I shan't forget what we did that night--the stealing down into the
echoing cellar--the flickering of the candle-light on the white-washed
walls--the sound of the spade clinking against a casual stone.
How we worked! Like slaves under the lash--an actual lash of terror.
For we were afraid, frankly and honestly afraid, of what we had done
and of what we were doing. I know that the sweat fairly poured off me.
My word! but it WAS hot, and there was a fearful significance in the
thought that urged us on to even greater exertions.
It had to be done, and at last it was, the bricks neatly replaced and
the surplus earth packed away in gunny-sacks to be removed at the first
favorable opportunity. Then in the gray dawn we drew ourselves wearily
up-stairs, and, separating without a word, went to our rooms. Was it
pure, malignant chance that the maid, Mary, passed me on her way
down-stairs and glanced, with a curious, shrinking repugnance, at my
earth-stained and dusty clothes? I did not care; I was dog-tired and I
wanted but one thing--bed. I reached my couch, fell sprawling upon it,
and slept for seven hours straight.
It was a relief to awake from the phantasmagoria of horrors that
crowded my dreams. It was nearly two o'clock, and I had written to my
friend Ellison asking him to luncheon at that hour. The meal was rather
a silent one for two of us, but Ellison talked incessantly. He was in
high spirits, having just been appointed to a university professorship
in physiology--his specialty. "I've been busy getting my lecture
material together," he explained, and "I had a beastly piece of bad
luck the other day. My own fault, I suppose, but it illustrates the
point that our American baggage system is still far from perfection.
Now the European idea--"
"Shall we go into the library for coffee," said Indiman, a little
abruptly, and I could see that Ellison's chatter was beginning to get
on his nerves; my own were vibrating like harp-strings. I walked over
to one of the library windows and looked out, just in time to catch
sight of a man backing quickly into the shadow of the areaway opposite.
From down the street came the sound of a childish voice singing. Great
Heavens! It was Verdi's aria "Celeste Aida," with F natural in the
third bar instead of F sharp.
"I am going out for a few minutes," I said, carelessly. "Just around
the corner to get a special-delivery stamp. Of course you'll wait,
Ellison," and I gave Indiman a quick glance. He understood.
Perhaps I was shadowed by the watchers in the areaway. I neither knew
nor cared. My one idea was to catch up with the child, and this time
luck was with me.
The little girl acknowledged shyly that she had learned the tune from a
hand-organ. "It belongs to my uncle Bartolomeo," she explained,
proudly. "It is a good organ, signore. There are little figures of men
and women under the glass front, and when the musica plays they
dance--so."
Uncle Bartolomeo was fortunately at home, and I persuaded him to
accompany me back to 4020 Madison Avenue. He spoke English perfectly,
and looked both honest and shrewd. Well, we would find some way of
getting the truth out of him.
A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen
already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the
door I waited a moment.
Brownson sat at the long table, the picture of the zealous and
efficient guardian of public safety. The maid-servant, Mary, had just
been interrogated--of course, it was she who had betrayed us, and
Brownson was evidently her young man. What infernal luck!
"Now, Mr Indiman--" said Brownson, sternly, "but be careful what you
say; it may be used against you."
Indiman told the whole story without reserve, and Brownson listened
with cold incredulity. But Ellison seemed interested.
"A baggage-check handed in at the door," commented the detective, with
judicial impassivity. "Where is this organ-grinder?"
"Here," I answered, and entered with Uncle Bartolomeo.
But the examination, severe as it was, revealed only the bare fact that
Bartolomeo had found the brass baggage-check lying on the sidewalk in
front of No. 4020 Madison Avenue. He was an honest man, and, moreover,
the acticle was of no use to him. He had given it to the servant at the
door to be handed over to the gentleman of the house. That was all he
knew. By the Holy Virgin, he had spoken the truth!
Brownson rang the call-bell. "Bring in the trunk," he said, curtly, and
forthwith two policemen appeared with the fatal box, just as it had
been exhumed from its resting-place in the coal-bin. "Hullo!" blurted
out Ellison, in vast surprise, and somehow my sinking spirits revived
with the word.
"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Brownson, frowning at the
interruption.
"Dr. Ellison," I answered.
"Medicine?"
"Yes."
"Hum," said Brownson, importantly. "I will ask him to kindly take
charge--"
"I should think so," broke in Ellison, cheerfully, "seeing that it's my
own property. I lost baggage-check No. 18329, from Cleveland to New
York, the night of my arrival in town, and somewhere in this very
neighborhood. The next morning I went to the Grand Central to prove my
ownership, but the trunk had been claimed and carried away."
"You are aware, Dr. Ellison," said Brownson, "that this trunk
contains--well, we all know what."
"Oh, do we!" retorted Ellison, smartly. "Just stand back there." He
took a key from his pocket and unlocked the trunk. An irresistible
curiosity drew us forward again. Ellison seized the wrapping and jerked
it forcibly apart. I turned my eyes away, and Mary screamed outright.
"Did you never see an anatomical manikin before?" asked Ellison,
scornfully. "Made out of papier-mache, you know, and used for
demonstrations in physiology before college classes. They used to come
from Paris, but they're making them in Cleveland now, and better than
the French ones. I tell you I'm mighty glad to get my 'old man' back;
he's just out of the shop and cost me a hundred-dollar bill."
Mr. Detective Brownson walked over to the trunk, gazed intently at the
manikin, and gingerly poked it once or twice in the ribs. He turned red
and swallowed at something in his throat.
"So you wish to make a charge against these gentlemen?" he asked, with
almost a note of appeal in his voice.
"Not I," answered Ellison, cheerfully. "It's all between friends, and
they can settle the matter with me over a petit souper at Delmonico's.
Good-day, officer."
How quickly the echoes of the strenuous life die away. After the
storm and stress of those dreadful four days one would suppose that
peace at any price were the one thing worth while. And for a month or
more we were quite content with the humdrum of ordinary existence. And
then just because a game of patience would not make--
X