's not likely, so I will describe it; you need to know something

about it in order to understand my story.

"It's an old fish-market, or, rather, that was its use once; now it's

a sort of lodging-house, standing half on the dock and half on piles,

somewhere down near ---- Street. I like the place. That is, it has a

mysterious air which we fellows don't object to. Seen from the docks

and in daylight, it has the appearance of four squat walls without

windows. But if you take the trouble to crawl around on the river

side, you will find two glazed loopholes overlooking the water, one on

the lower story and one under the roof. There is also, I am told, a

sky-light or two up above, but I can't swear to that. By night, the

one bright glimmer you see on getting near it shines through the door.

This stands open in the summer, or, rather, the upper half of it does,

for it is made in two parts, like the old Dutch ones you see in the

pictures; but in winter time an agreeable light shines through the

four small holes arranged along the top half. A calico curtain blows

in and out of this door on such nights as we have been having lately;

for Mother Merry likes a fire, and the little stove she sits at,

netting, heats the one big room below to smotheration, and the men

won't stand it. If this curtain blows high you can, if you're nervy

enough, get a peep at the inside, stewing with a horrible smell of

fish, and bright with kerosene lamps and the busy little stove. You

won't see much furniture, for Mother Merry don't spend her money on

anything she can do without; but there is a table or two and some

chairs, and in one of the corners a door which sometimes stands half

open, but more often is to be seen tight shut. Behind this door

whatever mischief the house hides takes place. You can tell this from

the old woman's eye, which is always on it; and, if you know her well,

it is quite enough to watch her twitching underlip to satisfy

yourself as to whether the mischief is big or little; prosperous in

its character, or of a kind likely to damage her reputation and empty

her well-stuffed pockets. She is no fool, this old Mother Merry; and

though she has not much of what we men call nerve, and trembles like a

leaf at the approach of a policeman, she has more control than you

would think over the tough crowd of boatmen who knock their heads

together in that little room. I have even been told that she is feared

quite beyond all reason by the few stray females who find a refuge in

the scanty garret rooms, which have given to this shanty the

highfalutin name of lodging-house. What harm goes on under her

twinkling red eye, I do not know. I have been in the place altogether

three times, but have never yet found out what that door conceals. The

men play at some sort of game around a large table, on which black

bottles and thick glasses take up as much room as the cards; but I do

not think it is gambling only which makes it next to impossible for a

fellow to get in there at night. There is something else--but I won't

stop over that. It is a hell of a place, as you can judge, and unless

one's business led him there, scarcely a spot where a man would brag

of being found.

"One night--the night I am telling you about--I got in, but got in

late. There was some sort of password necessary, and I had a hard time

getting hold of it, and a harder time yet making old Mother Merry hear

it when I had got hold of it. Yet she isn't deaf and doesn't pretend

to be. This trouble over, and the door passed, I encountered another

check. A man was there; a slouchy, disreputable wretch, and it was

he, instead of Mother Merry, who was watching that mysterious door,

which for once stood far enough ajar for one room to share the smells,

sights, and uproar of the other. I did not like this man. I did not

like the way he stood, or looked, or held his tongue. There was

something peculiar and unnatural in his whole manner, and I glanced at

Mother Merry to see what she thought of him.

"Evidently nothing bad; for she moved about quite comfortable-like,

and did not so much as look at the door I had never before seen her

let out of her sight a moment.

"'Who can he be?' I naturally asked myself, a little put out by my

doubts; for my business would soon take me into the inner room, and I

did not like to imagine myself under his eye.

"'Drink!' I suddenly shouted, to see if I could make any impression on

him.

"But I might as well have shouted at a hitching-post. Mother Merry

brought me whiskey, but the man did not budge. I began to think of

putting off my affair to a more convenient season, when I was taken

with a sudden curiosity to see just what he was staring at.

"Approaching gently, I looked over his shoulder. A portion of the

inside room was all I could see, but in that portion sat a man with a

red face and a cruel jaw. It was this face which held the attention of

the boatman before me; and while I was wondering what he found in it

to hold him stock-still for so long, I heard a sigh escape from under

the coarse jacket I dreaded touching with my own, and, much amazed at

this show of feeling in a den of such boiled-down filth and

wickedness, I moved back to where Mother Merry stood, and whispered in

her ear:

"'Who's that man? Do you know him? Has he any business here?'

"Her gaunt shoulders lifted in a shrug--she is far from jolly,

cheerful as her name is--then she drew near the man and I saw her

touch him. At that, or some low words she uttered, he roused and cast

a quick look about him, then he pointed towards a door on the other

side of the room.

"She answered by a nod, and he moved off with a poor try at a slouchy

gait. When I saw this I knew he was no sailor.

"As the door closed behind him, a sound of women screaming and

scolding came from the docks, then a child's cry cut into the night,

after which there was quiet in that quarter and in the house, too. For

Mother Merry, with a scared look, jumped towards the room where the

men were sitting, and, pushing her way in, held up her hand so as to

draw all eyes.

"'The warning,' she cried. 'It's the cops! See if you can get out by

the window.'

"One of the men arose and went to the window, looked out, and came

crawling back, putting out a light as he did so.

"'They're on the water,' he whispered; and, whether I am a fool or

not, that whisper sent the creeps up my back.

"'Both front and back?' she cried. 'That means business; you'll have

to squeeze into the hole, boys.'

"Another light went out.

"Meanwhile I had crept to the door.

"''Ware there! that fellow's trying to sneak,' shouted a voice.

"I drew back. Old Merry came to my aid.

"'Don't be a fool,' she whispered. 'Stay here or they'll think you're

in with them!'

"The growl of some half-dozen of them brought the warning home. I

laughed and got in line with the boys, grumbling aloud as I did so:

"'Then they'll make a mistake. If you are wanted by the cops, I am,

too. But how about that other fellow?' I whispered, getting close to

Mother Merry in the hubbub.

"She didn't hear me; she was telling how something was to be done.

Then another light went out. The place now was in nearly total

darkness.

"'Hush!' came from the doorway where the curtain blew in and out.

"'Hush and quick,' came in hoarse echo from Mother Merry's quivering

lips.

"Suddenly the room was empty. Of the half-dozen drunken figures I had

seen moving about me the minute before, not one was in sight. I heard

a creak, then a scuffle, and then a bang, and the room stood empty.

Only a few bottles and a pack or two of cards were left on the dirty

top of the old pine table, as proof that a tough crowd had been there

raising Cain. The old woman cleared the table and shoved the lot into

a cupboard; then she sat down. Never have I seen a woman so steady and

at the same time so frightened.

"'There is room for one more,' she quickly said, pointing to where the

men had disappeared. 'It's over the water, and the floor is full of

holes, but the police haven't got on to it yet. Will you go down?'

"'I wasn't with the crowd,' I told her.

"'That won't help you. You're in the house--Ah!'

"It was almost a cry she gave; the door to the upper rooms had opened

and the sailor who had struck me as such a peculiar chap stood in the

room before us. 'I forgot,' she wailed out. 'What am I to do with

_him_?'

"The sailor, who was no sailor, stared straight before him, as well he

might, for he had left a lighted room and found a dark one. Yet in

that stare there was a look of pain easily to be seen by the light

thrown out by the red-hot stove. He didn't mind Mother Merry's cry. He

had something else on his mind. He looked like a man suddenly wakened

up, and I had a strange idea that his dreams, if he had had them, held

him just then in a closer grip than the facts he had come among.

"'Is it so late?' he sighed; and I started, for the voice was the

voice of a gentleman.

"The words, and the way he said them, seemed to bring fresh trouble to

Mother Merry.

"'Oh, the ill-luck!' she wailed. 'The cops are at the door. The place

has been threatened for a month, and to-night they are closing round.

Will you face them, or shall I open the trap again--Oh, don't!' she

groaned, as he gave a sudden reel backward; 'it makes me feel wicked.

I ought to have warned you.'

"'It would have made no difference,' he said. 'I should still have

gone up. Help me, if you can, and remember what you have sworn.

To-morrow I will send money. O God! O God! to leave _now_----'

"'You cannot leave. Hark, that is the second signal! In another moment

they will be here. Do you want to fall into their hands?'

"'I had rather die. Quick! Some place! Money is no object. Let that

fellow I see over there help me. He looks as if he wasn't afraid of

the police. Let him change togs with me.'

"'I am a private detective,' I whispered, going very close to him in

the dark. 'My name is Yox, and you will find papers to support the

name and business in my coat pocket. They may hold you for a day, but

no longer,' and I handed over my coat.

