SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS.
It is early in the evening. Jack Ashley is seated at his desk in the
Hemisphere office enjoying his pipe preliminary to setting forth on an
assignment.
The month is March. Nearly a year has elapsed since Ashley’s first visit
to the Vermont town which, for a brief space, came into the world’s eye
as the scene of the mysterious death of Cashier Roger Hathaway in the
Raymond National Bank. During this time no further light has been shed
on the mystery, which has gradually dropped from the thoughts of all
save a few persons, two of whom are Ashley and John Barker, the
detective.
Jack hears from Barker occasionally. The latter is busy on other work,
but he still keeps a live interest in what he regards as the case of his
life, and both he and his newspaper colaborer hope some day to astonish
Vermont, and incidentally the country, by solving the Hathaway mystery,
one of the most remarkable in the criminal annals of New England.
But as the months slipped by Ashley’s stock of confidence decreased
slightly and to-night finds him wondering whether he will ever have the
privilege of handing the news editor a bundle of “copy,” with the remark
“There is an exclusive that is worth while.”
“I have helped run down a number of crimes and fasten them upon the
guilty persons,” he soliloquizes, “and have flattered myself that I was
something of a detective. But in each of those cases the trembling
villain was on or about the scene of his crime and when you had your
case made out all there was to do was to clap a heavy hand upon his
shoulder. But in this Hathaway drama about all of the leading characters
have disappeared, and the man whom we regard as the key to the mystery,
Ernest Stanley, is the very man we are least likely to find.
“But is Stanley the key?” continues Jack, stretching himself in his
chair. “I don’t think Barker and I have attached sufficient importance
to that blotter found on Hathaway’s desk. These fragments of sentences
keep haunting me, even amid my daily duties. Something tells me that if
we had the imprint of an entire page of that letter to Felton we could
solve the mystery without finding our men. ‘These things I charge you,
Cyrus Felton, fail not at the peril of your good name.’ ‘These things—’”
Ashley is slowly scratching a match to relight his pipe, when he
suddenly stops and his thought-wrinkled forehead smooths.
“Hello! Here’s an idea, perhaps a valuable one. It is possible that
Barker and I have been all wrong in regarding that letter as an
accusation. The English language is elastic. ‘I charge you, Cyrus
Felton,’—‘I charge you, I charge you, I charge you.’ Now, instead of ‘I
accuse you,’ read ‘I adjure you.’ But ‘I adjure you,’ what? To ‘fail
not.’ To ‘fail not’ in what? Ay, there’s the rub. I am as much in the
dark as before. Still the idea is worth considering, and I’ll spring it
on Barker.”
Ashley finishes his smoke in silence and when the last flake of tobacco
has yielded its solace he draws on his coat and boards an uptown car.
In that brilliantly lighted section of Broadway where stands the Hoffman
House, Jack stops a moment to chat with an acquaintance.
“Say,” remarks the latter, “there’s a chap yonder staring hard at you.
Know him?”
At his friend’s suggestion Ashley turns suddenly and catches the
searching gaze of a tall, handsome man with a dark-brown beard trimmed
to a point. He is richly but simply attired, and his appearance is
unmistakably that of a gentleman. As Ashley returns his stare with
interest the stranger turns and enters the hotel.
The incident is trivial, but it awakens curious emotions in Ashley, and
absently overlooking his acquaintance’s suggestion of a visit to the
cafe, he says an au revoir and continues up Broadway.
“I have seen those eyes somewhere,” he muses, “but hang me if I can
recall where.”
As, late in the evening, his assignment covered, Ashley is sauntering
down Broadway, he is haunted by the vision of a bearded face surrounding
a pair of piercing eyes. He even drops in at the Hoffman House and looks
through the bar room, cafe and reading rooms, but the handsome stranger
is not in view.
Ashley has been in Raymond once since he left it, the spring before, and
he was kindly received by Miss Hathaway. But that was all. Not all his
engaging manners and clever conversation could penetrate the reserve
with which she surrounded herself, and he almost decided that she was
indeed the marble which he professed to Barker to have solely interested
him. Still, that pure white face, with its matchless blue eyes and the
sad smile that occasionally lighted it, lingers vividly in his memory
and will continue to linger until—
He is at the Hemisphere office now. A very short time suffices to write
and hand in his “copy” and then he lounges into the cable editor’s room,
with the inquiry: “What news from over the sea, Chance?”
