I.

AFTER some thirty years, one begins to appreciate in a slight degree

the mystery of things in counter-distinction to the mystery of men. He

learns with dumb horror that startling and unforeseen events break into

the shrewdest plans and dash them to pieces utterly, or with grim malice

wrench them into engines of destruction, as though some mighty hand

reached out from the darkness and shattered the sculptor's marble, or

caught the chisel in his fingers and drove it back into his heart.

As one grows older, he seeks to avoid, as far as may be, the effect of

these unforeseen interpositions, by carrying in his plans a factor of

safety, and, as what he is pleased to call his "worldly wisdom" grows,

he increases this factor until it is a large constant running through

all his equations dealing with probabilities of the future. Whether in

the end it has availed anything, is still, after six thousand years,

a mooted question. Nevertheless, it is the manner of men to calculate

closely in their youth, disregarding the factor of safety, and ignoring

utterly the element of Chance, Fortune, ar Providence, as it may please

men to name this infinite meddling intelligence. Whether this arises

from ignorance or some natural unconscious conviction that it is useless

to strive against it, the race has so far been unable to determine.

That it is useless to, the weight of authorities would seem to indicate,

while, on the other hand, the fact that men are amazed and dumbfounded

when they first realize the gigantic part played by this mysterious

power in all human affairs, and immediately thereafter plan to evade

it, would tend to the conviction that there might be some means by which

these startling accidents could be guarded against, or at least their

effect counteracted.

The laws, if in truth there be any, by which these so-called fortunes

and misfortunes come to men, are as yet undetermined, except that they

arise from the quarter of the unexpected, and by means oftentimes of the

commonplace.

On a certain Friday evening in July, Carper Harris, confidential

clerk of the great wholesale house of Beaumont, Milton, & Company of

Baltimore, was suddenly prostrated under the horror of this great truth.

For the first time in his life Fate had turned about and struck him, and

the blow had been delivered with all her strength.

Up to this time he had been an exceedingly fortunate man. To begin with,

he had been born of a good family, although, at the time of his father's

death, reduced in circumstances. While quite a small boy, he had been

taken in as clerk through the influence of Mr. Milton, who had been a

friend of his father. The good blood in the young man had told from the

start. He had shown himself capable and unusually shrewd in business

matters, and had risen rapidly to the position of chief confidential

clerk. In this position he was intrusted with the most important matters

of the firm, and was familiar with all its business relations. His

abilities had expanded with the increasing duties of his successive

positions. He had done the firm much service, and had shown himself to

be a most valuable and trustworthy man. But, with it all, the eyes of

old Silas Beaumont had followed his every act, in season and out of

season, tirelessly. It was a favorite theory of old Beaumont, that

the great knave was usually the man of irreproachable habits, and

necessarily the man of powerful and unusual abilities, and that, instead

of resorting to ordinary vices or slight acts of rascality, he was wont

to bide his time until his reputation gained him opportunity for some

gigantic act of dishonesty, whereby he could make a vast sum at one

stroke.

Old Beaumont was accustomed to cite two scriptural passages as the basis

of his theory, one being that oft-quoted remark of David in his haste,

and the other explanatory of what the Lord saw when he repented that he

had made man on the earth.

Like all those of his type, when this theory had once become fixed with

him, he sought on all occasions for instances by which to demonstrate

its truthfulness. Thus it happened that the honesty and industry

of young Harris were the very grounds upon which Beaumont based his

suspicions and his acts of vigilance.

When it was proposed that Carper Harris should go to Europe in order to

buy certain grades of pottery which the firm imported, Beaumont grumbled

and intimated that it was taking a large risk to intrust money to him.

He said the sum was greater than the young man had been accustomed

to handle, that big amounts of cash were dangerous baits, and then

he switched over to his theory and hinted that just this kind of

opportunity would be the one which a man would seize for his master act

of dishonesty. The other members of the firm ridiculed the idea, and

arranged the matter over Silas Beaumont's protest.

Thus it happened that about seven o'clock on the eventful Friday,

Carper Harris left Baltimore for New York. He carried a small hand-bag

containing twenty thousand dollars, with which he was to buy foreign

exchange. Arriving at the depot he had checked his luggage and had gone

into the chair-car with only his overcoat and the little hand-bag. He

laid his overcoat across the back of the seat and set the little satchel

down in the seat beside him. He had been particularly careful that the

money should be constantly guarded, and for that reason he had attempted

to keep his hand on the handle of the bag during the entire trip,

although he was convinced that there was no danger or risk of any

consequence, for the reason that no one would suspect that the satchel

contained cash. When he arrived in New York he had gone directly to his

hotel and asked to be shown up to his room. It was his intention to look

over the money carefully and see that it was all right, after which he

would have it placed in one of the deposit boxes in the hotel safe until

morning.

