THE MYSTERIOUS WART.
We left Dyke Darrel, the detective, in a critical position on the
railroad track, with the roar of a freight engine in his ears. The
rays of the rising sun touched the glittering rails as the long train
swept around the bend upon doomed Dyke Darrel.
One more tremendous effort on the part of the detective, and he
succeeded in throwing his body squarely across one of the rails. In
this position he hung a helpless weight, with the hoarse roar of the
engine making anything but sweet music to his fainting soul.
Ha! Look! A hand is outstretched to save at the last moment, and Dyke
Darrel is jerked from under the smoking wheels, even as their breath
fans his fevered cheek.
The train swept on.
A cheer greeted the man who had come opportunely to the rescue as the
engine swept on its course.
And a little later a man, young, yet whose boyish face bore marks of
dissipation, stood beside the detective and gazed into his face now
for the first time.
"Great Caesar!"
The young man started as though cut by a knife, and bent low over the
fallen detective, who was now struggling to a sitting posture.
When he looked into the face of his rescuer he uttered a great cry.
"My soul! how came you here, Martin Skidway?"
"I am a fugitive," answered the young convict. "It wasn't through your
good will that I got out of prison, I can tell you that. Had I known
who it was on the track, I might not have put out my hand to save."
The detective regarded the speaker in no little amazement. This was
the second time he had escaped from the Missouri prison, which argued
well for the man's keenness and capability, or else ill for the
official management of the prison.
"It was from the St. Louis prison that I escaped," explained Martin
Skidway a little later. "I never got inside the State institution a
second time. I've had a sweet time of it thus far."
"Tell me how you made your escape," said Dyke Darrel, who sat with his
back against a tree, and regarded the young counterfeiter in wonder.
"There isn't much to tell," returned Skidway. "I had no assistance,
but it seems that a pair of burglars had broken out by filing off the
grating to one of the corridor windows, and the opening had not been
repaired when I was taken to the jail. I was left in the corridor a
minute while the jailor was attending some other prisoners, and that
minute gave me the opportunity. I mounted a chair, climbed through the
window, and made my escape by the light of the moon. Of course there
was a big search, but I remained hidden in an old cellar under a
deserted house in a grove within the city limits, for several days,
and finally made good my escape from the State."
"And now?"
"I am going to put the ocean between me and the beaks of American
law."
Dyke Darrel regarded the speaker with mingled emotions. He saw in this
daring young fellow much talent, that had it been rightly directed,
might have made an honorable place in the world for Martin Skidway.
"I am helpless to arrest your steps just at present," groaned the
detective. "Would you do it after what has happened, if you were in a
condition to do so?" demanded the convict, bending over the man on the
ground, regarding him with a menacing look.
"Duty often calls one to do that which is disagreeable," answered Dyke
Darrel. A deep frown mantled the brows of the convict.
"I see that my mercy was misdirected," he said. "It seems that I have
saved your life only to give you a chance to dog me to doom. Think you
I am fool enough to permit this?"
There was a menace in the man's voice that Dyke Darrel did not like.
"I am at present helpless," he said. "I don't imagine you will harm a
man who is in no condition to injure you if he would."
"But you can talk. The first man who comes along will hear from you
that an escaped convict is in the rural districts of New York, and a
telegram will set ten thousand officers on the lookout for me. Without
such information I would not be recognized in this community. I am a
desperate man, Dyke Darrel, and do not propose to sacrifice myself for
your benefit."
"What will you do?"
"One of two things."
"Well?"
"You must solemnly swear that you will never reveal to another that I
am in this region, and swear also to make no effort to capture me
under a month, or else I shall have a painful duty to perform."
"Go on!"
"Will you take the required oath?'
"Certainly not."
"Then the other alternative is alone left me, Dyke Darrel."
"And that?"
"DEATH TO YOU!"
Straightening to his full height after uttering the three terrible
words, Martin Skidway snatched a heavy iron bolt from the ground, that
had lain long beside the track, and raised it above the head of
helpless Dyke Darrel.
"Martin Skidway, hold!"
The words of the detective came forth in a thrilling cry.
An instant the would be assassin stayed his hand.
"You agree to my terms?"