“Nothing special except the insurrection in Cuba,” Chance tells him.
“Affairs are getting hot down there. You can judge of the magnitude of
to-day’s battle at Cienfuegos when you read that thirty Spaniards were
killed and fifty captured.”
“I should say so,” laughs Ashley. “The average mortality per battle is
three men killed and four wounded, is it not?”
The cable editor throws a handful of “copy” from him with a sniff of
disgust. “One can never tell how far to trust this rot we are getting
from Madrid and Key West,” he says. “I wish the Hemisphere had a live
man such as you down in Cuba to give us some straight information on the
conflict.”
“Thank you. I have no desire to run up against Yellow Jack.”
“Hang Yellow Jack! He is only dangerous to those half-fed raw recruits
that the government is sending over from Spain. I have talked with Mr.
Hone about the advantage of sending a representative to Havana or
Santiago, and he is seriously considering it. Hold on! Here’s something
coming now,” and Chance turns to his table.
Ashley waits until the dispatch has been received, and then reads with
interest the following special from Madrid:
“Ten thousand additional troops will be dispatched to Cuba
within a week, in response to the demand of Gen. Martinez de
Truenos, the new captain-general of the island. Gen. Truenos has
had experience in fighting Cuban insurgents, and a speedy
termination of the uprising is looked for.”
“Same old bluff,” comments Ashley, and then, awakened to an interest in
Cuban affairs by the words of the cable editor, he visits the
night-editor’s den in search of further information.
The longest story is from Key West, and a portion of it runs in this
wise:
“The insurgents are winning victories every day. The Cuban
patriots do not need more men. All they want is arms and
ammunition.
“It is whispered that the greatest difficulty with which the
present captain-general has to contend is the conspiring among
his own alleged supporters and advisers. One or two Spanish
generals and a number of influential residents and land-owners
at Havana, Santiago and other important points are suspected of
active sympathy with the insurgents, but no proof of such
complicity can be obtained. It is even said that the chosen
president of the provisional republic is at present in Cuba, and
that under the very nose of the hated oppressor he directs the
movements of the patriot armies. It is thought that this
condition of affairs is responsible for the change in
captain-generals, as Truenos is reputed to be a clever diplomat
as well as a tried soldier. The next few months will probably
decide the fate of the republic. The Cubans must win this year
or never.”
“What do you think?” Ashley asks the night editor. “Has the island any
chance of liberty?”
“The prospects were never rosier,” is Chambers’ reply. “It is evident
that the Castilian has an enormous job on his hands in the present
insurrection. We received a dispatch a short while ago which has a local
reference. I sent it up to Hone, and perhaps Ricker has it by this time.
It states that the insurgents count upon valuable assistance from New
York and that an expedition is being fitted out here. This wire came
from Washington and the Spanish minister there has asked our government
to prohibit the assistance I speak of. Hello!” as a bunch of copy is
thrown upon his table, “the president has issued a proclamation bearing
on the matter.”
The proclamation is brief but significant. It sets forth that, without a
violation of the friendly relations existing between Spain and the
United States, this government cannot countenance the fitting out of
expeditions designed to assist the insurrectionists in Cuba. A number of
United States vessels have been ordered to patrol duty, and a rigid
surveillance of the coast will be maintained.
“That may be good government, but it is confoundedly un-American in
sentiment,” remarks Ashley, scornfully, for he is an American through
and through.
“The government’s course was clear,” Chambers mildly observes. “The
President could do nothing less. I do not imagine, however, that the
patrol will be much more than perfunctory.”
When Ashley reports at the Hemisphere office the next day he finds in
his letter box two yellow envelopes. One is from the city editor and
contains an assignment to interview Senor Rafael Manada of the Cuban
revolutionary society in the United States. The senor is stopping at the
Fifth Avenue and a full story on Cuban affairs from the New York end is
wanted.
“Well this is something new, at any rate,” thinks Jack, and he tears
open the second envelope. This contains a dispatch dated from Raymond,
Vt., the night before, and Ashley whistles softly as he comprehends the
concise but thoroughly interesting contents:
“See you to-morrow afternoon at your office. I have found
Hathaway’s revolver. Barker.”
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