There was a decided air of mystery about the new occupant of the
parlor-floor suite, or at least so it appeared to Miss Husted of
Houston Street. As a matter of fact, Herr Von Barwig minded his own
business and evidently expected every one else to do likewise, for he
kept his door and his ears closed to all polite advances during the
first few days after his arrival at Houston Mansion. Despite Miss
Husted's oft-repeated inquiries after the professor's health (the title
had been conferred on him by virtue of his possessing a violin and on
the arrival of a piano for his room), despite her endeavours to direct
conversation into a channel which might lead to a discussion of his
personal affairs, Herr Von Barwig remained tacit; hence a mystery
attached itself to the personality of the professor. It is a curious
fact that the one gentleman of genuine title that found his way into
the Houston Street establishment was ruthlessly shorn of his right to
distinction and dubbed professor, which sobriquet clung to him for
many, many years. However, this did not annoy Herr Von Barwig, for he
had not yet realised that in America every concertina and rag-time
piano-player, as well as barber, corn-doctor, and teacher of the manly
art of boxing, is entitled to the distinction of being called professor.
"The professor has beautiful manners--oh, such beautiful manners,"
confided Miss Husted to her new friend, Mrs. Mangenborn, about two
weeks after his arrival. "Every time I speak he bows, and there's oh,
such dignity, such grace in the bending of his head. How polite he is,
too; he always says, 'No, madam, thank you;' or 'yes, if madam will be
so kind,' and then he bows again and waits for me to go."
"Is that all he says?" inquired Mrs. Mangenborn. "I guess he knows how
to keep his mouth shut, then! If you want a man to talk never ask him
questions; men are a suspicious lot."
"Ah, but _he_ is different," said Miss Husted. "He has such a sad,
far-away, wistful look in his noble, dark eyes."
"That may be, but far-away looks don't pay any rent for you! You can't
attach any importance to things like that. My first husband had a
far-away look, and I haven't seen him for ten years. That Steinway
grand the professor's got, did he hire it or buy it? A man's got to
have money to support one of those instruments," went on Mrs.
Mangenborn.
"I don't know," replied Miss Husted, who could not help thinking that
her friend had a somewhat mercenary mind. "No one's been to see him,
so he hasn't got it for his friends; his violin has a beautiful sound.
Mr. Pinac tells me that it must be a rare old instrument."
The door-bell was heard ringing, but no one seemed to pay any attention
to it until they heard the whistle that followed; then everybody
bustled about. The postman always created a little excitement in
Houston Street, and his arrival was the one occasion on which even
Thurza hurried to the door. It was also the one occasion on which she
need not have done so, for she invariably found Miss Rusted or one of
the guests ahead of her.
"Registered letter for Herr Von Barwig."
"I'll take it to him," said Miss Husted sweetly.
"He's got to come and sign it himself," said the letter-carrier,
shaking his head.
"Where's it from?" asked Mrs. Mangenborn, her head appearing over the
bannisters.
Miss Husted looked at the letter-carrier inquiringly, but that official
appeared not to have heard the question. At all events, he made no
reply, and Miss Husted knocked on the professor's door.
"Come in."
Miss Husted opened the door.
"Ah, madam, what can I do for you?" said Von Barwig, rising from the
table at which he was writing.
Miss Husted smiled sweetly. She noticed that he was writing music, so
he must be a composer as well as a professor.
"Will you please come and sign for a registered letter?" she said.
"Ah, yes! I come at once."
He arose, held the door open for Miss Husted to pass out, bowing to her
as she did so, and then coming into the hallway, fulfilled the postal
requirements, totally unconscious that several pairs of eyes were
watching the operation. The letter-carrier handed him two letters; one
bearing the postmark Leipsic, the other that of New York.
Von Barwig returned to his room and read the following from a firm of
stock brokers:
"_Herr Anton Von Barwig_.
"DEAR SIR: Pursuant to your instructions, we have sold the balance of
the securities you left with us, but they have so depreciated in value
during your seven years' absence from Leipsic, that we hesitated to
sell them at their present market price. However, your instructions in
regard to these securities were definite and we have obeyed them.
