a carriage drew up in front of the police headquarters, from which a
stately looking elderly gentleman and a tall young woman alighted. The
gentleman asked to see the superintendent. Walton did not need to look at
the card to know his caller, Phineas Yarrow, one of the noted lawyers of
the city.
The woman was dressed all in black, and was so slight that she seemed
unusually tall when standing alone. She remained closely veiled.
“This young lady is a friend of Mr. Richald’s,” said the lawyer. “She is
very anxious to speak with the prisoner. I am willing to vouch for all
she says or does.”
Walton shot a keen glance at the girl. “This is rather unusual,” he said;
“but I will accede to your request, provided, of course, the interview
takes place in my presence.”
Shortly afterward Richald entered the room, and as he caught sight of the
girl he trembled and appeared dazed. For a moment she hesitated, then,
with a cry which touched the hearts of the older men, she rapidly crossed
the room, threw her arms about the young man’s neck, and kissed him
passionately.
Whether they were sweetheart and lover, husband and wife, or brother and
sister, Walton had no means for knowing; but that the girl played an
important part in the case he felt certain. Hurriedly writing a line, he
handed it to an officer, and from that time Frank Richald’s visitor was
under the shadow of the law.
For several minutes the prisoner and his visitor conversed in anxious
whispers; then, going to the lawyer, the young woman said: “After you
have shown me to the carriage Mr. Richald has something important to say
to you. He will tell you everything.”
“Now tell me all,” said the lawyer, seating himself by the side of
Richald. In eager whispers he told his story. When he had finished the
old lawyer paced up and down the room, showing that he was laboring under
intense excitement. Stopping suddenly, he said: “You must repeat this to
the superintendent, here and now.”
Without hesitating, Richald in a firm voice commenced his recital—Yarrow
an excited listener, and the superintendent coolly indifferent; but
Richald had spoken for only a few moments when Walton’s studied
indifference gave way and he was soon closely following every word. When
the young man had finished the superintendent leaned across his desk,
and, clasping his hand, said, “I believe you.”
“But there is no time to be lost,” he continued. Pushing several of the
electric buttons on his desk, he gave his orders to the officers who
appeared. Then, turning, he said, “Mr. Yarrow, will you come back at six
o’clock this evening? And, Mr. Richald, I shall still have to subject you
to my hospitality.”
That evening the lawyer once more entered the superintendent’s room. He
found Walton and Richald busily engaged in conversation, and with them
was Brixton. “Now we will get to business,” said the superintendent,
seating himself at his desk.
Into this company Marsh was called. “In the first place,” said the
superintendent, “it may be well to explain that Lawrence Marchburn and
the prisoner were brothers.” Turning to Marsh, he said, “Now tell us your
story.”
“You know all about me, superintendent,” the man commenced, and his eyes
were fixed upon Walton, as if he alone were present, “and that I have
always been a counterfeiter and a crook. I went crooked very young. My
father was a man of considerable means, and my brother Lawrence, who
was always of a jealous and grasping disposition, worked upon him so
that he refused to have anything to do with me. When he died he left all
his money to Lawrence and cut me off without a penny. When I escaped
from Joliet I determined to make a last appeal to my brother for help.
I reached his house late one night and he received me in his library.
At first he told me never to enter his house again, but during our
conversation he changed his mind, and after he had given me food he said:
“‘Jack, they tell me you are one of the cleverest counterfeiters in the
country.’
“I answered that I believed I had that unenviable reputation.
“‘Then here’s a scheme. I’m in a pretty tight hole. I have lost a good
deal of money lately in speculation, and I have used some belonging to
an estate. I am going to start a factory to make counterfeits. I shall
have an office in New York and a factory in New Jersey, where we can work
undisturbed and everything will look straight. I have money enough to
start the factory and buy all the machinery. After a year we can retire
with two fortunes and become respectable. If you have any scruples of
conscience I’ll pay your fare back to Joliet.’
“Of course I consented. There was nothing else I could do.
“I fell in love with and married the daughter of my landlady, and when
the baby came she was the happiest woman in the world, and I—” Marsh
passed his hand across his face and there was a catch in his voice which
showed the struggle he was making to remain calm.
“Well, I was determined to quit the whole business and live straight. I
told this to Lawrence, and that I wanted my share of the money he was
keeping for me. We had a dispute, but settled it by my agreeing to remain
another six months.
