was the name under which he had accomplished a daring bank robbery in
Detroit which had involved the violent death of the manager, though
it was generally believed by the police that the Rossiter who was at
the bottom of some long firm frauds in Melbourne was none other than
Mathurin under another name, and that the designer and chief gainer in
a sensational murder case in the Midlands was the same mysterious and
ubiquitous personage.
But Mathurin had for some years successfully eluded pursuit; indeed,
it was generally known that he was the most desperate among criminals,
and was determined never to be taken alive. Moreover, as he invariably
worked through subordinates who knew nothing of his whereabouts and
were scarcely acquainted with his appearance, the police had but a
slender clue to his identity.
As a matter of fact, only two people beyond his immediate associates
in crime could have sworn to Mathurin if they had met him face to
face. One of them was the Detroit bank manager whom he had shot with
his own hand before the eyes of his fiancée. It was through the other
that Mathurin was arrested, extradited to the States, and finally made
to atone for his life of crime. It all happened in a distressingly
commonplace way, so far as the average spectator was concerned. But the
story, which I have pieced together from the details supplied--firstly,
by a certain detective sergeant whom I met in a tavern hard by
Westminster; and secondly, by a certain young woman named Miss Van
Snoop--has an element of romance, if you look below the surface.
[Illustration: "HE SHOT THE BANK MANAGER BEFORE THE EYES OF HIS
FIANCÉE."]
It was about half-past one o'clock, on a bright and pleasant day, that
a young lady was driving down Regent Street in a hansom which she had
picked up outside her boarding-house near Portland Road Station. She
had told the cabman to drive slowly, as she was nervous behind a horse;
and so she had leisure to scan, with the curiosity of a stranger, the
strolling crowd that at nearly all hours of the day throngs Regent
Street. It was a sunny morning, and everybody looked cheerful. Ladies
were shopping, or looking in at the shop windows. Men about town were
collecting an appetite for lunch; flower girls were selling "nice
vi'lets, sweet vi'lets, penny a bunch"; and the girl in the cab leaned
one arm on the apron and regarded the scene with alert attention. She
was not exactly pretty, for the symmetry of her features was discounted
by a certain hardness in the set of the mouth. But her hair, so dark
as to be almost black, and her eyes of greyish blue set her beyond
comparison with the commonplace.
[Illustration: "THERE WAS A SLIGHT STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL."]
Just outside the Café Royal there was a slight stir, and a temporary
block in the foot traffic. A brougham was setting down, behind it was a
victoria, and behind that a hansom; and as the girl glanced round the
heads of the pair in the brougham, she saw several men standing on the
steps. Leaning back suddenly, she opened the trapdoor in the roof.
"Stop here," she said, "I've changed my mind."
The driver drew up by the kerb, and the girl skipped out.
"You shan't lose by the change," she said, handing him half-a-crown.
There was a tinge of American accent in the voice; and the cabman,
pocketing the half-crown with thanks, smiled.
"They may talk about that McKinley tariff," he soliloquised as he
crawled along the kerb towards Piccadilly Circus, "but it's better 'n
free trade--lumps!"
Meanwhile the girl walked slowly back towards the Café Royal, and, with
a quick glance at the men who were standing there, entered. One or two
of the men raised their eyebrows; but the girl was quite unconscious,
and went on her way to the luncheon-room.
"American, you bet," said one of the loungers. "They'll go anywhere and
do anything."
Just in front of her as she entered was a tall, clean-shaven man,
faultlessly dressed in glossy silk hat and frock coat, with a flower
in his button-hole. He looked around for a moment in search of a
convenient table. As he hesitated, the girl hesitated; but when the
waiter waved him to a small table laid for two, the girl immediately
sat down behind him at the next table.
"Excuse me, madam," said the waiter, "this table is set for four; would
you mind----"
"I guess," said the girl, "I'll stay where I am." And the look in her
eyes, as well as a certain sensation in the waiter's palm, ensured her
against further disturbance.
The restaurant was full of people lunching, singly or in twos, in
threes and even larger parties; and many curious glances were directed
to the girl who sat at a table alone and pursued her way calmly through
the menu. But the girl appeared to notice no one. When her eyes were
off her plate they were fixed straight ahead--on the back of the man
who had entered in front of her. The man, who had drunk a half-bottle
of champagne with his lunch, ordered a liqueur to accompany his coffee.