"'I am sorry that I cannot confide my name to you with the same ease I

do this coat,' he replied, as he threw me the garment which had so

disfigured him. 'But my name is the secret I would defend with my

life. Say that you are Benjamin Jones.'

"'First fork over the cash which you say is no object to you!' I

cried.

"'You must trust me for that,' he answered. 'If I get off without

discovery you will receive a hundred dollars at your address within

the week. I have left all I had above.'

"'Chaff!' I muttered.

"'He will pay,' Mother Merry assured me.

"'Then here's my cap,' I grumbled, not any too well pleased.

"He took it, and though it was a common one enough, he looked like

another man in it.

"'Support me in my character!' he ordered, just as that blowing

curtain was caught and held back by a hand from without and the face

of a policeman looked in.

"'Hey, there! lamps up!' was the order. We got a light flashed over us

from the doorway.

"The man at my side advanced to meet it, and I saw him talking with

the officer who had pushed his head through the upper half of the

door. Then everything about and before me became mixed in the rush the

police made from every side, and I failed to see anything again for

some minutes. When a minute's quiet came about again, and I had the

chance to use my eyes, I did not find the man to whom I had lent my

coat and my name. He had been allowed to slip away.

"But I had no such luck. The place being turned over, and only a few

women found, they turned on me. But I was game, and was soon able to

show them I was one of their own sort. At which there naturally came

the question as to who the other fellow was. But I did not help them

out on this, and it ended in my being taken to Jefferson Market with

the rest.

"We all got off next day and without much trouble. I have always

thought that fellow paid the fines; at all events, one week from that

day I found an envelope addressed to me, lying on my desk at the

office. It contained bills to the amount agreed upon.

"Now, Mr. Underhill, who was this man? I have been asking myself that

question ever since I pocketed his money. The fellow who can pay out

hundreds like that is a man to know."

I waited for the answer, which was slow in coming. But then Underhill

was always slow. When he did speak it was lazily enough.

"Didn't you say you had some clue to his identity; a match-box or

something of that kind, which you found in one of the pockets of the

coat he gave you?"

"Yes, I have that."

"And that there were initials on it which you had not been able to

decipher?"

"Oh, yes, initials; but what can a fellow make out of initials?"

"Not much, of course. Have you that match-box with you?"

"I just have. I sport it everywhere. I think so much of it I have even

talked of having my name changed to fit the letters of this monogram."

"Let me see it, will you?"

The fellow drew it out.

A minute passed, then Underhill drawled out:

"It's not as easy to make out as I expected. Will you let me compare

it with a collection I have in a book here? I may have its mate."

"Sure, sir."

Underhill came my way. The sudden heat into which I was thrown by this

unexpected move acted as a double warning. I must beware of

self-betrayal, and I must take care not to give away my presence to

the sharp-eyed, sharp-eared man whose perspicacity I had reason to

dread. I therefore rose as quietly as possible and met Underhill's

entering figure with a silent inquiry, nicely adjusted to the

interest I was supposed to feel in the matter. He was no less careful,

but there was a sparkle in his eye as he handed over to my inspection

the match-box he had just taken from Yox, which contradicted his air

of unconsciousness, and led me to inspect with great interest the

monogram he displayed to my notice. It was by no means a simple one,

as you will see by the sub-joined copy.

[Illustration]

As I studied it, Underhill wrote on a sheet of paper lying open on the

table:

"I have seen that match-box a dozen times." Then, separating the

letters of the monogram, he wrote them out in a string, thus:

L L D G

"Leighton Gillespie?" I inquired in a kind of soundless whisper.

"Leighton Le Droit Gillespie," he wrote.

It was the name with which my own mind was full; the name with which

it had been full ever since the inquest.

XVIII

THE PHIAL

The moment was not propitious for a fuller understanding between us.

Sam lowered the light and sauntered back into the outer room,

remarking lazily to Yox:

"If I were you I wouldn't sport this thing around too openly. If

judiciously kept out of sight it may bring you in another hundred some

day."

"How's that? You know those initials?"

"Know Louis Le Duc Gracieux? Well, rather. But as long as you have not

the honour, keep quiet, lie low, and await events. That is, if you

care about the money. What have you done with the blouse?"

"Put it away in cotton."

"Oh, I see. Well, put the match-box with it."

"I will."

"Have another cigar?"

"Thank you. I don't often have such a snap. Well, what is it, sir?"

"Oh, nothing."

"I thought you looked as if you wanted something from me."

"I? Not the least in the world."

Silence, then a lazy movement on the part of Sam which disturbed

something on the table at which they were sitting. The small noise had

the effect of eliciting another word from Sam.

"I thought your story had more to it when I heard it last. Didn't you

say something about a small parcel which this mysterious man took out

of his pocket before handing over his blouse?"

"Perhaps; but that wasn't anything. I wonder you remember it."

Long silence on the part of Sam.

"I never forget anything," he observed at last. "Was it a big parcel

or a little?"

"It was a small one."

"How small?"

"Oh, a thing a man could hold in his fist. Why do you ask about it?"

"Whim. I am trying to wake myself up. What was the shape of this

parcel?"

"Bless me if I've given two thoughts to it."

"You'll get that blessing, Yox; for you've given more than two

thoughts to it."

"I?"

"Yes, or why should you have described it as minutely as you did the

other night?"

"Did I?"

"Undoubtedly; I can even recall your words. You said the fellow was

pretty well shaken up for a man of his size and appearance, and after

handing you the blouse he caught it back and took something out of one

of the pockets. It looked like one of those phials the homoeopaths

use. You see, you were inclined to be more dramatic on that occasion

than on this. Indeed, I have been a little disappointed in you

to-night."

"Oh, well! a fellow cannot always cut a figure. I'll try to remember

the bottle next time I tell the story."

Sam did not answer; I heard him yawn instead. But I did not yawn; that

word "phial," had effectually roused me.

"As you say, it is a small matter," Underhill finally drawled. "So is

the straw that turns the current. He was a philosopher who said, 'The

little rift within the lute,' etc., etc." Then suddenly, and with a

wide-awake air which evidently startled his companion: "Do you

suppose, Yox, that Mother Merry runs an opium-joint in those upper

rooms?"

The answer he received evidently startled him.

"She may. I hadn't thought of it before, but I remember, now, that

when those women were brought down there was amongst them one who

certainly was under the influence of something worse than liquor.

Faugh! I see her yet. But it wasn't opium he had in that bottle; that

is, not the opium which is used for smoking. The firelight shone full

upon it as he passed it from one pocket to another, and I saw

distinctly the sparkle of some dark liquid."

Sam Underhill, who seemed to have fallen back into his old condition

of sleepy interest, mumbled something about his having been able to

see a good deal, considering the darkness of the place. To which his

now possibly suspicious visitor replied:

"I would have seen more if I had known so much was to be got out of

it. Can you give me a point or two as to how I'm to get that extra

hundred?"

Whereupon Sam retorted, "Not to-night," in a way to close the

conversation.

As soon as the man had left I rushed in upon Sam without ceremony. He

was still sitting at the table smoking, and received me with a look of

mingled amusement and anxiety.

"How did the comedy strike you?" he asked.

I attempted a shrug which failed before his imperturbable nonchalance.

"How did it strike you?" he persisted.

"As cleverly carried out, but not so cleverly that the fellow will not

suspect it to be a comedy."

"Oh, well! So long as he does not associate the right name with those

four initials we are safe. And he won't; I know Yox well enough for

that."

"Then you know him for a fool. Louis Gracieux! Who is Louis Gracieux?

Besides, the phial--why, the whole town is talking about a phial----"

"I know, but not about a match-box that is worth another hundred

dollars to the man holding it. Yox isn't a member of the regular

police; he's in business for himself, which means he's in it for what

he can make. Now, he knows--or, rather, I flatter myself that I have

made him see--that there is more to be got out of this matter by

circumspection and a close tongue than by bragging of his good luck

and giving every ass about him a chance to chew upon those letters.

Oh, he'll keep quiet now, for a week or two at least. After that I

cannot promise."

"Do you think his version of this affair reliable?"

"Absolutely. He would have exaggerated more if he had been forcing an

invention upon us."

I sat down and, regarding Underhill across the table, remarked

somewhat pointedly:

"Now that the name has been mentioned between us, we can talk more

openly. What date have you been able to give to Yox's adventure? You

surely have not failed to get from him the day he went down to Mother

Merry's?"