Hoping this will meet with your satisfaction, we remain,
"Yours obediently,
"BERNSTEIN & DEUTSCH."
A draft on Drexel, Morgan's bank, for $1,000 dropped from Von Barwig's
hand; he picked it up mechanically and looked at it.
"The last, the very last, barely one-tenth the price I paid for them,"
he thought; and sighing, put the draft into a pocketbook and deposited
it in an inner pocket.
The other letter was from a detective agency in Eighth Street, and read
as follows:
"DEAR SIR: Call on us at your earliest convenience. We have news.
"HATCH & BUCKLEY."
That was all, but it was enough to cause Von Barwig to change hastily
from his slippers and dressing-gown to his shoes and hat; and to be out
in the street in less than one minute after reading the letter.
"News, news, news! Good God, is it possible? No, no! I mustn't
believe it; I dare not. Hélène, Hélène, my little girl! No, no, I
won't; I won't!" and he read the letter again. "After all," he mused,
"it may be news of a thousand little girls and yet not of mine. I beg
your pardon, madam!" In turning from Houston Street into the Bowery,
still reading the letter, he had bumped suddenly into a middle-aged
lady, who retaliated by deliberately pushing him back, at the same time
asking him a somewhat unnecessary question as to where he was going.
Then she had gone on her way without waiting to hear his apology.
Hatch & Buckley's private detective agency, situated just off Broadway
and Eighth Street, had a large office divided into several small
offices. For some occult reason only one person could get in or out at
a time, and this made confidential conversation a necessity rather than
a matter of choice. The senior member of the firm was in when Von
Barwig called. Be it understood at the beginning that this large,
stout personage, who invariably spoke in a whisper, and referred so
often to his partner, had no partner but a number of detectives on his
staff, to whom he was wont to speak or whisper of as partner when
discussing what they had ferreted out or left undiscovered. This man,
fat, florid, and fifty, had been a central office detective for many
years. After a time, being exceedingly useful in a political sense, he
had been admitted to the inner circle at Tammany Hall and was at
present one of the leading geniuses in that hallowed body of faithful
public servitors.
"Come in, come in," said this gentleman urbanely as Von Barwig stood
waiting as patiently as he could for the news he was so anxious to hear.
"Well, I think we've got something," he added.
Von Barwig said nothing; he waited to hear more.
"First of all, business before pleasure," said Mr. Hatch, and suited
the action to the word by handing Von Barwig a bill for $556.84, for
"services rendered."
"Yes, yes; but tell me the news!" faltered Von Barwig, without looking
at the bill. "Have you found her? Tell me!" The pleading look in Von
Barwig's face would have melted the heart of any ordinary scoundrel;
but Mr. Hatch was no ordinary scoundrel.
"It's customary, Mr. Barwig," he said drily, "to settle one account
before opening another."
Von Barwig looked at the bill that had been handed to him, saw the
amount, shook his head pathetically, and smiled. "There must be some
mistake," he said.
"My partner went to California on this clue and followed it clean to
British Columbia; railroad fares alone amount to two fifty; there's
hotel bills, carfare; there's salaries, office expenses, stamps; and
then--there's me." If Mr. Hatch had put himself first there would have
been little need to refer to the other items.
"There's the vouchers," he went on, pushing a lot of papers toward Von
Barwig. "Everything O.K.'d; everything on the level, open and above
board." He leaned back in his chair as if determined not to say
another word until the matter was settled.
"Then you refuse to tell me any more until this is paid?"
"Not at all, not at all! I'd just as leave tell you right now; but it
wouldn't be business, it wouldn't be business." He repeated this as if
to impress his listener with the importance of the business aspect of
the situation being well preserved.
"You are right; it is not business! It is life and death; it's my
heart, my soul, my very existence! My little girl, my little Hélène is
not business."
"I suppose not," assented the fat man, "not to you; but our end of it
rests on a commercial basis. We've laid out the money and we're
entitled to be paid for it."
"But I have paid you already so much! I cannot afford more. For years
I have hunted high and low for my wife and child through city after
city for thousands upon thousands of miles. At last I came to you, and
there have been months and months of weary waiting, hunting false
clues; disappointments upon disappointments."
"I know, I know," nodded the senior partner. "That's part of the game."