The girl, who had drunk an aerated water, leaned back in her chair and
wrinkled her brows. They were very straight brows, that seemed to meet
over her nose when she wrinkled them in perplexity. Then she called a
waiter.
"Bring me a sheet of notepaper, please," she said, "and my bill."
The waiter laid the sheet of paper before her, and the girl proceeded,
after a few moments thought, to write a few lines in pencil upon it.
When this was done, she folded the sheet carefully, and laid it in her
purse. Then, having paid her bill, she returned her purse to her dress
pocket, and waited patiently.
[Illustration: "SHE WAS LOOKING INTO THE MIRROR AND PATTING HER HAIR."]
In a few minutes the clean-shaven man at the next table settled his
bill and made preparations for departure. The girl at the same time
drew on her gloves, keeping her eyes immovably upon her neighbour's
back. As the man rose to depart, and passed the table at which the girl
had been sitting, the girl was looking into the mirror upon the wall,
and patting her hair. Then she turned and followed the man out of the
restaurant, while a pair at an adjacent table remarked to one another
that it was a rather curious coincidence for a man and woman to enter
and leave at the same moment when they had no apparent connection.
But what happened outside was even more curious.
The man halted for a moment upon the steps at the entrance. The porter,
who was in conversation with a policeman, turned, whistle in hand.
"Hansom, sir?" he asked.
"Yes," said the clean-shaven man.
The porter was raising his whistle to his lips when he noticed the girl
behind.
"Do you wish for a cab, madam?" he asked, and blew upon his whistle.
As he turned again for an answer, he plainly saw the girl, who was
standing close behind the clean-shaven man, slip her hand under his
coat, and snatch from his hip pocket something which she quickly
transferred to her own.
"Well, I'm----" began the clean-shaven man, swinging round and feeling
in his pocket.
"Have you missed anything, sir?" said the porter, standing full in
front of the girl to bar her exit.
"My cigarette-case is gone," said the man, looking from one side to
another.
"What's this?" said the policeman, stepping forward.
"I saw the woman's hand in the gentleman's pocket, plain as a
pikestaff," said the porter.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said the policeman, coming close to the girl.
"I thought as much."
"Come now," said the clean-shaven man, "I don't want to make a fuss.
Just hand back that cigarette-case, and we'll say no more about it."
"I haven't got it," said the girl. "How dare you? I never touched your
pocket."
The man's face darkened.
"Oh, come now!" said the porter.
"Look here, that won't do," said the policeman, "you'll have to come
along of me. Better take a four-wheeler, eh, sir?"
For a knot of loafers, seeing something interesting in the wind, had
collected round the entrance.
A four-wheeler was called, and the girl entered, closely followed by
the policeman and the clean-shaven man.
"I was never so insulted in my life," said the girl.
Nevertheless, she sat back quite calmly in the cab, as though she
was perfectly ready to face this or any other situation, while the
policeman watched her closely to make sure that she did not dispose in
any surreptitious way of the stolen article.
At the police station hard by, the usual formalities were gone through,
and the clean-shaven man was constituted prosecutor. But the girl
stoutly denied having been guilty of any offence.
The inspector in charge looked doubtful.
"Better search her," he said.
And the girl was led off to a room for an interview with the female
searcher.
The moment the door closed the girl put her hand into her pocket,
pulled out the cigarette-case, and laid it upon the table.
[Illustration: "'HAVE YOU MISSED ANYTHING?' SAID THE PORTER."]
"There you are," she said. "That will fix matters so far."
The woman looked rather surprised.
"Now," said the girl, holding out her arms, "feel in this other pocket,
and find my purse."
The woman picked out the purse.
"Open it and read the note on the bit of paper inside."
On the sheet of paper which the waiter had given her, the girl had
written these words, which the searcher read in a muttered undertone--
"I am going to pick this man's pocket as the best way of getting
him into a police-station without violence. He is Colonel Mathurin,
alias Rossiter, alias Connell, and he is wanted in Detroit, New York,
Melbourne, Colombo, and London. Get four men to pin him unawares, for
he is armed and desperate. I am a member of the New York detective
force--Nora Van Snoop."
"It's all right," said Miss Van Snoop, quickly, as the searcher looked
up at her after reading the note. "Show that to the boss--right away."
The searcher opened the door. After whispered consultation the
inspector appeared, holding the note in his hand.