Sam rose--he who detested rising--and, going to a little side table

where a pile of newspapers lay, he pulled off the top one and laid it

open before me, taking care, however, to stretch his arm across the

upper margin in a way to cover up effectually the date.

"Read," said he, pointing to a paragraph.

I followed his finger and read out a brief account of the descent

which had been made on Mother Merry's, and a description of the

proceedings which had ended in the release of the women involved.

"Now take a look at the date," he went on, lifting his arm.

I did so; it was a memorable one,--the evening of Mr. Gillespie's

death.

"The affair at Mother Merry's took place on the preceding night,"

commented Sam. There was no languishing note in his voice now.

I sat silent; when I did speak it was plainly and decidedly.

"I see what you mean. You think he went to that place to get the

acid."

Sam puffed away at his cigar.

"It has been a mystery to everyone where that acid came from," I

continued; "a mystery which has evidently baffled the police. If a

druggist in the whole range of this great city had lately sold a

phial of this poison to anyone answering the description given of

these brothers, we would have heard from him before now. Equally so if

a doctor had prescribed it."

"A second Daniel come to judgment," quoth Sam, sententiously.

"And now we, through chance or special providence, perhaps, have

stumbled upon a clue as to how this deadly drug may have entered the

Gillespie family."

"I regret to agree with you, but that is the way it looks. But,

Outhwaite, you must remember--and as a lawyer you will--that a long

and tangled road lies between mere supposition and the establishment

of a fact like this. This phial, so carefully transferred from a

pocket where a seemingly more valuable article lay hid, has not been

identified as holding poison, only as holding a liquid. Much less has

it been proven to be the bottle found under the clock in the Gillespie

dining-room."

"All very true."

"Yet this fellow's story of--well, let us say, Louis Gracieux'

appearance and conduct in this more than doubtful place, warrants us

in thinking the worst of his errand."

I felt the force of this suggestion.

"Quite true." I assented. Then, in some agitation, for my thoughts

were divided between the relief which a knowledge of this night's

occurrences might bring to Hope and the terrible results to the man

himself, I went on to say:

"His little girl--you never saw his little girl, Sam. Well, she's a

fairy-like creature, and the last time I saw her she had her arms

about his neck."

"Don't talk about children," he hastily objected. "You'll make a muff

of me," and then I remembered he had a great weakness for children. "I

had rather you'd talk about Miss Meredith. Nothing but the interest I

take in the peculiar position held by this young lady gives me the

requisite courage to stir in this matter. I have known those boys too

long and too well; that is, I have drunk too many bottles with George

and sat out too many nights in full view of Alfred's handsome figure,

stretched out in the mysterious apathy I have alluded to. With

Leighton I have fewer associations; but I have seen enough of him to

know perfectly well the match-box which Yox handed out."

"Do you suppose there was anything in those pockets besides the

match-box; anything, I mean, calculated to give away the wearer of

that foul blouse?"

"No. If there had been; if, in other words, he had found anything

there which suggested a member of the Gillespie family, he would never

have aired the matter in the presence of their friends. He would have

gone at once to the police, or endeavoured to make such capital out of

it as such a find would suggest."

"Then you really think he does not know that the tools he is playing

with have mighty sharp edges?"

"I am confident he does not."

"That is a relief; yet he cannot remain in such ignorance long if I

call him to my assistance."

"That depends."

"How, depends?"

"Upon what you want him to do."

For this I had no answer. My plans were as vague as the wandering

smoke-wreaths curling upward at that instant from my neglected cigar.

"You have never liked Leighton," I remarked, in the hope of adjusting

my thoughts before entering upon the more serious portion of this

conversation. "Neither have I, since surprising a very strange

expression on his face the night of his father's death."

"Yet three-quarters of the people who knew him would tell you that he

is a good man, a very good man, the best of the three, by far."

"Notwithstanding his low associates?" I ventured.

"Notwithstanding everything. People are so deceived by a few words

uttered in prayer-meeting, that their judgment is apt to be blunted to

the real character of a man like Leighton Gillespie."

"He must be an odd one," I observed. "The lights and shades of such a

nature are past finding out. In appearance and manner he is a

gentleman, yet if Yox's story is true he finds no difficulty in

visiting the worst of places under circumstances and in a garb which

bespeaks a personal interest in them. The nature of that interest we

have dared to infer from the part played in his visit by the

mysterious phial. But how account for such instincts, such murderous

impulses in a man brought up as he has been? The motive must have been

a serious one to drive a man of his connections into crime. Can you

name it? Was it the need of money, a craving for perfect liberty to

pursue his own strange courses unchecked, or just the malice of a

revengeful spirit cherishing some rankling grudge, which only the

death of its object could satisfy?"

"Do not ask me. I'm not going to supply facts and reasons, too, in

this matter. What! going?"

"Yes, I never don my thinking-cap to any purpose save in privacy and

under the influences emanating from my own room and its familiar

surroundings."

"Very good--you shall seek such inspiration as is to be found there in

just another moment. But first let me give you a little further

insight into the character of the man we are discussing. This is

something I saw myself: One day last fall I was going down West

Broadway when I came upon Leighton Gillespie standing near an elegant

turnout, talking with an ill-shod and bedraggled woman. As

philanthropy is his fad and occurrences of this kind a common affair

with him, I was passing by with no further display of interest than an

inward sneer, when I noted his expression and stopped short, if not

from sympathy, at least in some curiosity as to the woman who could

draw it forth. Outhwaite, she was a wild-eyed, panting creature, with

chestnut-coloured hair and nervously working lips; not beautiful, not

even interesting--to me. But he--well! I have seen few faces look as

his did then, and when she started to run--as she presently did, he

caught at the muddy shawl she wore and pulled her back as if his very

life depended upon restraining her at his side.

"I even saw him take that shawl in his hand--such a shawl! I would

not have touched it for a champagne supper, and there have been times

when he has shown himself more squeamish on some subjects than I. But

he was not squeamish now--far from it, for he not only held that

shawl, but fumbled with it, almost clung to it, talking all the while

with voluble persistency. At last he asked her some questions which

brought out a passionate refusal. But if discouraged, he did not show

it; on the contrary, he continued his plea with increasing

earnestness, and finally pointed to his carriage. She gave it one look

and shrank back with a gesture of fear; then she grew steadier and her

head fell forward on her breast. He went on pleading with her; and

then I saw a strange sight. With an air such as only a swell like

himself is capable of assuming, he signalled to his driver to draw up

at the curbstone before him. Then, as he might hand in one of the four

hundred, he handed her in and took his seat beside her. Not a look to

the right nor left,--he was simply the perfect gentleman; and,

obnoxious as he had always been to me up to that hour, I could not but

respect his manner if not himself. It was admirable, and so was that

of the man who sat upon the box. Though the latter must have cringed

when that disreputable foot struck the step and what might be called a

bundle of rags entered among his pearl satin cushions, he did not turn

a hair or lose a jot of that serene absorption in his own affairs

which characterises all the Gillespie coachmen. I watched him

expressly to see. A valuable fellow that, for a master of the

eccentric tastes of Leighton Gillespie!"

"You interest me," said I. "Did you watch them drive off?"

"Yes, and stood there staring till they were half down the block, for

she had not accepted the situation with the same ease as himself, and

I felt that something would happen. And there did. Before the polished

panels were lost to my sight, the door burst open and I saw her wild

figure jump out and plunge away in the direction of the river. This

time he made no attempt to follow her; the carriage rolled on and he

with it. Nor did he do what I would have done,--let the door stand

open till the air of that carriage had been purged of its late

unwholesome occupant. Altogether, it was an odd experience. What do

you make out of it, Outhwaite?"

"He's a fellow who will bear studying. Is he always so respectful to

the paupers he befriends?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders.

"I have related my sole experience with Leighton Gillespie in his

_role_ of philanthropist. My other memories of him suggest simply the

millionaire's son."

[Illustration: "I SAW HER WILD FIGURE JUMP OUT AND PLUNGE AWAY IN THE

DIRECTION OF THE RIVER"]

XIX

I MAKE MY FIRST MOVE

To attempt to fathom such a nature as this leads to little but mental

confusion. Before I had spent a half-hour in trying to untangle the

knotty problem offered by Leighton Gillespie's opposing

characteristics, I decided to follow the example of my friend

Underhill, and keep to facts.