"No; but--"
"Then you must die. It will be considered an accident, and no one will
suspect my hand in the affair."
Again the young convict poised his weapon for deadly work. On the
instant the rumble of wheels met the ears of Martin Skidway.
A wagon containing two men was in sight, moving down a road that ran
parallel with the railway at this point. It was evident that the
occupants of the vehicle had seen Skidway, and to strike now would but
add to the vengeance of pursuit and punishment. With a curse, he
dropped the iron bolt and turned to flee.
"Dyke Darrel, if you inform on me, I will kill you at another time!"
hissed the convict.
Then he rushed from the spot and disappeared.
As the wagon came opposite it halted, and the cries of Dyke Darrel
brought both men to his side.
"Hello! is this you?" cried a cheery voice, and the next instant Dyke
Darrel was lifted to his feet by the strong hand of Harry Bernard.
It was a happy and unexpected meeting. Harry had good news to tell,
and when Dyke Darrel, assisted by his friend, reached the farmhouse
where Nell had found safety and shelter, the detective was strong
enough to stand, and assist himself in no small degree.
Mutual explanations were entered into, and, as may be supposed, the
meeting between brother and sister was a happy one indeed. Harry was
the hero of the hour.
When Dyke Darrel spoke of Martin Skidway, and the part he had acted in
saving his life, a word of admiration fell from the lips of Nell.
But when Dyke proceeded to the conclusion, the girl's face blanched,
and she had no word of commendation left for the miserable convict,
who, after all, possessed but little honor.
"So Aunt Scarlet is in the neighborhood; and also your abductor,"
mused the detective. "The trail is becoming hot, indeed."
"It is, for a fact," admitted Harry. "I believe, if the truth was
known, this man Ruggles will prove to be the man we want. Have you
that handkerchief with you, Dyke, that we found in the coat of the
rascal who attempted your murder in St. Louis?"
This was several hours after the events of the morning, and Nell was
now resting in a large wooden rocker, very weak, yet feeling
remarkably well, considering the siege she had passed through during
the past two weeks and more. Dyke Darrel and Harry were the only
occupants of the room, the farmer being at his work in the field, and
his good wife attending preparations for supper in the kitchen.
"I have kept the tell-tale handkerchief through it all," answered the
detective, at the same time producing the article from a receptacle
beneath, his shirt.
"It's a wonder this was not discovered when you were in the hands of
the thugs of Chicago."
"I wasn't closely searched, I suppose. You and the boys were too close
after them."
"You give me too much credit, Dyke," returned Harry Bernard, modestly.
"I've a question to ask."
"Ask as many as you like."
"Was it the fact of my hand fitting this bloody imprint that so
startled you in the St. Louis hotel?"
"Did I not so claim at the time?"
"Perhaps; but wasn't there another coincidence that gave you reason to
suspect me?
"There might have been."
"I thought so. It was the imprint of a large wart, such as this on the
handkerchief, that made you look with suspicion upon me. Is it not
so?"
Harry held up his hand, so that a wart on the little finger was
plainly revealed, and which, when he placed his hand against the
tell-tale handkerchief, fitted the marks perfectly.
"Forgive me, Harry," cried the detective, quickly. "I know now that it
was only a remarkable duplicate; the wart belonged to another hand
than yours. The print of the wart was also on the bosom of Arnold
Nicholson's white shirt bosom, where a bloody hand had fallen. I made
this discovery when I examined the body of my dead friend.
Circumstantial evidence pointed to you, and yet I doubted--"
"I understand," interrupted Harry. "My hand is indeed a duplicate of
the assassin's. It is a wonder that I have not been arrested ere this
by some of the detectives who are engaged in working up this case."
"Why so?"
"Because you are not the only one who made the discovery of the wart
that adorned the hand of the assassin. A reporter got hold of the
story and published it. Don't you remember?"
"I haven't read the papers closely since the murder."
"But I have, and so has the man who killed Nicholson."
"Indeed?"
"He soon learned that officers of the law were all looking for a man
with a large wart on the second joint of the little finger of the
right hand. This fact made him nervous, and one night he severed the
wart, and flung it from him, since which time he has breathed easier."
A low exclamation from the lips of Nell startled both men.