MURPHY’S DEATH.
Both men listened intently. The groan was repeated.
Enoch tore aside the carpet. A trap was disclosed, and he opened it.
Burt lighted a match, and looked into the opening. He saw a flight of
stairs.
“I’ll go down,” said Enoch; and he did so.
The stairs were enclosed on all four sides. At the bottom of the
shaft Cook found Monte Murphy. The old fence was all but unconscious.
Enoch picked him up in his arms and began the ascent, which he found
laborious, the stairway being very steep.
When Cook arrived in the hall with his ghastly burden, Tony Riley
turned deathly pale. Murphy’s clothing was saturated with blood.
Burt sent Enoch after a doctor. The wounded man continued to moan
piteously. When the doctor came, he expressed surprise that the old
man could have bled so much and lived. He made Monte as comfortable
as possible, and had Cook help him carry the man to bed.
The doctor said that, at most, his patient could not survive beyond a
few hours.
“Now, my man,” said Burt, addressing Riley, when the “fence” was
removed, “what have you got to say for yourself?”
“I didn’t know the old jigger was down there,” replied Tony.
“I’ll soon know whether you did or not.”
“At any rate, I don’t know who stabbed him,” said Riley.
Cook now returned, and, leaving him in charge of Tony, Burt visited
the “fence’s” bedside. Burt felt that he could safely trust Enoch to
guard his prisoner, and his confidence was not misplaced.
As Burt entered the sick-chamber, he was met by the doctor, who
gently forced him outside.
“The man is now conscious,” said the physician; “but, as I have
already declared, his death is only a matter of a few hours.”
“Does he know I am in the house?”
“I told him there was an officer here.”
“Is he able to converse?”
“Oh, yes,” replied the doctor; “I wanted to say to you that I told
him there was a slight chance of him recovering.”
“I should have told him the truth; it is cruel to deceive him.”
The physician colored.
“I know my business!” he exclaimed.
“I rather doubt that. What is your fee?”
The doctor named his fee, and Burt paid it. Then Burt went in to see
the “fence.”
Monte Murphy was bolstered up in bed with pillows. He immediately
recognized his visitor.
“Am I going to die?”
That was Murphy’s first question.
“What did the doctor say?”
“That I might recover; but I did not believe him.”
“He told you a lie; you have no possible chance,” said Burt.
Monte gave a great start. He did not want to die. Who does?
For more than fifty years Murphy had led a most wicked life. He had
once been married, and it was said of him that he had starved his
wife to death.
Monte was a firm believer in eternal punishment. It was not the
physical torture of death he feared; it was the hereafter.
Burt believed it was his bounden duty to tell the sufferer the truth.
Murphy used to tell himself that one day or another he would begin
a life of repentance. The day never came, and now he stood on the
threshold of an after-life.
“Oh!” he said, in the most bitter anguish; “I must surely have some
little chance!”
Burt shook his head, but did not otherwise reply.
“Give me some of that.”
Monte pointed to a flask upon the mantel. Burt smelled of the flask,
and found it contained whisky. He handed it to the wounded man.
Monte gulped down a big drink. The liquor gave him false courage.
“I won’t die; I feel better already,” he said. “Now, what brings you
here?”
“I came to recover the property you stole.”
“The big diamond?”
“Yes.”
“Curse the gem! But it is accursed. Had I never seen it, this
misfortune would not have come to me!” groaned Murphy.
“Where is it?”
“I haven’t got it.”
“You stole it?”
“I don’t deny that; but, in turn, the diamond, and all my other
valuables that were in yonder safe, were stolen from me.”
“By whom?”
“Bull Blair and Tony Riley.”
“Which of them stabbed you?”
“Neither.”
Burt regarded the “fence” with surprise.
“You didn’t stab yourself?”
“No; an agent of Kidd and Cook ‘done’ me,” replied Monte.
“How do you know the party was their agent?” inquired Burt.
“I had his word for it.”
“Do you mean to say they sent him here to murder you?”
“They certainly sent him after the diamond; he could not have known I
possessed it unless they told him.”
“Who is this man?”
“Mike Quick.”
Burt emitted a low whistle. Now he knew why Quick had turned pale
when he last confronted him.
“Mike did not get the diamond?”
“No; Bull Blair collared it.”
“Blair did not know of you having it, did he?” asked Burt.
“No; he came here to gut my safe, and he took that with the rest. I
am ruined.”
Tears coursed down the wretched miser’s furrowed cheeks. It was for
the loss of money he could never enjoy he wept.
“I have Tony Riley in custody.”
“I’ve fed and clothed that rascal, and it was he who put Bull Blair
up to rob me.”
“Then it wasn’t Quick who left you at the foot of the cellar shaft?”
“No; it was Blair and Riley,” replied Monte; “but I will get square!”
He would not realize that he stood on the edge of the grave.
“Where do you suppose Bull can be found?” asked Burt.
“Leave him to me. I’ll take care of him!”
“Won’t you answer my question?”
“I have answered it.”
“Monte, I must recover that diamond.”
“Who owns it?”
“That does not concern you.”
“Neither does it concern you where Blair is to be found.”
“I must be personally revenged upon him. He found me dying, and he
threw me in the shaft, to die like a dog!”
A fit of coughing prevented the miser from proceeding farther just
then. Burt raised the man higher in the bed, that he might breathe
more freely. Monte did not even thank him.
“Don’t you think you had better see a minister?” asked Burt.
Murphy laughed.
“I’m not going to die, I tell you,” he said.
“Won’t you tell me where I can find Bull Blair?”
“No.”
“Then I shall find him without your help,” said Burt.
“In a day or two I shall find him myself, and I shall also settle my
little account with Mike Quick.”
The old “fence” seemed to be seized with a sudden chill. He tried to
speak, but was unable. Then he clutched his own throat wildly. The
whisky flask had fallen on the bed, and its contents ran from it.
Monte Murphy was a corpse! Burt caught hold of the man’s wrist. He
found that the pulse had ceased to beat. Mike Quick was a murderer.
But how was his crime to be brought home to him?
Burt only had Murphy’s word for the dive-keeper’s guilt, and now
Murphy was dead. He straightened the corpse upon the bed, and
placed a handkerchief over the features of the dead. Then he went
down-stairs.
Cook stood guard over Tony.
“How is the old fellow coming on?” asked Enoch.
“He is dead.”
Riley’s hair almost stood on end from fright.