These in themselves were startling enough to occupy my mind and

convince me absolutely of Leighton's guilt. But this was not

convincing Miss Meredith. Probabilities, possibilities even, which

might satisfy me, would count for but little with her. With her nice

sense of justice, she would demand a positive and unbroken chain of

evidence before she would allow herself to acknowledge the guilt of

the man whose innocence I presumed to challenge, and this clear and

unbroken chain I did not have. How, then, could I strengthen the

evidence just obtained? Not by showing motive. There seemed to be no

motive. To be sure, Leighton was in debt,--so were they all,--and he

was known to have quarrelled bitterly with his father more than once.

But these were not new facts, nor were they sufficiently condemnatory

to settle, even in her mind, the torturing question embodied in that

one word already alluded to: which?

Something of an absolutely criminating character must be found against

this man; some proof so direct and unanswerable that even her

scrupulous conscience would be satisfied; something like positive

evidence, say, that he had visited Mother Merry for the purpose of

obtaining in secret the poison he dared not buy openly, or that the

glass of sherry he poured out for his father had held poison as well

as wine.

As all attempts to establish this latter fact had proved abortive; as

the police had not only failed to prove that such a mixture had been

made, but to settle the exact medium by means of which Mr. Gillespie

received the poison, I turned my attention to the easier task and

decided to concentrate my energies upon establishing the fact that the

bottle carried from Mother Merry's by the would-be sailor contained

prussic acid, and that this would-be sailor was positively the man we

supposed him to be,--Leighton Gillespie.

With these facts indubitably established, even Miss Meredith must feel

that the man who could be guilty of obtaining a deadly drug through

such under-handed agency, and at such a risk to his reputation, must

have had a purpose in so doing which could only be explained by the

tragedy which took place in his home so soon afterwards.

This point reached in my meditations, I next asked myself how the

necessary inquiries could be started without risk to their success. I

could not go openly to Mother Merry, or, rather, it would be

undesirable for me to do so. If, as I sometimes suspected, I was

myself under surveillance, I could make no such move without

attracting the attention of the detectives to a matter which I hoped

to keep a sacred secret between Hope and myself. Remember that I was

not working to bring the guilty to justice, but to free a pure heart

from a soul-torturing doubt.

But if I could not go there myself, whom was I to send? What man of my

acquaintance was judicious enough to be entrusted with such a message?

Yox? I did not like the man. I looked upon him as a very shady

individual and shrank with strong distaste from further contact with

him. Underhill? I laughed at the suggestion. Who, then? Not a single

name rose in my mind till, by an association of ideas not entirely

illogical, I remembered the habits of certain members of the Salvation

Army, and how easy it would be for one of them to enter such a vile

haunt as Mother Merry's and interview the depraved beings to be found

there without attracting the notice of the police or rousing the least

suspicion as to their intentions. But could I reach such a man, and,

if I could, would I find him willing to undertake such an errand

without understanding its full purport and just what use was to be

made of the knowledge thus obtained? This seemed very doubtful, and I

was seriously deliberating over my next move, when my mind flew

straight from the topic engaging it to that memorable moment in my

experience when, amid the alarm and hurry following the suspicions

expressed by the physician called in at Mr. Gillespie's death, the

glass fell from Hewson's hand and broke into a hundred pieces on the

dining-room hearth. The tinkle made by the shattered glass, the gasp

which escaped the old man's lips, all came back to me, and with it

the startling conviction--strange that it had not struck me

before!--that this old and tried servant of a disrupted household knew

who had tampered with that glass, and by this sudden breaking of the

same had sought to shield him. Now, if I should find out that this man

regarded Leighton with an especial fondness--But such thoughts were

for further contemplation. With a resolution born, perhaps, of the

lateness of the hour, I forced my mind back into its former channel

and resolutely asked myself how a connection was to be established

between Mother Merry and myself. The small confidence I have always

had in third parties, especially when a matter of delicate inquiry was

to be pushed, made it imperative for me to see her myself. Yet

how--Ah! an idea. What if I took the bull by the horns and openly

requested the assistance of the police in my adventure? That would

disarm suspicion and render me independent of special surveillance.

The idea was a happy one, and, relieved by the prospect it offered, I

resigned myself to sleep.

Next day I went boldly to police headquarters and asked for assistance

in making some inquiries in a dangerous quarter of the town. I said

that the case then before me necessitated some evidence which could

only be gathered from a certain old woman whose name and place of

living I had yet to learn by judicious questioning in that quarter of

the city where she had been last seen. Would they give me a man to

make my projected tour safe? They would. Could I have him now? I

could.

Satisfied with the result of my first move, and more than satisfied

with the unintelligent appearance of the man they picked out to escort

me, I made for Mother Merry's, but not in a direct course or with any

appearance of knowing where I was going. I tried several

lodging-houses and chatted across several bars, and, noting the

indifference with which my thick-headed companion followed me, I

really began to cherish hopes of coming through my task without any

unpleasant consequences to myself. Sometimes he tried to help me; but

as I had given no names and confined myself to a somewhat vague

description of the person I wanted, this help was naturally futile,

and I found myself approaching my goal without any seeming advance

having been made. Should I proceed at once to the docks or should I

play the fox's game a little longer? As I weighed these alternatives

my eyes fell on a Salvation Army sign, and the idea I had scouted the

day before returned to me with renewed force.

Pointing to the windows across which it was displayed, I said that

here were people who might possibly tell me where to find the woman I

sought, and, leaving the officer outside,--he seemed quite content to

stay in the fresh air,--I went in and respectfully approached the

sweet-faced woman I saw before me.

"I am come for assistance," I began. "I am in search of a woman--"

Here the words died in my throat. Opposite me and quite near enough

for me to catch what they were saying, I saw two men. One was a

Salvation Army Captain and the other was Leighton Gillespie.

XX

THE LITTLE HOUSE IN NEW JERSEY

The surprise was great, but I doubt if I betrayed the fact to the

unsuspicious eye of the patient lass who attended me.

"I wish to see one of your captains," I explained. "I will gladly

await his convenience."

"Captain Smith will be at liberty soon," she answered, going back to

her work.

I was thus left to study the face of the man whom at that very moment

I was bent upon connecting with a great crime.

I had not seen him since that touching scene at the inquest; and I

found him looking both older and sadder. Perhaps his health was

broken; perhaps there were other and deeper reasons for the great

change I saw in him.

I had instinctively withdrawn a few steps when the lass left me and

stood in as inconspicuous a position as possible, with my face turned

from the light. But I had not retreated far enough to lose a word of

the conversation going on so near me.

They were discussing an approaching meeting; Leighton with deep

interest, the Captain with an embarrassment not often seen in one of

his calling. Listening, I heard these words.

"It will be a full one, won't it?"

This from Leighton.

"It usually is on a day like this," was the hesitating reply.

"Do women come?"

"More women than men."

"I should like to speak at the meeting."

The Captain, with an uncomfortable flush, fumbled with the ribbon on

his cap, and said nothing. Leighton repeated his request.

The Captain summoned up courage.

"I am sorry, sir," he remarked, in an apologetic tone. "You have given

the Army much help, and we have listened to many good words from you,

but I have received orders not to let you speak again; that is, from

the platform."

A painful silence ensued. Then Leighton remarked, with a forced

composure and something more than his usual melancholy:

"Because of the unhappy prominence given me by the circumstances

attending my father's death?"

"That, and something else. I may as well be frank, sir. We have heard

of the little house, leased under your name, in New Jersey."

"Ah!"

A chord had been touched which vibrated keenly in this mysterious

breast. I saw his hand go to his throat and fall again quickly.

Meantime the Captain went on:

"We are not frightened by sin and we hold out our hands to sinners;

but we have no use for a man who prays in New York and has his

pleasure on the other side of the North River. It shows hypocrisy,

sir, and hypocrisy is the enemy of religion."

A smile, whose dark depths betrayed anything but hypocrisy at that

moment, crossed Leighton's pale lips as he remarked without anger

(which I could not but consider strange in a man so openly attacked):

"That little house is empty now. Has the thought struck you that my

heart might be so too?"

The Captain, who evidently did not like his task, seemed to experience

some difficulty in answering; but when he had settled upon his reply,

spoke both clearly and with resolution:

"The house of which you speak may lack its occupant just now, but

everything goes to show she is always expected. Or why are the lamps

invariably lighted there at nightfall, the rooms kept warm, and the

larder replenished? Some birds in flitting come round again to their

forsaken nest. Your bird may; meanwhile the nest remains ready."

"Enough!" The tone was sharp now, the words cutting. "You do not

understand me nor my interest in the poor and forsaken. As for my

place among you, let it be filled by whom you will. I have my own

griefs, and they are not light, and I have anxieties such as visit few

men. A ban is upon me and upon all who bear the name of Gillespie.

