The Raven of the Detroit Cottage in another Character.-- Mrs.
Winslow yearns for a retired Montreal Banker.-- Love's
Rivalry.-- A mysterious Note.-- The Response.-- Another
Trip to Port Charlotte by four Hearts that beat as one.--
What Mr. Pinkerton, as one of the party, sees and hears.--
"Jones of Rochester."-- Le Compte and Mrs. Winslow resolve
to fly to Paris, "the magnificent, the beautiful, the
sublime!"-- "My God, are they all that way?"
At last the promised Saturday came, and there were at least three people
in Rochester who looked forward to a pleasant day, and were up betimes
that they might get an early start. Mrs. Winslow, from her sumptuous
apartments, looked out upon the streets and the glorious morning as if
it had come too soon--as it always does to those who have not clean
hearts and clean lives--and, _en déshabillé_, gazed down through her
rich lace curtains upon the early passers stepping off with a brisk
tread to their separate labors, with a look of contempt.
Nature had been wantonly generous with Mrs. Winslow, and as she stood
there in her loose morning robes, the first soft breaths that come with
the sun from the far-off Orient playing hide-and-seek among the
sumptuous hangings of her room, and giving just the least possible
motion to her matchlessly luxuriant black hair, while the mellow and
golden rays of the sun, which was just peeping over the roofs and the
chimneys, shimmered upon her through the curtains, lighting her great
gray eyes with a wondrous lustrousness, heightening the fine color of
her face, and giving to her voluptuous form an added grace--this utterly
lone woman had not in her heart an iota of tenderness for, or sympathy
with, the glories without, and was as dead to every good thing in life
as though carved from marble by some sculptor, as she really had been
carved from stone, or ice, by nature. As she stood there by the window,
regarding the passers with such a wise and ogreish air that Fox, behind
the blinds in his window opposite, could not but couple her in his
thoughts with some splendid beast of prey--if Mother Blake or the
voluble Rev. Bland could have seen her, the years that had passed would
have been swept away, and in the mature woman and the conscienceless
adventuress would have been recognized the raven of the Detroit cottage,
that, as Lilly Nettleton, in a habit that ravens have, glided
noiselessly about the other sumptuous apartments, gathering together
what pleased its fancy--not forgetting the money which was to have been
used in the cursed church interests, and a gold watch, which the raven
wore to this day--and then, kissing its beak to the heavily sleeping
man, for all the world like a raven, had passed out into the storm and
the night.
In a few moments she retired from the window, and after dressing passed
out upon the street, and went to the falls for a short walk and an
appetite, and then went to the Washington Hall restaurant, where she had
quite frequently taken her meals since she had incidentally learned
that Bristol was a retired Montreal banker, as gossip had it now among
the Spiritualists; and it was evident that persons of that grade of
recommendation were of peculiar interest to Mrs. Winslow. For hours of
dalliance, the aristocratic though impecunious popinjay, Le Compte,
would more than answer; but when it came to a matter of serious work,
and when a new source of income was to be sought, Mrs. Winslow, being a
shrewd and able professor of the art of fascination which secured her an
independent and elegant livelihood, in connection with her ability to
compel a large number of people to pay her for guessing at what had
befallen them and what might befall them, she invariably sought
gentlemen on the shady side of life, with judgment and discretion, who
knew a good thing when they saw it, and who were both able and willing
to carry their bank accounts into their aged knight-errantry.
Lyon was not a handsome man, but he had vast wealth. His weazen face,
his grizzly hair, his repulsive, tobacco-stained mouth, were naught
against him. His passion for her had brought her thousands upon
thousands of dollars--would bring her, she hoped, as much more. Here was
Bristol. He was not handsome, he was not a Canadian Adonis, he
incessantly smoked a very ugly pipe fully as old as himself. But he had
some way got the reputation of being "a retired Canadian banker" among
these people, and Mrs. Winslow's heart warmed towards him the way it had
towards a hundred others when she had wanted them to walk into her
parlor as the ancient spider had desired of the fly.