“Just before the time was up he went to my wife and told her I was an
escaped convict, but that he was trying to get things fixed so I need
not fear arrest. He warned her not to allow me to go away, as that
would be dangerous. She told me all. Then I resolved to end the matter
at once. When he next came to the factory he told me that Richald, his
stenographer, had discovered what we were doing, and would give the snap
away. He said something must be done to close Richald’s mouth until he
could close up the factory and clear out. He pretended to be fully as
frightened as I was, and I was badly scared, for I did not at last want
to be lagged. So I agreed to do whatever he thought best.
“He sent for me to come to New York. It had been arranged that I should
go to his office, knock three times on the door, and if the clerks were
all gone my brother would open it. After he had done so, he said, in the
most cold-blooded way, that Richald would be there in a quarter of an
hour; that we must get him to go to the factory, and on the way there, in
a lonely spot, shoot him. He would make it appear that Richald had stolen
some bonds, and when his body was found it would look like suicide. I
told him that, whatever had been my past life, _I_ would not commit
murder. He cursed me for a coward, and said he would have me sent back to
jail. I defied and left him.”
“Now,” said the superintendent, turning to Richald, “will you tell your
story?”
“Two years ago,” began Richald, who was trembling with excitement, caused
by Marsh’s recital, “I was engaged as stenographer by Mr. Marchburn, and
shortly after became engaged to his daughter, the young lady who was
here to-day. A few months ago we were secretly married, and about that
time I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Marchburn and
his brother, which put me in possession of the colossal plot to swindle
the government. I was in doubt as to my duty in the matter, but finally
concluded to tell Mr. Marchburn what I knew. He declared that Marsh was
the real head of the conspiracy, but, owing to circumstances, he had
been unable to extricate himself from his clutches; he would, however,
close up the factory as soon as possible. On the day of the murder Mr.
Marchburn made an appointment for me at his office. Before leaving
for New Jersey he handed me a package which he said contained several
thousand dollars in negotiable securities, which he intended to have
taken to his bank, but had forgotten to do so, and requested that I bring
it back to the office later.
“I was a few minutes late in keeping my appointment, and when I entered
Mr. Marchburn’s room I found him dead. It flashed across my mind that
I might be accused of the murder; that it would be difficult for me
to account for the securities, and in explaining my presence in the
office I should have to reveal the conspiracy, which, for the sake of
Mr. Marchburn’s daughter, I was reluctant to do. Yielding to a sudden
impulse, I left the office, without raising an alarm. And—”
Just then an electric bell rang and the superintendent put his ear to
a tube that hung above his chair. As he listened his face flushed. He
looked up and, with an accent of conviction that caused Marsh to move
uneasily in his chair, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, at last the missing link is
at hand!”
The next moment the door was thrown open and an officer ushered in
a middle-aged man with a traveling-bag in his hand. Stooping over
the superintendent’s chair, the officer engaged him in a whispered
conversation. As he proceeded, a look of triumph shone in the
superintendent’s eyes. Swinging around suddenly in his chair toward
Marsh, he asked abruptly: “Marsh, did you ever see this man before?” For
several moments the prisoner, with eager curiosity, eyed the new-comer
from head to foot. Then, turning to the superintendent, he said, with
attempted composure, but with that tell-tale falsetto break in his voice,
“No, I never saw him—”
“That’s the man!” cried the stranger, advancing and pointing excitedly to
the prisoner. “I could tell his voice among a million.” Then, turning to
Walton, he continued breathlessly, “Mr. Superintendent, on the evening
of the murder I was in my insurance office in Temple Court. I had just
been called to the bedside of my sick wife in Florida and rang up the
sleeping-car office in Jersey City to engage a berth. I couldn’t get
the connection, as the wires were crossed. I rang again and again, but,
instead of getting a reply from the central office, I heard a violent
quarrel going on between two men. One of them threatened to call the
police, and the other shouted, ‘If you do that I’ll shoot you.’ Indeed,
I did hear what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. At that
moment I was connected by the central office, and thought no more of the
matter until I was seated in the cars an hour later. Then, in recalling
the affair, it occurred to me that possibly I had overheard a scrap of
a theatrical rehearsal, because the voice of the man who threatened to
shoot had a stagy sort of falsetto break in it. And it wasn’t until I was
overtaken three days ago by New York papers containing full accounts of
the Marchburn murder that I knew that I held the clue to the mystery. An
hour later I was on the way to New York and came directly here from the
train.