This is known to you and possibly to every man and woman soon to

assemble here. Perhaps you do well not to submit me to their

curiosity. But there is something you _can_ do for me--something which

you will do for me, I am sure; something which would place me under

lasting obligation to you without doing you or anyone else the least

harm in the world. A woman may come in here; a woman, wild-eyed,

unkempt, but with a look--I am sure you will know her. There is an

unearthly loveliness in her wan features. She has--But what use is

there in my attempting to describe her? If she answers to the name of

Mille-fleurs--some persons call her Millie--she is the woman I seek.

Will you give her this?" (He had torn the edge off a newspaper lying

near and was rapidly writing on it a few words.) "It will do no harm

to the cause for which you are working, and it may save a most unhappy

woman. Of myself I make no count, yet it might save me, too."

He handed over to the Captain the slip carelessly folded. It was

received with reluctance. Mr. Gillespie, noting this, observed with

some agitation:

"You are here to do God's work. Sometimes you are called upon to do it

blindly and without full enlightenment." And having emphasised this

with a bow of remarkable dignity he went out, little realising that

the possible clue to his own future fate lay in the hands of one he at

that moment passed without a look.

"These are the crosses we are called upon to bear," spoke up the

Salvation Army Captain as the door closed upon the man they had once

held in deepest reverence. "Now, what am I to do with this?" he added,

turning over in his hands the half-rolled-up slip which had just been

given into his charge.

Involuntarily my hand went out to it. It was a perfectly unconscious

action on my part, and I blushed vividly when I realised what I had

done. I had no authority here. I was not even known to the good man

and woman before me.

The Captain, who may or may not have noted my anxiety, paid no heed

either to my unfortunate self-committal or to the apologetic question

with which I endeavoured to retrieve myself.

Turning to the lass beside him, he handed her the slip, with the look

which a man gives to a woman on whose good sense and judgment he has

come to rely.

"Take it, Sally," he said. "You will know the girl if she comes in,

and, what's more, you'll know how to manage the matter so as to give

satisfaction to all the parties concerned. And now, sir?--" he

inquired, turning towards me.

But at this instant a diversion was created by the arrival of

Detective Sweetwater, a man for whose presence I was certainly little

prepared.

"The gentleman who has just gone out passed you something," he cried,

approaching the lass without ceremony, though not without respect. Me

he did not appear to see.

"The gentleman left a note with us for one of the poor women who

sometimes straggle in here," was her quiet response. "He is interested

in poor girls; tries to reclaim them."

"I am sorry," protested the detective "but I must have a glance at

what he wrote. It may be of immediate importance to the police. Here

is my authority," he added in lower tones, opening his coat for a

moment. "You know under what suspicion the Gillespie family lies. He

is a Gillespie; let me see those lines--or, stay, read them out

yourself--that may be better."

The young woman hesitated, consulted the Captain with a look, then

glanced down at the slip trembling in her hand. It was half unrolled,

and some of its words must have met her eye.

"Why do you think this has anything to do with the serious matter you

mention?" she ventured to ask.

The detective approached his mouth to her ear, but my hearing did not

fail me even under these unfavourable circumstances.

"Everything has connection with it," I heard him say. "Everything they

do and think. I wouldn't trust one of them round the corner. I should

make the greatest mistake of my life if I allowed any secret

communication written by a Gillespie to pass under my nose without an

attempt to see what it was. This one may be of an innocent nature;

probably is. The gentleman who left it with you passes for a

philanthropist, and as such might very readily hold communication with

the worst characters in town without any other motive than the one you

yourselves can best appreciate. But I must be sure of this. I have

been detailed to watch his movements, and his movements have brought

him here. You will therefore oblige me, Miss, if you can make it clear

that the cause of justice--by which I mean the cause which I here

personally represent--will not suffer injury by the free transmission

of this slip to the person for whom it is meant."

"I will read you what he has written here," replied the girl. "He

left it open or almost open to anyone's perusal." And I heard her read

out, in low but penetrating tones, the following words:

When I last saw you, you were suffering. This is an

unbearable thought to me, yet I cannot go to you for reasons

which you can readily appreciate. Come to me, then. The

house is always open and the servants have received orders

to admit anyone who asks for me.

This was certainly warm language from a mere philanthropist to a city

waif whose misery had attracted his notice. But no remarks passed, and

Sweetwater did not seek to hinder even by a look the careful refolding

of the slip and the putting of it away in the young lass's desk.

Indeed, he seemed to approve of this, for the next moment I heard him

say:

"That's right; take good care of the slip. If the young woman comes

in, give it to her. I suppose you know her?"

"Not at all; he simply described her to us; or attempted to. She may

not come in at all."

"Then keep a grip on those lines. What kind of a person did he say she

was?"

"Oh, I don't know. He said she was wild-looking, but beautiful, and

that she answered to some such name as Millie."

"It's likely to be a fake, the whole mess. Good-day, Captain;

good-day, Miss." And Detective Sweetwater stepped away.

I had thought him keen, yet he had paid no more attention to me than

if I had been a stick. Was the corner in which I sat darker than I

thought, or had he been so full of his own affairs that he failed to

recognise me? I had kept my face turned away, but he assuredly must

have known my figure.

When he was gone the two laid their heads together for a moment, then

began to bustle towards me. In the meantime I had planned a _coup

d'etat_. I had considered if, by a little acting on my part, I could

put them in the wrong, I might succeed in getting from them some

positive facts to work upon. Accordingly, I was in a state of

suppressed feeling when the Captain found himself face to face with

me.

"I heard you," said I, flinging down the book I had taken up. "I have

ears like a hare and I couldn't help it. I know Mr. Gillespie, and it

made my blood boil to hear him addressed with suspicion. How anyone

who has ever heard him speak to the poor and unfortunate could

associate him with the atrocious death of his father, I cannot

imagine. So good to poor girls! So bountiful in his charities! I

thought you were Christians here."

The Captain may have been a Christian, but he was also a man, and,

being a man, looked nettled.

"It was a mistake for us to discuss Army affairs within reach of two

such sharp ears," said he. "Mr. Gillespie has done some good work, and

far be it from me to add myself to those who have associated his name

with the crime which has just made the family notorious. I simply fail

to stand by him because he uses us as a cloak for his personal

indulgences. He is infatuated with a woman whom he has never presumed

to present to his family. This won't do for us. The other matter

belongs to the police."

I allowed myself to cool down a trifle.

"I beg your pardon; you know your own business, of course. But it's a

little hard for me to believe that such a refined man as Mr. Gillespie

could find any other than a charitable interest in any woman likely to

come straying in here. Did you ever see his home, his child, his

friends?"

The Captain shrugged his shoulders and curtly replied:

"I can imagine." Then in a tone calculated to end the interview so far

as this topic was concerned: "We count nothing as strange in this

place, sir. We come too near the unregenerate heart. Human nature's

the same, sir, in rich and in poor. And now, sir, your business? It's

most time for our noon meeting, so I must ask you to be concise."

I had almost forgotten I had any business there, but I pulled myself

up under his eye and told him I was on the search for a woman, too.

"But she's an old one," I made haste to assure him; "a lodging-house

keeper who is in the possession of evidence of great importance to a

client of mine. Her name, as told me, is Mother Merry; do you know any

such person?"

He did not, but informed me that there were several queer old places

down by the wharves where I might hear of her. This was enough. I had

now an excuse for penetrating the district towards which I had been

pointing from the first.

Thanking him, and asking his pardon for my few brusque words, I went

out, and, giving my policeman a wink, turned in the direction of the

river.

XXI

MILLE-FLEURS

The complications which had surrounded Leighton Gillespie were,

through his own imprudence, in the way of being cleared up, though

hardly to his advantage. This was not all. Either from indifference or

ignorance--I hardly thought it was indifference--he had not only

called attention to his own secret passion, but laid such a trap for

the object of it that she could hardly fail to fall ultimately into

the hands of the police.

Under these circumstances was it my duty to proceed with the task I

had imposed upon myself? Was my help needed when Mr. Gryce's

right-hand man was at work? It would not seem so. But--as I was happy

enough to remember before my hesitation resolved itself into

action--the one clue connecting him to this murder was to be found in

my hands, not theirs. I alone knew where to look for the woman who had

procured him the phial of poison. This in itself created an obligation

I dared not slight. I must continue my quest, if I desired to fulfil

my promise to Hope Meredith.

The day was Friday and the fish-stalls were doing a lively business.