"Now then, be spry," said Miss Van Snoop. "Oh, you needn't worry! I've
got my credentials right here," and she dived into another pocket.
"But do you know--can you be sure," said the inspector, "that this is
the man who shot the Detroit bank manager?"
"Great heavens! Didn't I see him shoot Will Stevens with my own eyes!
And didn't I take service with the police to hunt him out?"
The girl stamped her foot, and the inspector left. For two, three, four
minutes, she stood listening intently. Then a muffled shout reached her
ears. Two minutes later the inspector returned.
"I think you're right," he said. "We have found enough evidence on him
to identify him. But why didn't you give him in charge before to the
police?"
"I wanted to arrest him myself," said Miss Van Snoop, "and I have. Oh,
Will! Will!"
Miss Van Snoop sank into a cane-bottomed chair, laid her head upon the
table, and cried. She had earned the luxury of hysterics. In half an
hour she left the station, and, proceeding to a post-office, cabled her
resignation to the head of the detective force in New York.
A VERY QUEER CRICKET MATCH.
MR. DAN LENO'S ELEVEN _v._ CAMBERWELL UNITED C.C.
BY GAVIN MACDONALD.
Everybody has seen Mr. Dan Leno--King Humorist of the variety stage. Or
if they haven't seen him, they have heard of him.
As a singer, comedian, and grotesque actor he is incomparable. As
a cricketer he dwarfs the reputation of the mighty W. G. to mere
nothingness.
Mr. Dan Leno is a modest, retiring man. In a general way he practises
in his back yard, and confines his matches to the prescribed area of
the lawn-tennis plot at the rear of his house. He says he has done
well in one sphere, and he spurns the suggestion that he should enter
another.
There is only one thing that will wean him from his resolution, and in
this the members of his profession resemble him to a man. In the cause
of charity they may be relied upon to throw all objections aside.
It was at a charity match played recently at Dulwich, in aid of a local
pension fund, that I had the pleasure of witnessing the most remarkable
exhibition of cricket it has ever been my lot to witness.
It was advertised as a one-day match between an eleven of local
players captained by Colonel Dalbiac, M.P., and an eleven of eccentric
cricketers, known as Danites, under the captaincy of Mr. Dan Leno.
[Illustration: MR. LENO AT THE WICKET.]
The latter team was composed of the following gentlemen, all more or
less well known to fame--Messrs. Dan Leno, Eugene Stratton, Harry
Randall, the Brothers MacNaughton, Pastor, Glennister, Cobbett, Joe
Elvin, Griffiths, and Tressider.
The various preliminaries differed somewhat from those usually in
evidence on the cricket field, but the 3,000 spectators enjoyed them so
much that it might be advisable for the county clubs to follow suit and
ensure a big gate.
Punctually at the appointed time the two elevens emerged from their
tents and showed themselves to the expectant crowd. The Dulwich
XI. were conventionally clad in white flannels and club caps. Not
so the Danites. As they marched in single file from their tent, a
great silence came over the multitude. They were stricken with an
astonishment too deep for words. Where was the idol of the hour? There
was no Dan Leno apparent among those grotesquely-clad creatures.
The little man in the van of the procession, with the tall silk
cricketing hat of a bygone age, loose holland bags falling like anæmic
concertinas over his shoes, the striped wool blouse with puffed sleeves
and the huge black beard and side whiskers. Surely that was not he. The
crowd looked hard. As they did so the little man's features relaxed
into an elastic smile, so elastic that none could mistake it. Then they
cried, "Why, it's Dan," and sat down and cheered till they ached. One
by one the other members of this strange eleven were identified through
their disguises, and the fun began.
The team marched in comic single file round the field at quick
time. Every few steps Capt. W.G. Daniel Leno stopped to bow his
acknowledgments, and as he did so the remaining ten ran forcibly into
each other's backs and rolled heavily over each other on the grass
from the force of impact. Wigs, false moustaches, and other stage
impedimenta dropped in the _mêlée_, and the spectators stood up on end
and swayed with laughter.
At the wicket Dr. W. G. D. Leno met the opponent captain. There was a
sporting handshake, and the former skied the fateful coin. The crowd
wanted the Eccentrics to win the toss. But there was little enough
cause for anxiety. Dan Leno had a double-headed coin, and he called to
it himself, which conclusively settled the matter. He elected to go in
first.