So she had begun weaving a shining web of loving looks, of tender
glances, of dreamy sighs, and of graceful manoeuvres of a general
character about the unsuspecting Bristol, that resulted in pecuniary
profit to the old maids, who, nevertheless, with the quick instinct of
three jealous women of economical build and mature years, had already
begun to hate her as a rival, and pour into Bristol's alert ears sad
tales about the splendid charmer, all of which were properly reported to
me by the "retired Montreal banker," who had suddenly found himself a
prize worthy to be sought for, and fought for, if necessary, by four
determined women, one of whom hungered for his supposed wealth, and
three of whom possessed the more desperate, life-long hunger whose
appeasing is worth a severe struggle.
After her breakfast, which, unfortunately, had not given her an
opportunity for bestowing a graceful nod or a winning smile upon
Bristol, whom the old maids had furnished a superb breakfast in his own
apartment, Mrs. Winslow returned to her rooms and seated herself at her
windows, where she read the morning paper for a little time. She then
disappeared from Fox's sight for a half-hour or so, when, just as he was
about leaving his watch at his window he noticed her descend the stairs,
and, after looking cautiously about for a moment, deposit a card behind
her own sign, which was attached to the frame of the outer doorway
leading to her rooms. As soon as she had retired, and before she could
have returned to her windows, Fox slipped down and out across the
street, and removing the card from its novel depository, saw written
upon it:
"Le Compte:--Will be at the Garden with carriage at ten,
prompt.
"MRS. W."
Fox had no more than time to return the card to its place when he saw
the person to whom it was addressed turn into St. Paul street from East
Main. He accordingly got back to his old post as rapidly as possible,
and watched the young Frenchman saunter along towards the hallway as if
carelessly taking his morning walk. He was irreproachably dressed, as
usual, and was daintily smoking a cigarette with that inimitable grace
with only which a Frenchman or a Spaniard can smoke. After arriving at
the hallway, as if undecided whether he would go farther up the street
or not, he leaned carelessly against the sign, and in a moment had
deftly whipped the card out of its hiding-place. He then started up the
street saunteringly, and when about a half-block distant, read the card,
which seemed to give him much pleasure, as he smilingly wrote something
upon it, and after walking a short distance, turned suddenly and walked
rapidly back, dexterously depositing the card in its strange receptacle,
without scarcely varying his pace or direction, and quickly passed on to
Main street, turning down that thoroughfare.
Fox noticed that Mrs. Winslow had witnessed this incident from her
windows, and at the moment when her form had disappeared, he swiftly
stepped across the street and read the reply, which ran thus:
"Your announcement makes pleasure in your lover's soul, and
your name is saluted by the lips of
"LE COMPTE."
Fox had just time to slip into a tobacconist's for a cigar when Mrs.
Winslow came down stairs, took the card out of its resting-place, and
after going down the street for some slight purchase, returned to her
rooms and prepared for the drive to Charlotte.
At half-past nine Mrs. Winslow's carriage arrived and in a few minutes
after she was leisurely riding down Main street, and from thence out
through State street and Lake View Avenue towards the Port. As I had
nothing to do until Monday's interview with Le Compte, and time hung
heavily upon my hands, I had decided to make one of the party.
I knew the direction Mrs. Winslow would take, and so securing a position
on the corner of Main and State streets, I had but a little time to wait
before I saw the gay madam pass, and also noticed Fox at an opposite
corner evidently making sure of her direction; for, as soon as he saw
her carriage turn down State street, he immediately started for the
depot, from which a train left for Charlotte at ten o'clock, so that he
could be at that place, under any circumstances, some time before the
happy and unsuspecting couple should have arrived.
At about train-time Fox bought a cigar and took a seat in the
smoking-car, while I purchased a cheap edition of one of Dickens's
stories and settled myself down in a ladies' car.
The trip to Charlotte was soon made through a beautiful country where
the farmers were busy stacking their grain, threshing, and, in some
instances, turning the black loam to the sun that it might early mellow
for the next year's seed-time, and in a half-hour we were at Charlotte,
where the beautiful lake is seen at one's feet, with its rippling waves
dotted here and there by a hundred dreamy sails and lazy steamers from
as many waiting ports.
Fox immediately made inquiries of the villagers where he could find the
road leading into Charlotte from Rochester, and started out towards it
from the depot at a brisk walk, while I waited until he had got well
under way, when I took a short stroll among the warehouses and shipping
of the harbor, and then went to the only hotel of any importance the
place contained, where I knew Mrs. Winslow and Le Compte would be likely
to stop, and engaged a room in the front part of the house, where I
resumed my story and waited, like Micawber, for "something to turn up."