By the time I had threaded my way through innumerable sheds, I had got

enough of this commodity into my nostrils to satisfy my appetite for

a week. I was glad when I stepped out upon the wharf.

"Is it along there you want to go?" asked the officer under whose

protection I moved.

I looked, and saw fluttering before me the calico curtain which had

blown in and out of Yox's story.

"Yes, if it's where an old woman named Merry is to be found."

"I'll ask."

He approached a brother officer whose presence I had not noticed,

spoke to him, and came back.

"That's the place," said he. "Do you want me to go in with you?"

"Not if it's safe."

"Oh, it's safe enough at this hour. You haven't any too much cash on

you, I judge? Besides, I'll hang about the door, and if you don't come

out in ten minutes I'll just inquire the reason why. You see, the

place's on our books and we don't want to keep too open an eye on it."

I was glad to be allowed to go in alone. I had not dared to hope for

this and felt correspondingly relieved.

An unexpectedly quiet interior met my eye. The bare walls, the busy

stove, the woman whose gaunt frame and lowering eye I had heard

described by Yox, were before me, but nothing of a sinister, or even

suspicious, appearance. I had surprised Mother Merry's quarters at a

happy hour; that is, happy for her and possibly so for me.

But perhaps I convey a wrong impression in speaking of the walls as

bare. They were not so; for, stretched from side to side of the

steam-reeking, stifling room, were lines on which coarse garments were

hanging up to dry; and on the wall directly before me I saw a pair of

rough seaman's breeches, pinned up in a ghostly and grotesque fashion

over the little stove which even on this mild afternoon was doing its

best to keep out undesirable visitors.

The old woman, who was bending over a table on which a few broken victuals

lay, was, without doubt, Mother Merry herself; and, recognizing her as

such, I assumed the half-audacious, half-deprecatory manner I thought best

calculated to impress her. With a broad smile, I thrust my hand into my

pocket. Then as I perceived her hard eye melt and the coarse lines about

her mouth twist into something which was as near encouragement as one

could expect from a being always on her guard against strangers, I

whispered with a careful look about me:

"Anyone here? My errand won't stand peering eyes or listening ears."

She gave me a penetrating glance.

"What do you want?" she grumbled.

I took out a dollar and laid it on the table. Her hand was over it in

an instant.

"A morsel of drug," I whispered. "Three drops of something that'll do

up a man in five minutes. The man is myself," I added, as her eye

darkened.

She continued to regard me intently for a minute; then cast a quick

glance down at the hand which covered the coin.

"Sorry," she muttered, with a reluctant lift of that member; "but I'm

not in the way of getting any such stuff. Who sent you to me?"

I hesitated, then made my great venture.

"The man you helped out of here the night the police came down on you.

He had better luck than I. You didn't refuse it to him."

"You lie!" she cried.

Startled by these uncompromising words, I fell back. Had I made a

great mistake?

"He never got any such stuff from me," she went on shrilly. "That

wasn't what he came for, or else he made more of a fool of me than I

knew."

"What did he come for?"

Her look of inquiry turned into one of suspicion.

"Did you come here to ask that? If so, you'd better go. I'm not one of

the blabbing sort."

I drew out another dollar.

"Perhaps he got it upstairs," I insinuated.

"Oh!" she cried, spreading out her long fingers so as to cover both

pieces. "That may be; those girls have strange ways with them."

"May I have a peep at them? May I have a peep at _her_?"

The emphasis I placed on the last word called out from Mother Merry a

long stare, which I bore as best I could.

"She hasn't a drop left of what you were talking about," said Mother

Merry at last. "If she gave it to him it's all gone."

"Perhaps she can get more where she got that," I made bold to

suggest.

The old hag gave a grunt and looked gloatingly at the coins sparkling

between her bony fingers.

"How many of these have you saved up?" she asked.

"Ten."

"And with ten dollars in your pocket you come here for _poison_?"

Her amazement was quite real. Ten dollars in my pocket and wanting

poison! It took her some minutes to grasp the fact; then she said:

"And how many of these are for _me_?"

"Five."

She pawed at the coins till they were well under her palm.

"I'll call her down; will that do?"

"Yes."

"She may not be just right."

"No matter."

"She may be all right herself and not think you so."

"I'll risk that, too."

"Then stand near the stove so she won't see you when she first comes

in. She wouldn't stay a minute if she did."

Obeying the old hag, I watched her sidle to the door already familiar

to me in Yox's narrative; the door upstairs, I mean. As she

disappeared behind it I glanced at the table near which she had been

standing. The two silver dollars were gone.

"I'll never see them again," was my inward decision.

And I never did.

The presence of the wet clothing hanging so near me was anything but

agreeable. Moving around to the other side of the stove, I at least

avoided some of the fumes which in that stifling atmosphere were

almost insufferable; but I was more exposed to view, something which

the old woman noticed when she reentered.

"You have moved," she suspiciously snarled. "Come back and let the

clothes hide you. Perhaps I can make the girl sing if she don't see

you. She seems to be in one of her queer moods. Would you like to hear

her sing?"

As the old woman evidently expected an enthusiastic assent I gave it

with as much force as I could muster up on such short notice.

"Hush! she is coming. You mustn't mind her laugh."

It was well she gave me this warning, for the sudden wild shout of

hilarious mirth which I now heard from the region of the staircase was

so startling, that without these words of caution I might have

betrayed myself. As it was, I kept my post in silence, watching for

the girl who I had every reason to believe had given the bottle of

prussic acid to Leighton Gillespie. Would she prove to be the wild,

unkempt woman whose beautiful look he had endeavoured to describe to

the Salvation Army Captain? I hoped not; why, I hardly knew.

Suddenly there broke upon my eyes a sight I have never forgotten. A

woman came in--a woman, not a girl--and while her look was not

beautiful--far from it--she had that about her which no man could see

for the first time without emotion. Her features were ordinary when

taken by themselves, but seen together possessed an individuality

whose subtle attraction had been marred, but not entirely destroyed,

by the countless privations she had evidently undergone. And her hair,

wild and uncared-for though it was, was wonderful; so was the air of

vivacity and rich, exuberant life which characterised her. Though her

cheek was pale and her arms thin, she fairly beamed with that

indefinable but spontaneous gladness which springs from the mere fact

of being alive, a gladness which at that moment did not suggest drugs

or any unwholesome source. I was astounded at the effect she produced

upon me, and watched her eagerly. No common unfortunate, this. Yet it

would have been hard to find among the city's worst a woman more

bedraggled or more poorly nourished.

"Sing!" cried old Mother Merry, with an authority against which I

instinctively rebelled, though I had seen the object of it for only a

couple of minutes. "You feel like it, and I feel like hearing you.

SING!"

The woman's throat throbbed. She stopped just where she was and threw

out her arms. Then she smiled and then--she sang.

I have heard Guilbert, I have heard Loftus, but neither of them ever

made my temples throb, my heart swell, or my breath falter as this

woman did. That she chose the saddest of all sad songs--she who a

moment before seemed hardly able to contain her laughter--could not

quite account for this effect; nor the fact that these flights of

tragic melody rose from out a misery which no laughter could cover up.

It was genius, great and wonderful genius, misdirected and lost, but

still heaven-given and worthy of an artist's recognition. As she sang

on I yielded her mine, for my heart swelled almost to bursting, and

when she had finished and stood poised, rapt, ecstatic, enthralled

with her own melody and beautiful with her own feeling, I found my

cheeks wet with tears. I had never wept at anyone's singing before.

"Dance!" came in fresh command from the miserable hag behind me.

I had forgotten Mother Merry.

But the raised face I was contemplating drooped forward at these

words, and the arms, which had moved all through the singing, fell

inert.

"I have no strength," she wailed. Yet in another instant she was

swaying, turning, rising, and falling in mazes of movement so full of

grace and charm that I scarcely missed the music which should have

accompanied them. It was more than a dance: it was a drama;

instinctively I followed her feelings and knew as by a species of

revelation what each motion was meant to convey. I watched her as I

would some charmed being; for the marks of care had vanished from her

features, and the lips, which had been drawn and white, burned redly,

and the hair, which had hung in dishevelled locks, now blew out in

live curls, athrill with passion and breathing forth rapture and love.

Suddenly she paused. Mother Merry had pointed me out with the words:

"The gentleman is looking at you."

Instantly her beauty shrivelled and vanished. Her hands went up to her

face; and she crouched like a lost thing against the floor.

"No, no!" she wailed, and would have fled, but Mother Merry forced her

back.

"The gentleman wants something. He wants a drop of what you gave the

other one that night. You remember, the night the boys slid away and

left us to the police."