Rightly or wrongly, he was of opinion that the ordinary entry of
the opening side was a tame sort of affair. Dan Leno has something
of the old Roman in him. He likes a state entry and the plaudits of
the populace. He and his team once more processed off the field to a
distant corner where a dozen chargers brayed in melancholy inactivity.
Here all were mounted satisfactorily but the fat man, whom it took
half-a-dozen men to hoist in the saddle. Then to the music of a
thousand throats the team flew round the ground and charged on to the
wicket.
Never was entry so triumphal. The splendidly-trained chargers swished
their tails majestically, and brayed in lieu of trumpets. Then, without
so much as a command, they planted their fore feet firmly on the green
sward, dropped their riders over their heads, and departed from whence
they came.
Dan Leno and T. MacNaughton took their places at the wicket; the
remaining Danites, contrary to custom, squatted about the field, and
the match began.
The first ball hit the middle stump on the top and downed the wickets
like ninepins. "How's that?" called the Dulwich team. "Out," said the
umpire.
Dan Leno was more than surprised, he was disgusted and hurt. "Out?
What do you mean?" he said, with a glance of contemptuous pity at the
umpire. He called a couple of his team to assist him in his protest
against such a palpable piece of jobbery on the part of the opposition
team.
The two gentlemen appealed to were unanimous in their opinion that he
could not possibly be out. The thing was absurd. The Dulwich team,
umpire and all, laughed so much that they were physically incapable of
doing or saying anything. When you glance at the snapshot we obtained
of this tableau, you will not be surprised at this.
[Illustration: MR. LENO'S SATISFACTORY APPEAL AGAINST THE UMPIRE.]
At the precise moment when their captain was engaged in an attempt to
prove that the bowling of the middle stump did not necessarily imply
being out, some member of his team cried, "Trial ball." It was a happy
thought. In a moment the field was in an uproar. "Yes, yes--trial
ball!" came from all sides. The plea was allowed, and Dan went in again
to the tune of frantic laughter and applause. As the next ball came up
he dropped his bat, caught it in his hat, and ran. He scored ten runs,
and then quietly handed the ball over to the bowler again. Nobody
objected to this novel method of scoring. Everybody enjoyed it too much
to dream of protesting.
The Danites had opened the match with a useful ten, but there was more
to follow. T. MacNaughton was now at the batting end, and he drove the
ball out to boundary over the heads of some of the Danites sitting on
the grass.
Before any of the field reached it, one of these gentlemen slipped
quietly to the edge of the crowd, picked up the ball, and disappeared.
When he had chatted to a few friends and visited the refreshment booth,
he returned and laid it quietly on the field again. Messrs. Leno and
MacNaughton were standing at the wickets utterly blown, with another
twenty runs to their names, and the field were playing hide and seek
among the spectators searching for the lost leather.
The captain's wicket went down a score of times. They were all trial
balls. He was stumped over and over again, but he maintained that,
as he had never been stumped before, he couldn't be now, and stuck
doggedly to the wicket.
He looked like carrying his bat out, and MacNaughton was scoring
steadily the whole time, tens and twelves being common incidents of the
play, especially when an enthusiastic Danite succeeded in getting hold
of the ball and threw it to the opposite side of the field, from whence
it had to be fielded all over again.
However, there is an end to all things. A good curling ball sent the
valiant W. G. D. L.'s stumps to the four corners of the heavens, and
the umpire gave him out.
In vain he protested "Trial ball," his own side were in agreement, and
he was invited to leave the crease. Little Dan said he was there, and
there he meant to be.
Unfortunately at that moment a Danite, rigged out as an inspector of
police, pulled out a whistle and blew it shrilly. The whole field
followed him, and, kicking, blowing, and raving against umpires and
their decisions, the hero of the hour was borne forcibly from the field.
A wave of deep distress came over the spectators as Dan Leno was
carried out. All felt that, in view of his unexampled performance, he
ought to have carried out his bat.
Nobody can say the Danite XI. were not good sportsmen. They all stuck
to the wickets till they were carried off.
Harry Randall made a brave show of sticking, but the odds were
overwhelming.
Mr. Eugene Stratton's left-handed batting elicited the warmest approval
by reason of its novelty. This may be accounted for by the fact that he
is an American, and prior to this occasion had never played any game
but baseball.