"I have spent with you nearly all the money I have, and nothing has
come of it. Every now and then you raise my hopes by saying you have
found her. Then, when the news comes, you ask for more money and when
I have given it, it is again a false clue."
"That ain't our fault!" observed the stout gentleman. "My partner
follows a clue, and you can't blame him if it don't turn out exactly
the right one. This fellow Ahlmann is an eel; that's what he is, an
eel! But I think we've got him now, I'm almost sure!"
"You think?" eagerly inquired Von Barwig.
"Well, of course there's nothing absolutely sure, but this is the last
report he's sent in. Seems to me to pretty well cover the case, but
it's been a hard job. This fellow Ahlmann has completely covered his
tracks."
"The child? She--she lives?"
"Oh, yes; yes!"
"And the mother?"
"I think he's located them all. I can't tell you for sure till I read
the report again."
Von Barwig, his hands trembling with excitement, wrote a cheque for the
amount required, and with breathless impatience awaited the information
as to the whereabouts of his lost wife and child.
"They're in Chicago," said Hatch, taking up the cheque and scanning it.
"Both of them?" asked Von Barwig in a hoarse whisper.
"Both of them," repeated Hatch, conveniently remembering the detail
without reading the report. "George, bring me Mr. Bailey's telegram in
the Barwig case," and when George, a smart young office boy, brought
the required documents, he was quietly instructed by his employer to
cash Von Barwig's cheque immediately.
"When will you go?" asked Mr. Hatch.
"As soon as possible."
"To-night?"
"Yes."
"Here's the address," and Mr. Hatch handed him a card. "You'll meet my
partner there, 1120 State Avenue; he'll take you to the parties. Shall
I get your railroad tickets?"
"No. I--I get them."
"It's twenty-six hours to Chicago; you'll need a Pullman ticket."
"Thank you; I get them."
"Well, just as you say. Good luck to you, Mr. Barwig."
"Thank you," said Von Barwig simply. He did not tell Mr. Hatch that he
had nearly come to the end of his resources and that he would ride in
the day car. Not that he felt ashamed of not being able to afford
luxuries, but he instinctively resented making a confidant of a man
like the senior partner of the firm of Hatch & Buckley.
As he walked rapidly toward Houston Street he found himself thinking
for the first time since his arrival in America of the question of his
future, but this question did not occupy his mind long. Like all his
ideas on any subject other than that of his lost wife and child, it was
forced into the background. As he neared his rooms in Houston Street
his hopes began to rise; and the prospect of going to Chicago, the
possibility of seeing his wife and child, began to work in his mind.
His heart began to beat tumultuously. This time his dream would come
true, and in his mind's eye he clasped his little girl tightly to
himself and rained kisses on her little upturned face. He even found
it in his heart to forgive the mother; after all, she was the mother of
his little one, that he could never forget.
As for Ahlmann, he could not picture him; his mind refused to conjure
up a thought of the man. It seemed as if he were dead, and that Von
Barwig was on his way to rescue the wife and child from some danger
that threatened them. This work of rescue was the fulfilment of an
ideal. Nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of it! The
senior partner of Hatch & Buckley had been quick to note this condition
of mind and to reap the profits that came therefrom. Monomania means
money, was a business axiom in that gentleman's office, but he had
pumped the stream dry and Von Barwig was now at the end of his
resources. By some strange process of thought, Von Barwig recognised
this fact, but it seemed to him to mean that because his money had come
to an end his search had also come to an end. The result of his trip
to Chicago could not but be favourable, because he dared not think of
its failure. So great is the influence of hope upon imagination that
by the time Von Barwig reached his rooms he was already contemplating
the possibility of keeping his wife and child there, at least until he
could obtain better quarters for them. So, when he opened the door of
his room, and found Jenny there polishing the brass andirons, he took
more notice than usual of the little girl, and to her intense joy
promised to bring her a box of candy from out West, where he told her
he was going as he busied himself packing his handbag.
In a few hours Anton Von Barwig, his heart beating high in expectation,
was seated in one of the day coaches of a fast Pennsylvania Railroad
train on his way to Chicago.
[Illustration: The "music master" can no longer pay rent for the piano.]