Instinctively her right hand went to her bosom and her eyes looked

wildly into mine. Suddenly she saw the moisture on my cheeks.

"Oh! he's been crying, Mother Merry, been crying. Perhaps now I can

cry, too. I should like to; it's better than singing." And she broke

into sobs so violent that I stood aghast in mingled pity and

amazement.

Just then the policeman looked in.

"How now?" he cried. "What's up?"

My impulse was to shield her from this fellow's curiosity. Motioning

him away, I whispered in her ear:

"You haven't said whether you would give me what I have come for."

"What is that?"

"A drop of what kills trouble; kills it at once, instantly, and

forever. I am wretched, heartbroken." (God knows I spoke the truth.)

She stared, and what remained of light in her face went out.

"I have none--now," she hoarsely assured me.

"Then get it where you got that."

"I cannot. I got that when it was easier to smile, and dancing was not

followed by dreadful pain. Now--" She tried to laugh as she had a few

moments before, but her jocund mood had passed. One would never

imagine from her present aspect that she had just floated through the

room an embodiment of joyousness and grace.

"You gave it all to him, _all_?" I questioned.

The emphasis did not strike her, or rather it assumed a different

place in her mind than on my lips. "To him?" she repeated, shrinking

back with evident distrust.

"Yes," I pursued, following her and speaking in her ear; "the sailor

lad who took it away from here that night. Poison--prussic acid--a

phial you could hide in your hand."

She broke into laughter, not the expression of joy, but that of

defiance if not derision. She was but a common woman now.

"Sailor lad!" she repeated, and laughed again.

I felt that the moment had come for speaking the significant word.

Looking around and seeing that Mother Merry was not too near, I

whispered:

"A sailor lad with a gentleman's name. You know the name; so do

I--Leighton Gillespie."

She had not expected me to go so far. Smothering a frightened cry, she

struck her hands together over her head and dashed towards the door by

which she had come in. Mother Merry stood before it laughing. Then she

turned to escape by the street; but there she was confronted by the

heavy form of the policeman, who had thrust himself across the

threshold. Crouching, she folded her arms over her breast and made a

plunge for the door communicating with the den beyond. It opened under

her pressure and she fell gasping and bruised upon the threshold. I

hastened to her aid, but she was up before I could reach her.

"I don't know the man you talk of; I don't know you. I am a free

woman! a--free--woman!--" she shrieked, bounding to the trap and

opening it. As she uttered the last words she swung herself down. I

tried to stop her, but she was as agile as a cat. As I leaned over the

hole I saw her disappearing among a confusion of oozy piles; and

shuddering with the chill of the mephitic air that came pouring up, I

drew back.

"That's the end of her for to-day," muttered the harsh voice of Mother

Merry behind me. "When she's like that you might as well make for

other quarters. But you've had your money's worth. You've heard her

sing; you've seen her dance. It's not every man can boast of that.

She's shy of men; at least she'll never sing for them."

Perhaps I looked surprised; perhaps I only looked dejected.

Misinterpreting the expression, whichever it was, old Mother Merry

sidled up closer, and, as I made for the door, whispered with a leer:

"If you really want what you say, come back in a week; and if I can

get it you shall have it."

I gave her another coin.

"What do you call that girl?" I asked, with my hand on the latch.

The money made her loquacious.

"Millie," she answered. "That is not how she speaks it, but it's how

we all call her."

It was, then, as I had thought. I had seen and listened to

Mille-fleurs, the woman to whom Leighton Gillespie had addressed those

appealing lines.

XXII

A DISAGREEABLE HOUR WITH A DISAGREEABLE MAN

This interview made an astonishing impression upon me. Never had I

supposed myself capable of being stirred to such sympathy by a being

so degraded as this wonderful Mille-fleurs.

Was it the contrast between her genius and the conditions under which

that genius had shown itself? Possibly. Or was it that a recognition

of the latent sweetness underlying her wild nature had caused a

feeling of rebellion against the degradation into which a creature of

such amazing possibilities had fallen?

Whatever it was, I was conscious of a haunting sense of regret such as

had followed few experiences in my life, and began to look upon the

man who could make use of such a ruin of womanhood for the obtaining

of a deadly drug, with something deeper and more active than mere

distrust.

Leighton Gillespie was a man of the world. He knew this wretched

creature's weak points and what would procure him the poison he dared

not buy from any druggist or chemist. Anyone who saw this woman could

read her story. Gay as she was, buoyant as her spirit rose in certain

moments of ecstatic passion, she had corresponding moods of morbid

depression, possibly of actual suffering, which only morphine could

relieve. He knew this and used his knowledge without let or scruple.

Was he a monster of selfishness, or only another instance of a good

man gone to the bad for the love of a worthless woman? The latter

theory seemed the more probable, since all good instincts could not be

lacking in a man who had been confessedly helpful in many ways towards

rescuing the needy and aiding the unhappy.

Undone by a woman! Was that the situation? It is a common one, God

knows. Yet I found it hard to allot her the place suggested by this

theory. She did not look like one capable of inclining a man to

murder. Yet might I not be playing the fool in cherishing so generous

an estimate of her? Might I not be as yet too much under the spell of

her peculiar grace to rightly judge the nature underlying it? What did

I know of him or of her, that I should burden him with all the blame;

and in what did my own wild, uncalculating passion for a woman who not

only did not love me, but of whose real character I knew little save

as it shone for me through her captivating face, differ from the

feeling which might easily be awakened in a still more ardent breast

by a creature of so much grace and fire?

Certainly the words I had overheard Leighton Gillespie use in his

colloquy with the Salvation Army Captain showed the existence of

feelings far beyond those usually associated with a commonplace

passion; so did the lines he had left behind him for this waif. But

if it was love which moved him, it was a love which did not shrink

from involving its object in crime. This she had herself recognised,

else why had she shown such terror at the mention of his name and made

such a hazardous attempt at escape when threatened by the prospect of

further association with him?

The progress which I had made in the case I had undertaken against

this man may seem to have reached a point justifying me in

communicating the result to Hope. But though I had succeeded in

supplying one of the missing links heretofore mentioned as necessary

to that end, I nevertheless hesitated to approach her till the whole

chain was complete. Her very desire to believe her youngest cousin

innocent would make her slow in accepting conclusions too much in the

line of her own wishes. She might even now be moved by secret hopes in

this direction, might cherish convictions and calm herself with

soothing anticipations of restored confidence in Alfred, but she would

require the most positive evidence that the potion, however and by

whomever obtained, had been actually and knowingly administered by

Leighton. To the establishment of this last link in the chain, I must

therefore address myself; an almost hopeless task, from which I shrank

with very natural misgivings.

Two paths of inquiry, and two only, offered any promise of success.

One of these struck me as practicable; the other not. But the

practicable one was not within my reach, while the other was little

more than a dream. I allude in the first instance to the knowledge

supposed to lie hidden within the breast of the old butler; while the

dream--well, the dream was this: For some time I had suspected the

existence of a secret and as yet unknown witness of this crime, a

witness for whose appearance on the scene I had daily looked, and from

whom I did not yet despair of gleaning valuable testimony. What basis

had I for this dream? I will endeavour to explain.

In presenting to your notice a diagram of the parlour floor of the

Gillespie house, I was careful to show the window to be found at the

left of Mr. Gillespie's desk. But I drew no attention to this window,

nor did I think it worth my while to say that I found the shade of

this window rolled up when I first followed Claire into the room.

Later, I drew this shade down, but not before noticing that a window

stood open in the extension running back of the Gillespie yard from

the adjoining house on Fifty- ---- Street, and that in the room thus

disclosed a man was to be seen moving uneasily about.

Now, if this man had been in that room for any length of time, the

chances were that his glances had fallen more than once on the

brilliantly lighted interior of Mr. Gillespie's den, lying as it did

directly under his eye. If so, how much or how little had he seen of

what went on there? That is what I now proposed to find out.

That this person, who was a total stranger to me, had given no sign of

being in the possession of facts withheld from the police, did not

deter me from hoping that I should yet learn something from him. Many

men, among them myself, have an invincible dislike to the publicity

inseparable from the position of witness, and if this unknown man

imagined, as he naturally might, that the police were ignorant of the

opportunity which had been given him of looking into Mr. Gillespie's

house at a moment so critical, the chances were that he would keep

silent in regard to it. That his appearance at the window had been

simultaneous with my sight of him, and thus too late for him to have

seen more than I did of what went on in Mr. Gillespie's den, was a

possibility which would occur to any man. Also, that he might have

been there and in full sight of the window from the first, yet had

distractions of his own which kept him from making use of his

opportunities.