I had been engaged at my book but a short time when I saw Fox come up
the street towards the hotel at a rapid pace, flushed and perspiring
freely as from a very long and rapid walk, and but a moment afterwards
also saw the dashing Rochester turnout whirling up to the hotel.
The arrival at the hotel of the couple bore out the truth of the
statement of the little Dutchman, contained in Fox's report of his trip
to the half-way house, as the habitués of the house seemed quite
accustomed to their presence and the employees stepped about nimbly, as
they generally do at hotels as a greeting to good customers, and they
generally do not when persons of common appearance arrive.
As good luck would have it, after a few moments had elapsed, "Mr. and
Mrs. Jones, of Rochester," as Fox saw they had registered, were ushered
into a room adjoining my own, and between which, as is quite common at
hotels, there was a door, which might be opened for the purpose of
throwing the rooms _en suite_, as occasion required.
Although I was prevented from seeing the couple, their voices, which
were both familiar to me, could not be mistaken; and I could not
restrain a smile as I listened to the little Frenchman's voluble and
peculiarly-constructed expressions of endearment, and the coarser, but
none the less tender, responses of the virtuous Mrs. Winslow, whose life
had been shattered, heart smashed to atoms, and good name defamed, by
the tyrant man in the person of the weak but wealthy Lyon, and to think
how much nearer I was to the quarry than Fox himself, who in this
instance was making noble efforts to bring down his game without
"flushing" it.
For the sake of the public whose servant I have been for the last thirty
years, I would blush to put on paper what I know to have occurred in the
adjoining room, and which only served to further convince me of the
depths of infamy to which she had sunk; and I will pass on to those
things only necessary to acquaint the reader with my plan of operation
to bring her into the public notoriety and scorn which she had years
before only too richly deserved.
But a short time had elapsed after Mrs. Winslow and Le Compte had been
given their room when I heard Fox's footsteps coming along the hall. He
passed their room slowly, evidently locating it, and after a few moments
stealthily returned and listened at the door. He then stole away, but
returned again with a bold, firm step, as though conscious of being on
legitimate business, walked right up to the door and gave the knob a
quick turn, as if he had intended to at once walk into the room.
The door did not open, however, and Fox stepped back as if surprised,
saying: "Why, I can't be mistaken; the register surely said Room 30!"
while within there were quick, though smothered exclamations of
surprise, fright, and rage of an unusually profane nature.
Fox immediately returned to the attack as if certain that he was in the
right, and knocked at the door sharply.
There was no response but the quick hustlings about the room, from which
I, as an attentive listener with my ear close to the key-hole, learned
that the inmates were preparing for discovery.
Fox knocked again, this time louder and more persistently than at first.
I now plainly heard Mrs. Winslow ordering Le Compte under the bed among
the dust, bandboxes, and unmentionables, at which he protested with
innumerable "_Sacrés!_" But she was relentless, and finally, seeing that
he would go no other way, took him up like a recalcitrant cur and flung
him under bodily.
Again Fox attacked the door, shook the knob furiously, and knocked loud
enough to raise the dead, following it up with: "Say you?--Jones? Why in
thunder don't you open the door?"
At this Mrs. Winslow plucked up the courage of desperation, and asked in
a loud and injured voice, "Who's there?"
"Why, me, of course; Barker, Jones's partner. I want to see Jones!"
"What Jones do you want?" asked Mrs. Winslow, to get time to think
further what to do.
"Jones, of Rochester, of course," yelled Fox. "Two ship-loads of spoiled
grain's just come in; don't know what to do with 'em."
"Sink 'em!" responded Mrs. Winslow, breathing freer.
"Where's Jones?" persisted Fox, banging away at the door again.
"There's no Jones here, you fool!" answered the woman hotly.
"Yes there is, too," insisted Fox. "Landlord told me so."
"Well," parried the female, raising her voice again, "Jones ain't in the
wheat trade at all; he's a professor of music; and besides that, he
ain't in here, either."
"Oh, beg pardon, ma'am," said Fox apologetically, "It isn't your Jones
I want _this time_, then. Hope I haven't disturbed you, madam," and he
walked away, having clinched the matter quite thoroughly enough for any
twelve honest and true men under the sun.