When Harris set the hand-bag down on the table under the light, after

the servant had left the room, something about its general appearance

struck his attention, and he bent down to examine it closely. As he did

so his heart seemed to leap into his throat, and the cold perspiration

burst out on his forehead and began to run down his face in streams. The

satchel before him on the table was not the one in which he had placed

the money in Baltimore, and with which he had left the counting-house of

Beaumont, Milton, & Company. The young man attempted to insert the key

in the lock of the satchel, but his hand trembled so that he could not

do it, and in an agony of fear he threw down the keys and wrenched the

satchel open. His great fear was only too well founded. The satchel

contained a roll of newspapers. For a moment Carper Harris stood dazed

and dumbfounded by his awful discovery; then he sank down in a heap on

the floor and covered his face with his hands.

Of all the dreaded calamities that Fate could have sent, this was

the worst. All that he had hoped for and labored for was gone by a

stroke,--wiped out ruthlessly, and by no act or wrong of his. The man

sat on the floor like a child, and literally wrung his hands in anguish,

and strove to realize all the terrible results that would follow in the

wake of this unforeseen calamity.

First of all there was Beaumont's theory, and the horror of the thought

gripped his heart like a frozen hand. It stood like some grim demon

barring the only truthful and honorable way out of the matter. How could

he go back and say that he had been robbed. Beaumont would laugh the

idea to scorn and gloat over the confirmation of his protest. Little

would explanation avail. His friends would turn against him, and join

with Beaumont, and seek to make the severity of their accusation against

him atone for their previous trust and confidence, and their disregard

of what they would now characterize as Mr. Beaumont's unusual foresight.

And then, if they would listen to explanation, what explanation was

there to make? He had left their counting-house with the money in the

afternoon, and now in New York in the evening he claimed to have been

robbed. And how? That some one had substituted another hand-bag for the

one with which he started, without attacking him and even without his

slightest suspicion--a probable story indeed! Why, the hand-bag there on

the table was almost exactly like the one he had taken with him to the

company's office. No one but himself could tell that it was not the same

bag. The whole matter would be considered a shrewd trick on his part,--a

cunningly arranged scheme to rob his employers of this large sum of

money. In his heated fancy he could see the whole future as it would

come. The hard smile of incredulity with which his story would be

greeted,--the arrest that would follow,--the sensational newspaper

reports of the defalcation of Carper Harris, confidential clerk of the

great wholesale house of Beaumont, Milton, & Company. The newspapers

would assume his guilt, as they always do when one is charged with

crime; they would speak of him as a defaulter, and would comment on the

story as an ingenious defence emanating from his shrewd counsel. Even

the newsboys on the street would convict him with the cry of, "All about

the trial of the great defaulter!" The jury its very self, when it went

into the box, would be going there to try a man already convicted of

crime. This conviction would have been forced upon them by the reports,

and they could not entirely escape from it, no matter how hard they

might try. Why, if one of them should be asked suddenly what he was

doing, in all possibility, if he should reply without stopping to think,

he would answer that he was trying the man who had robbed Beaumont,

Milton, & Company. So that way was barred, and it was a demon with a

flaming sword that kept it.

The man arose and began to pace the floor. He could not go back and tell

the truth. What other thing could he do? It was useless to inform the

police. That would simply precipitate the storm. It would be going

by another path the same way which he had convinced himself was so

effectually blocked. Nor did he dare to remain silent. The loss would

soon be discovered, and then his silence would convict him, while flight

was open confession of the crime.

Carper Harris had one brother living in New York,--a sort of black sheep

of the family, who had left home when a child to hazard his fortunes

with the cattle exporters. The family had attempted to control him, but

without avail. He had shifted around the stock-yards in Baltimore, and

had gone finally to New York, and was now a commission merchant, with an

office in Jersey City. The relation between this man and the family had

been somewhat strained, but now, in the face of this dreaded disaster,

Harris felt that he was the only one to appeal to--not that he hoped

that his brother could render him any assistance, but because he must

consult with some one, and this man was after all the only human being

whom he could trust.

He hastily scribbled a note, and, calling a messenger, sent it to his

brother's hotel. Then he threw himself down on the bed and covered his

face with his hands. What diabolical patience and cunning Fate sometimes

exhibits! All the good fortune which had come to young Harris seemed to

have been only for the purpose of smoothing the way into this trap.