Nevertheless, the probabilities were favourable to the hope I had

conceived; and, deciding that in my present uncertainty any action was

better than none, I made up my mind to ascertain who this young man

was, and whether any means offered for my making his acquaintance.

Sam Underhill was the only man I knew capable of bringing this about.

I therefore went below in search of him, and was fortunate enough to

come upon him just as he was returning to his room for some theatre

tickets he had forgotten to put into his pocket. I attacked him before

he could back out.

"What is the name of those people who live in the first house west

from Fifth Avenue on Fifty- ----Street?" I asked. "Don't you remember

the house I mean? That very narrow brown-stone front, with a vase of

artificial flowers in one of the parlour windows."

"---- me if I know," he protested, in a high state of impatience, as

he snatched up the tickets he was looking for. Then, seeing that I was

in no condition to be fooled with, he admitted that the name was

Rosenthal, and carelessly added, "What do you want to know for? Oh, I

see, you are still on the scent; still harping on that Gillespie

poisoning case. Well, the Rosenthals may live near the people just

mentioned, but there's nothing in that for you or anyone else

interested in this crime."

"Why?"

"Because they move in a totally different set from the Gillespies.

They have absolutely no connection with them."

"Is there a young man in the family?"

"Yes."

"Well, I want to know him. Find a way of presenting me to him, will

you?"

Sam's amazement was amusing.

"You want an introduction to Israel Rosenthal?"

"I have said so."

"Well, everyone to his taste. I'll procure you one this evening at the

theatre. He's a great patron of the Lyceum."

"And are you going there?"

"As soon as you release me."

"Very good; expect to find me in the lobby after the first act."

"I'm obliged to you." This because I had moved out of his way. I have

seen Sam when he was personally more agreeable to me.

It would be impossible for me to say what play I saw that night. It

was one of the well-known successes of the season, but it meant

nothing to me. All my mind and attention were on the young man I had

come there to see.

He was in one of the boxes; this I found out before the first act was

over; and though I caught flitting glimpses of his face, I did not see

him closely enough to form any judgment of his temper or disposition.

When the first act was over I went into the lobby, but Sam did not

join me there till it was nearly time for the curtain to rise again.

Then he came alone.

"He'll be out at the end of the third act," he remarked. "The wait is

a long one and he will be sure to improve it in the usual way."

I nodded and Sam went back. Strange to say, he was interested in the

play, if I was not.

I had no intention of forcing an immediate disclosure from Mr.

Rosenthal. Neither the time nor place was propitious for that. When,

therefore, the anticipated moment arrived and Sam sauntered out from

one aisle and Rosenthal from another, I merely pulled myself together

to the point of making myself agreeable to the rather unpromising

subject of my present interest. We were introduced offhand by Sam,

who, if he did not like the job (and it was very evident he did not),

at least went through his part in a way not to disturb the raw pride

of my new acquaintance. Then we began to talk, and I thought I saw

more than ordinary satisfaction in the manner with which young

Rosenthal received my advances, a satisfaction which led me to

mentally inquire whether his pleasure rose from gratification at

Underhill's attention or from any erroneous idea he may have had of my

being a stepping-stone to certain desirable acquaintances. Or, more

important still, was he, for reasons I was not as yet ready to dwell

upon, glad to know a man whom all recognised as an important witness

in the great affair whose unsolved mystery was still the theme of half

the town? I curbed my impatience and was eagerly pursuing the

conversation towards a point which might settle this disturbing

question, when, presto! the curtain rose on the fourth act and he flew

to regain his box.

But not before Sam, with a self-denial I shall not soon forget, had

asked him round to our apartments after the play; which invitation

young Rosenthal seemed glad to accept, for he nodded with great

eagerness as he disappeared around the curtains of the doorway.

"So much to humour a friend!" growled Sam, as he, too, started for his

seat.

I smiled and went home.

At about midnight Sam came in with my expected guest, and we had a

rarebit and ale. In the midst of the good feeling thus established,

Rosenthal broke forth in the very explanation I had been expecting

from the first.

"I say! you were with old Gillespie when he died."

"The fact is well known," I returned, refraining from glancing at Sam,

though much inclined to do so.

"Well, I've a mighty curiosity about that case; seems somehow as if I

had had a hand in it."

There was champagne on the table; I pushed the bottle towards Sam, who

proceeded to open it. While this was going on I answered Mr.

Rosenthal, with all the appearance of surprise he doubtless expected:

"How's that? Oh, I think I understand. You are a neighbour. All who

live near them must feel somewhat as you do."

"It isn't that," he protested, draining his glass, which Sam

immediately refilled. "I have never told anyone,--I don't know why I

tell you fellows,--but I was almost in at that death. You see, the

windows of my room look directly down on the little den in which he

died, and I chanced to be looking in its direction just as----"

Here he stopped to enjoy his second glass. As the rim slowly rose,

obscuring his eyes, I caught an admiring Hm! from Sam, which filled,

without relieving, this moment of suspense. As the glass rang down

again on the table, Rosenthal finished his sentence:

"--just as Mr. Gillespie lifted his window to empty out a glass of

something. Now, what was that something? I have asked myself a dozen

times since his death."

"But this is evidence! This is a fact you ought to have communicated

to the police," broke in Underhill, with momentary fire. Perhaps it

was a real one, perhaps it was the means he used to draw Rosenthal

out.

"And be dragged up before a thousand people, all whispering and

joggling to see me? No, I have too much self-respect. I only speak of

it now," said he with great dignity, "because I'm so deuced curious

to know whether it was poison he threw out, a dose of chloral, or just

plain wine. It might have been any of these three, but I have always

thought it was the first, because he seemed so afraid of being seen."

"Afraid of being seen drinking it or of throwing it out?"

"Throwing it out."

"Oh!"

Sam and I stopped helping ourselves to wine and left the bottle to

him.

"Do you know what time this was?" I asked.

"No; how should I? It was before ten, for at ten he was dead."

"It could not have been poison he threw out or even the remains of

it," I remarked, "for that would imply suicide; and the verdict was

one of murder."

Mr. Rosenthal was just far enough gone to accept this assertion.

"That's so. I wonder I never thought of that before. Then it must have

been wine. Now, I wouldn't have thought so badly of Mr. Gillespie as

that. I always considered him a sensible man, and no sensible man

pours wine out of a window," he sapiently remarked, raising his glass.

It was empty, and he set it down again; then he took up the bottle.

That was empty, too. Grumbling some unintelligible words, he glanced

at the cabinet.

We failed to understand him.

"There are but two excuses for a man who deliberately wastes wine," he

proceeded, in tipsy argument with himself. "Either he has had enough--hard

to think that of Mr. Gillespie at so early an hour in the evening--or else

the liquor's bad. Now, only a fool would accuse a man like Mr. Gillespie

of having bad liquor in his house, unless--unless--something got into

it--Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, with the complacency of one who has

unexpectedly made a remarkable discovery, "there _was_ something in it,

something which gave it a bad taste. Prussic acid has a bad taste, hasn't

it?--and not liking the taste he flung the wine away. No man would go on

drinking wine with prussic acid in it," he mumbled on. "Now, which of

those fellows was it who poured him out that wine?"

We sat silent; both bound that he should supply his own answer.

"I ought to know; I've read about it enough. It was the slick one; the

fellow who goes by me as if I were dirt--Oh, I know; it's Leighton!

Leighton!" And he stumbled to his feet with a sickening leer.

"I'm going down to the police station," he cried. "I'm going to inform

the authorities----"

"Not to-night," I protested, rising and speaking somewhat forcibly in

his ear. "If you go there to-night they will shut you up till

morning--jail you!"

He laughed boisterously. "That would be a joke. None of that for me.

I'll see them dashed first." And he looked at us with a sickly smile,

the remembrance of which will make me hate him forever. Suddenly he

began to search for his hat. "I think I'll go home," he observed, with

an air of extreme condescension. "Leighton Gillespie, eh? Well, I'm

glad the question is settled. Here's to his health! and yours--and

yours----"

He was gone.

We were both on our feet ready to assist him in his departure. But he

got away in good shape, and when the lower door slammed we

congratulated each other with a look. Then Sam seized the bottle and I

the glass from which this fellow had drunk, and both fell crashing

into the fireplace. Then Sam spoke:

"I fear Leighton Gillespie will sleep his last sound sleep to-night."

"You must consider the drivel we have just listened to as of some

importance, then," I declared.