When John Dinsmore had left the home of Queenie, after learning of the
supposed flight of Jess, his bride, his avowed intention was to shake
the dust of New York from his feet forever, and to wander on the face
of the earth until he should find her whom he had learned, all too
late, was dearer to him than his very heart’s blood.
So intent was he upon his own bitter, despairing thoughts, he failed
to notice the two young men who had stopped short at sight of him,
astonishment and delight depicted on their faces. He would have passed
them by unheeded, they both saw, and with one accord, each sprang
forward, laying a detaining hand on his shoulders, which brought him to
an unceremonious standstill.
“John Dinsmore, and in the flesh, by all that is wonderful!” they
cried, simultaneously.
With an exclamation of joy Dinsmore drew back and looked into the faces
of his two devoted friends, Jerry Gaines and Ballou, the artist. And
John was certainly as much overjoyed to see them as they were to once
more behold him.
“I almost imagine I shall wake up on the morrow and find this encounter
but a wild delusion of the overwrought brain, as you novelists put it,”
laughed Gaines, with tears in his blue eyes as he still continued to
wring John’s hand, “but come into this restaurant around the corner,
and we will have a rousing reunion, and you shall tell us what you have
been doing with yourself, and why you allowed your tried and true old
friends to spend so much grief over you, mourning you as dead.”
“Yes,” said Ballou; “you must come, John; it is not possible that you
are contemplating refusing Jerry’s request. We must get somewhere out
of the teeth of this howling storm. I don’t possess fur-lined garments,
consequently it is going through me like a knife. Are you with us?”
“As you will, boys,” replied John Dinsmore, and they proceeded at once
to the place designated, a restaurant where the “Trinity” had been in
the habit of dining in the past, and where Gaines and Ballou still came
to get the most for their spare change.
“It is my turn to pay the bill to-night,” said John, the first smile
that his face had known for months lighting up his grave face. “You
remember the day I left New York last--it would have been my turn to
put up for the spread.”
“Not so, my boy,” laughed Gaines. “I have had a streak of luck to-day,
and I insist upon paying the bill. If you feel so very liberal, you
shall do the pretty act to-morrow night.”
It was during the meal that John Dinsmore recounted to his two old
friends all that had taken place since the memorable day they packed
his valise for him, and sent him South, from Newport, with the double
object of regaining his health and looking at the little Louisiana
heiress at Blackheath Hall.
“Why, your meeting the little Jess, after all, and marrying her out of
hand, without going near Blackheath Hall, and she not dreaming of your
real identity, sounds like a chapter from a novel. By George! what a
capital story it would make!”
“The climax to it is quite unsavory, though,” replied John Dinsmore,
and in answer to the looks of astonishment on his companions’ faces, he
drew forth the letter from his breast pocket, into which he had crushed
it, and in a low, husky voice read its contents slowly aloud to them.
“Eloped with an old lover!” echoed Ballou, amazedly, while Jerry Gaines
asked in a tone which he strove not to appear excited: “What was the
address you read, of the house where she was visiting, John?”
He re-read the address, giving the street and number.
Both Gaines and Ballou turned and looked at each other fixedly.
“Isn’t that the address of the young widow who married the supposedly
rich old miser Brown for his millions, and got beautifully left for
her pains--finding herself next door to a pauper on the reading of the
will?”
“It appears so,” replied Gaines, knitting his brows in deep thought,
then suddenly he leaned over and touched Ballou on the arm, saying:
“Do you know I have a very odd idea? You remember the young fellow whom
we afterward recognized as he was coming out of that house, just as we
were about to enter to learn the particulars of that will, and get a
chance to talk with and sketch the beautiful young widow?”
“Yes; I have every reason to remember him,” nodded Ballou, in a
peculiar voice, adding: “Well, what of him?”
“I believe that he is the infernal scoundrel who has eloped with John’s
little bride--for the reason that I went past the place the following
afternoon, and saw him at the drawing-room window talking to just such
a young girl as I now remember little Jess to be from the picture she
sent to John while he lay ill at Newport, and which we saw.”
“You know the villain!” exclaimed John, springing from his seat
trembling with excitement. “For Heaven’s sake tell me, and quickly, who
he is, that I may follow him and shoot him down like the cur that he
is, or rather pit my life against his to wipe out this stain with which
he has dared to smirch the honor of my name.”
“Give me until to-morrow this time to locate him and find whether I
am right or wrong, John,” asked Jerry Gaines. “This is a matter into
which no man can rush headlong. I will find out beyond a doubt if my
suspicions be true. If they are, you shall be put on his track, and
when you meet him, you shall deal with him as you see best. Is that
satisfactory?”
“I suppose it must be, if you say so,” replied John Dinsmore, sinking
back into his chair, his face ghastly pale, every nerve in his entire
body quivering with the deep agitation he was undergoing.
His two friends prevailed upon him to remain in New York a week at
least, pending their investigation, and to go to the old humble room
which he used to share with them in the days when money was at a
premium with him.
The next morning his two tried and true friends parted early from him,
arranging to meet him at the same hour, and at the same restaurant,
suggesting that they might have something of importance to communicate.
To John Dinsmore it seemed as though six o’clock, the hour appointed,
would never come; he spent the time in walking up and down the streets,
vainly searching for Jess, even in the face of the fact that her letter
had said that she intended going far away from the metropolis.
Never before had he realized how intensely he loved little Jess, and
what a blank his life would be without her.
And then and there it occurred to him how utterly devoid of good
judgment he must have been in those days to allow himself to be carried
away with so shallow and utterly false and heartless a creature as
Queenie Trevalyn, whom he now abhorred, and whom he knew as she really
was--at last.
He said to himself that sometimes God blesses us in denying us that
which we believe our greatest good, but which would only have turned
out to be our greatest misfortune.
All that day the two friends, spurred on by John Dinsmore’s recital,
worked zealously over the plan which they had mapped out for themselves
to discover the whereabouts of Jess, the fair young bride.
On the occasion of their former visit to the house of the old miser’s
widow, the young artist had made quite a favorable impression upon
one of the maids of the household; they decided to make use of that
state of affairs now. And under pretext that the paper wanted another
statement of the facts, they again presented themselves at the home of
young Mrs. Brown.
To their relief that lady was out; but that did not prevent them from
lingering and having nearly an hour’s chat with the loquacious maid.
A few ingenious remarks led the conversation around to the beautiful
young girl, who had until so lately been a guest beneath that roof, as
they phrased it.
“Gone from here!” echoed the girl. “Why, it is strange that I did not
hear something of it; still, it may be, as I have been away--calling
upon a sick relative--since late yesterday afternoon. I just came back
less than ten minutes before you came. I had not even had time to take
my bonnet upstairs when you rang the bell.”
Jerry Gaines was for not prolonging the interview, though they had
gleaned many startling facts from this casual conversation, but
something seemed to impel the young artist to question her still
further on the subject of the beautiful stranger guest of young Mrs.
Brown--if she had a lover, and if he ever called, and how often?
It was then that a remark fell from the maid’s lips that caused both
of them to start violently, and to exchange covert glances of dismay
with each other, taking great care that the maid should not notice this
secret telegraphing between them.
When there was absolutely nothing more to learn, they took their leave,
promising to call again soon; but the next time it should not be upon
business, but upon her fair self.
When the two friends got around the first corner they stopped
short--gazing long and fixedly into each other’s eyes.
“It will never do to disclose what we have learned to John Dinsmore
to-night,” said Jerry Gaines, huskily, and in this opinion Ballou
heartily concurred.
“No, it will be best to await developments on the morrow,” he declared.