Mrs. Winslow stuck her head out of the door, launched a threat, coupled
with a well-defined oath, against Fox, who was leisurely strolling along
the hall, to the effect that he ought to be ashamed of himself for
"insulting a defenceless woman in that way, and that if he came there
again she would have him arrested." To which he cheerily responded, "No
offence meant, ma'am; 'fraid the wheat'd spoil, ye see;" and as he went
whistling down the stairs, she slammed the door, locked it, drew the
trembling Le Compte from under the bed, and amid a chime of crockery set
him upon his feet again with a snap to it, and then threw herself into a
rocking-chair and burst into tears, insisting that she was the most
abused woman on the face of earth, and that Le Compte, with his
"_Sacrés!_" and "_Diables!_" hadn't the sense of a moth or the muscle of
an oyster, or he would have followed the brute and given him a sound
beating!
Not desiring to be seen by Fox, I ordered my dinner sent to my room, as
did the unhappy couple in the adjoining apartment, who seemed to be
greatly put out by the intrusion, and who were for an hour after
speculating as to the cause of the interruption, and as to whether it
was accidental or not.
"We mustn't come here any more, Le Compte," said the woman dolefully.
"And for why, my angel precious?" anxiously asked the man.
"Why, do you know," replied Mrs. Winslow with earnestness, "I sometimes
really believe I am being watched!"
"No, that was impossible!" said Le Compte, with a start.
"And sometimes," she continued, paying no attention to him, "it seems as
though I could not stand this terrible keeping up appearances any
longer."
"You should have pleasure in the appearance," responded Le Compte
insinuatingly, "it breaks him down already. He is now like one weak
infant."
"That's so, that's so," she answered quickly, in a tone of vengeful
joyousness. "I'll bring the old devil to my feet yet. I'll crush him out
and ruin his fortune, if it takes me all my life. I'll get the biggest
part of it, too; and then, Le Compte, we'll get out of this cursed
country and enjoy ourselves the rest of our lives."
"Yes, in Paris, the magnificent, the beautiful, the sublime! Then we
will live in one heaven of love. Oh, beautiful, beautiful!" cried the
little Frenchman excitedly.
"There, Le Compte," said his companion, suddenly becoming practical
again, "don't make a fool of yourself! Take this bill and go down and
get a bottle of wine; and mind you, don't keep the change either."
As the train returned at two, and I had but little time to reach it, as
soon as Le Compte had come back with the wine and they had become
sufficiently noisy to admit of it, I quietly left my room, paid my bill,
went to the train, avoiding Fox entirely, and, with him, was soon again
in Rochester, leaving the roystering couple at the little hotel at
Charlotte building their vain dreams and air-castles about crushing out
Lyon--which would have been an easy matter if left to himself--their
beautiful, magnificent, and sublime Paris, and their "one heaven of
love" within it.
As soon as Fox stepped from the train I quietly handed him a slip of
paper directing him to make his report to me at the Waverley House,
where I was stopping under an assumed name, which he assured me he would
do, without a word being spoken or even a look of recognition being
passed.
Although the public may not be aware of it, this is an absolute
necessity in detective service. Though I employ hundreds of persons as
detectives, preventive police, and in clerical duties, at my different
agencies, on no occasion and under no circumstances is there ever on the
street, or in any public place whatever, the slightest token by which
the stranger might know that there had ever been any previous
communication between any of my people.
On the next day, Sunday, Lyon called to see me at the hotel and brought
with him two notes from Le Compte--one having been received late
Saturday afternoon, and the other delivered at his house that
morning--both imperatively insisting that Lyon should come to his rooms
and leave that "untractable man" behind.
I complimented him extensively on his having refrained from visiting the
winsome little villain who seemed determined to get Lyon within his
power. He solemnly pledged his word that he would have nothing whatever
to do with the man, and would bluff him in every advance that he made;
and in order to clinch it, I read him choice extracts from Fox's report
regarding the Charlotte party of the day before, interspersing it with a
few of the still choicer items that had come under my own observation.
"My God!" exclaimed Lyon, as I concluded, "are they _all_ that way?"
"Your experience and mine," I smilingly replied, "would almost point to
the fact that a very decided majority of them are."