AT THE DOG SHOW.
Next day was “blue Monday” with Nick, and he decided to try the Dog Show
at Madison Square Garden as a cure for the “dumps.”
After luncheon he set out to visit the Garden, little dreaming what
fresh adventures were in store for him as the result of that visit.
He had barely entered the hall than a prominent banker, known for the
keen interest he took in the development of the dog, and who was one of
the officers of the society under whose auspices the dog show was held,
greeted him with the remark:
“Of all men, Mr. Carter, you are the man I most wish to see. Some
miscreant is poisoning our dogs here. The fourth animal is just now
dying from a dose—all valuable animals.”
“Have you suspicions?” asked Nick, scenting mystery at once, and nothing
loath to tackle another puzzle now that he had placed the Brown Robin
behind prison bars.
“Not the slightest suspicions,” replied the banker, “although the owner
is making wild charges and threats, but, then, that is from her grief.”
“Her?” asked Nick, in surprise.
“Yes; Mrs. Constant—poor Al Constant’s widow.”
“Were all the dogs poisoned owned by her?”
“All of them.”
“Do you think it possible that rivalry or jealousy could be at the
bottom of it?”
“In the contest here for prizes, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot believe it.”
Nick asked no more questions, and looked over the room.
“Come with me and look at the dog,” said the banker.
Nick nodded, and the banker led the detective to a rear room, where he
saw a noble setter dog writhing in agony on a blanket on the floor.
A well-known veterinary surgeon was laboring over the dog, and a
beautiful woman of thirty, regardless of her costly raiment, was
kneeling at the dog’s head, soothing and petting him, the tears
streaming from her eyes, while she murmured:
“My old Don! My poor old Don!”
The dog’s eyes were glazed, and Nick saw at a glance as he came up that
the dog was dying.
But from time to time, the poor beast would turn a look of deep
affection on the beautiful woman and lick the hand that soothed and
petted him.
“Mrs. Constant.” said the banker, “here is Mr. Carter, the celebrated
detective. I have hopes that I can persuade him to look into this case.”
“It is too late to save my poor old Don,” said Mrs. Constant, looking
up. “As for the miscreant, I know him. He is——”
“One moment,” hastily interrupted the banker. “What you have to say as
to charges and suspicions say to Mr. Carter alone. He is to be trusted,
and his advice will be well worth following.”
Mrs. Constant looked up at Nick, smiling through her tears, and said:
“Very well. When can I talk to you, Mr. Carter?”
Handing her his card, Nick said:
“Come to my house when you can.”
“I will do so,” said Mrs. Constant, “as soon as I have seen poor old Don
cared for and my other dogs out of harm’s way.”
Now the dog had another spasm, and it proved to be his last. He
stiffened out and died.
Nick turned away and went into the show room to inquire as to the manner
in which the dogs on exhibition were guarded and cared for, and in doing
so passed half an hour inspecting the dogs.
At the end of that time, as he approached the center division, he saw
Mrs. Constant standing beside a dog with her hand upon its head.
He lifted his hat in salutation, and was surprised to see her state of
wonder and doubtful return of the recognition.
He smiled as he thought swift forgetfulness of himself was not
flattering. Excusing it on the ground that she was troubled over the
death of her favorites, he passed on into the street and went home,
where he related the peculiar occurrence that had successfully driven
away his fit of the “blues.”
A short time after his arrival the servant announced Mrs. Constant.
Nick directed that the lady should be shown into the room he was
occupying.
Edith, Nick Carter’s wife, who was also in the room, arose to go, but
before she could leave the apartment, Mrs. Constant entered, and
exclaimed:
“Why, Edith!”
Edith responded by running across the room to Mrs. Constant, crying:
“Why, Blanche!”
All this was very surprising to Nick, who could not imagine how it was
that his wife knew his client.
But, as he listened, he found that before Edith’s marriage Mrs. Constant
had been a member of the same theatrical company with Edith, and, like
Edith, had left the stage when she married.
Then that which had before puzzled him was made plain.
He knew that he had seen Mrs. Constant before when presented to her by
the banker at the dog show. It was all explained. He had seen her on the
stage as Blanche Romney.
When at length the ladies had finished their renewal of old times, Mrs.
Constant turned to that which had brought her to Nick.
“I hardly know how to begin my story, Mr. Carter,” she said, “but I will
tell you how I came to be an exhibitor of dogs at the show. My late
husband was much interested in developing a certain strain of setters.
“As I am a great lover of dogs, I took a vast interest in the kennel,
and soon came to know quite as much about it as he, taking my part in
the management and supervision of it.
“I came to know what he was striving to do, and so, when he died and
left all his dogs to me, I determined to carry out his plans and
continue the kennel.
“Mr. Constant died very suddenly. The doctors called it apoplexy. He was
in good health and was stricken down without warning.
“It is too late now to determine it, but I cannot rid myself of the idea
that foul play was at the bottom of his death.”
“When did he die?” asked Nick.
“Nearly two years ago.”
“At his home?”