Bowling is Mr. Harry Randall's strong point. His delivery is unique,
and the sight of him should be of practical value to aspiring trundlers.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE BROTHERS MACNAUGHTON BATTING. MESSRS HARRY
RANDALL AND EUGENE STRATTON IN THE SLIPS.]
At lunch time all the Danites were out. Then came the rub. Owing to
various eccentricities on the part of the players, a detailed score had
not been kept. Captain Leno was appealed to. He said he didn't actually
know how many they had made. The runs were so numerous he couldn't
keep up with them. However, he observed that his side "felt" as
though it had made at least 275 runs. They had probably made twice as
many. Accordingly the first innings was closed at that, to the entire
satisfaction of everybody, including the spectators, who cried with
laughter at this new method of settling off old scores.
[Illustration: MR. EUGENE STRATTON AS A BATSMAN.]
After lunch the Eccentrics took the field, and the Dulwich men went to
the wickets.
Hereafter it was cricket extraordinary, and no funnier burlesque was
ever seen upon the stage. The bowlers were not bowlers, but they were
excellent mimics. They knew it was the correct thing to stroll away
from the wicket and back again before a delivery. They walked a quarter
of a mile or so to the boundary each time, and returned at 20 miles an
hour in the most approved style, launching the ball at a terrific pace.
The very first ball was at least ten yards wide, but somebody called,
"How's that?" "Out!" said the umpire, and "Out" it had to be. The
batsman looked blankly from one to the other. He was too stupefied to
protest. Had he done so it would not have helped matters. He had been
given "out," and out he had to go. The Danites threw the ball madly
skyward. They careered against each, rolled in one indistinguishable
mass on the grass, and yelled till they were hoarse. The crack player
of the opposition eleven gone--out without a run! The next ball missed
the wickets, but it clean bowled the fat man, and he rolled along the
grass like a wind-driven hat.
When twenty or thirty balls had been sent up by the boundary-walking
trundlers somebody called "Over," and the Danites quadrilled gracefully
over the pitch. This little manœuvre occurred at every over.
The next Dulwich man was knocked out in a peculiar and novel way. He
did not touch the ball at all, but the fat wicket-keeper ran in and
caught it from the bowler's hands. Then he threw it in the air. "How's
that?" he cried. "Out!" cried Dan Leno, neatly catching it in his top
hat. The batsman laughed, and the spectators joined him. "How's that?"
asked Captain Leno of the umpire. "Out," responded the latter. The
batsman walked sadly from the wickets. He thought he must have been
standing without the crease, and had been stumped without noticing it.
So brilliant was the play of the Danites that the other team by one
means or another were got out for an "estimated" total of 25 runs.
[Illustration: HOW MR. LENO WENT "OUT."]
It was admirable fooling all the time, and it says much for the "stars"
of the music hall that they are willing to give their services so
freely in the cause of charity.
[Illustration: WORTH £960.]
[Illustration: PRICE £300.]
POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES.
LATEST MARKET PRICES.
"Good postage stamps" said a leading expert to the writer a few days
since, "are one of the soundest investments you can hold." That this is
so is amply proved by a glance at the steadily increasing prices quoted
for the celebrated blue Mauritius.
With a view to ascertaining some interesting particulars of the present
market prices of some of the rarer varieties of stamps, I called upon
Mr. Phillips, who is one of our greatest philatelic experts and manager
of the great collecting firm of Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd.
The result was extremely interesting, as a perusal of the facts of this
article will demonstrate.
There are two varieties of the 1847 Mauritius, a 1_d._ red and 2_d._
blue. The stamp is particularly distinguished, as will be observed in
our illustration, by the words "Post Office" on the left-hand side
instead of the more usual "Post Paid."
Owing to its rarity and the increased interest evinced by all classes
in stamp collecting, the value of this stamp has gone up by leaps and
bounds.
[Illustration: THESE TWO STAMPS WERE SOLD FOR £1,000.]
There is a good specimen in the British Museum collection. It was
purchased fifteen years ago for the modest sum of £70. I say modest,
because in 1887, when another specimen came into the market, it
realised no less a sum than £200, showing an advance of £130.
[Illustration: SOLD FOR £740.]
But this was by no means a top price. The next transaction in blue
Mauritius was the sale of a pair which after a spirited competition
were knocked down to Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd., for £680--the
price, by the way, of a well-matched pair of thoroughbreds. In 1897 the
last transaction took place in this variety, when another pair changed
hands for the respectable consideration of £1,921.