“He was brought home, but was taken ill at his club. I had gone over to
Philadelphia early in the morning, not to return until the next day, so
he dined at his club. The doctors insisted that he had been imprudent at
the table, eating and drinking too much.
“Mr. Constant was a free liver, and that gave a basis for their
decision. But if I tell you that Mr. Constant was a wine-drinker, do not
believe that he used it in excess. He did not.
“Now I come to that which is unpleasant. His marriage to me was not
agreeable to his family. They opposed it bitterly.
“I did not know that until after marriage. Whether it would have changed
my course if I had, I don’t know. His family is very aristocratic, and I
was a poor girl, of humble origin, working for wages on the stage.
“We were happy in our life together, but our marriage separated him from
his family. He was independent in having a small competence, and a share
in the income of a large estate, held in trust, his for life and to be
his children’s after him, if he had them, which, by the way, he had not.
“I was telegraphed for, and reached him in time to have him die in my
arms, but he never recognized me.
“When he was dead I found that he had left his own small fortune to me,
but his share in the income of the estate did not become mine.
“I have been advised that I have a right to it, but to get it would mean
a lawsuit, and I am comfortable and in plenty without it.
“Now, then; at the time of my marriage there was a man, Eric Masson,
moving in the same club and social circle with my husband, who, while
pretending to be on friendly terms with him, was his bitter enemy.
“He wanted to marry me. From the first I had disliked him. It was not
indifference to him; it was positive dislike for him on my part.
“I had rejected him before I met Mr. Constant. When he learned that Mr.
Constant was attentive to me, and that I was likely to marry, Masson
warned me not to do it, saying it would be well for neither Albert nor
myself.
“He circulated stories as to myself, which had much to do with my
husband’s family’s opposition, and one of them reaching my husband’s
ears, who was then my _fiancée_, resulted in a violent quarrel between
the two, ending in Albert giving Masson a thrashing.
“Though the differences were afterward healed, I know that he worked to
my husband’s injury always.
“Masson was one of the party with whom my husband dined on his last day.
“My husband had not been dead two months when he renewed his attentions
to me, declaring that he had been waiting for Albert’s death to step
into his shoes.
“I drove him away from me angrily, telling him that I loved the memory
of my husband too well to insult it by taking Masson as his successor.
“Since then he has been my vindictive enemy, making trouble for me when
and where he could, starting scandals as to myself.
“He tried to take my kennel of dogs from me, declaring that Albert had
sold them to him on the day of his death.
“He began a suit at law to obtain the dogs, going so far as to intrigue
to get me to hire some creatures of his about the kennel, so that they
might steal the dogs for him.
“In short, I have been persecuted by him ever since my husband’s death.
He is the only enemy in life that I have, and I know he is at the bottom
of the poisoning of my dogs.”
“I suppose,” said Nick, “that this Eric Masson is the broker of that
name—the yachtsman?”
“The same person,” replied Mrs. Constant.
“Are you prepared to tell me the nature of his persecutions of you?”
“Yes; at any time.”
“I do not want them now,” said Nick, as Mrs. Constant showed signs of
attempting to recite them. “Now, as to the injuries he attempted to do
your husband. Can you prove those charges?”
“Yes; after my husband’s death I found among his private papers a
package, which tells it all. My husband must have gathered them for a
purpose that his death defeated.”
“Can you let me have that package?”
“Yes; whenever you like.”
“Will you let me have it at once?”
“I will bring it to you to-night.”
“Very well, Mrs. Constant. Say nothing to anybody that you have given
the case to me.”
“Masson will know it.”
“Why?”
“If he does not know now, he will in a short time, that I have come to
see you. He has me under espionage—every step I take he has followed.”
“So bad as that?” asked Nick.
With this Mrs. Constant went away, after saying to Edith, who had been
an interested listener, that now, having met again, they must not lose
sight of each other.
“What do you think of it, Nick?” asked Edith.
“A rather strange story, but there is more behind it than she has
told—perhaps more than she really knows. When you knew her what sort of
reputation did she bear?”
“The very best,” declared Edith. “Blanche was a good girl, Nick. She was
so light-hearted and full of spirits in those days, so gay, that
sometimes she was misunderstood, but there was not the least harm in
her.”
“Well, Edith, I fancy you will have some detective work to do.”
“In what way?”
“She knows more than she thinks she does. You must get her to talk
confidentially to you, and these things may crop out.
“Again, there are things she shied away from telling me, especially when
you were present, but she will tell them to you.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
After dinner that evening Nick went out for a short time, and,
returning, as he was about entering his house a carriage drove up and
some one, leaning from it, called him by name.
Turning back, he saw Mrs. Constant. He went to the carriage door, and
the lady thrust out a package to him, saying:
“I am so glad to have seen you here. I am so hurried—so little time.
It’s the package—Blanche, that is, Mrs. Constant, you know. By-bye, I
must hurry. Please tell the driver to go on.”
Nick did so, wondering at her haste, and as the carriage drove off
entered his house.