“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, pausing impressively and pointing to the
cowering figure of the prisoner, “that is the man whose voice I heard
over the telephone. I heard him speak. I heard him threaten. I heard him
rush across the floor. I heard him fire the fatal shot. It was he who
murdered Lawrence Marchburn!”
Four months later the jury gave the same verdict.
[Illustration]
Their Colonial Villa.
BY CHARLES BARNARD.
The right to dramatize is reserved by the author.
“It is very inconvenient to be obliged to live in one place all the time.
If we had two houses, we could spend part of the time in one and part of
the time in the other.”
Young Mrs. Arburton was one of those fortunate brides who are able to set
up housekeeping immediately on the return from the wedding journey. Young
Mr. Arburton thought it best to build or buy a small house and to furnish
and occupy it as soon as possible.
“Of course, my love, I see how important it is that the house should be
close down by the river bank near your office, so that you can come home
to lunch, and I do so enjoy seeing the steamboats pass on the river.”
“Good idea. I must be handy to business.”
“And at the same time, you must see, John, that I’ve always lived at the
court end of the town, on the bluff overlooking the river and near the
shops and the homes of the best people. That’s why I think it would be so
nice if we could have two houses, one down by the river near your office,
and one in town, on the Heights and near the churches and all the nice
people. We could live every other week in each house.”
They were staying at her mother’s on the Heights, pending the purchase or
erection of the new house. Mrs. Arburton had advanced this happy thought
of having two homes at the breakfast table. The idea pleased her mother
greatly, and she remarked to her son-in-law that, in her opinion, it was
an excellent arrangement. She would gladly live in the uptown house and
take care of it while they were spending the week in the other house down
by the river.
“My love, we must do it. We never need move anything, for you could keep
a suit of clothes in each house. I’m sure I shall never be happy to live
down on the riverside. There’s really nobody living there, and still I
never, never can be happy if you are not able to come home to lunch.”
Young Mr. Arburton quite agreed with his wife and her mother. It would be
very desirable to live on the bluff, two hundred feet above the river,
and very desirable to live immediately below, down by the boat landing
and near the office. It would be very convenient to live in two places at
the same time. How to do it was the problem.
Immediately after breakfast young Mr. Arburton started off to business.
To reach the lower level of the city, where his office and his great
lumber yards stood close by the river, and almost immediately under the
lofty bluff on which the new or upper town was built, he was obliged to
take a trolley car that slid swiftly down a long iron viaduct or inclined
plane. There had been at one time, before the days of the trolley, a
more direct, but much slower method of reaching the lower town. This was
a sort of huge hoist or elevator, upon which the horse-cars were slowly
dragged up and down by means of a cable. At present, this route was
seldom used, as it was, in the opinion of the general public, altogether
too dilatory transit.
Business was quiet that day, and Mr. Arburton had ample opportunity to
consider the problem of keeping house in two places at the same time. He
felt sure he must gratify his wife’s natural desire to live in town, and
he was equally sure he must reside in the immediate neighborhood of his
yard and its great interests. It was very like the ancient question as to
what would happen if a body, moving with perfectly irresistible momentum,
were to meet a perfectly immovable body.
He returned home that night quite radiant. He had solved the question.
“It is all right, my love. It can be done.”
“Oh! I felt sure you would see that my idea was admirable. Which house
shall you build first—the one on the Heights or the house down by the
river?”
“Both can be built at the same time.”
“Well, dear, of course, you see the house up here in this fashionable
quarter must lie much larger and nicer than the house down by those
horrid lumber yards. I shan’t mind if the lower house is a plain little
box. No one will ever call there, and any simple, inexpensive, wooden
cottage will answer. Besides, while we are staying down there I shall not
receive at all, and I shall have my cards marked with our uptown address.”
“Very well,” remarked Mr. Arburton; “I’ll see the architect. I dare say
it can be fixed.”
Mrs. Arburton and her mother were delighted, and when Mr. Arburton
suggested that he wished the new house—
“You mean the new houses, dear.”
“We’ll waive that—it’s only a detail—our future domiciles are to be a
surprise.”
“How lovely in you, dear. You mean you intend to build and furnish them
complete without letting me see them?”
“That’s about the idea. Leave it all to me.”
“Then, my love, mother and I will visit Aunt Sarah in New York for a
month.”
Mr. Arburton was hardly prepared for this. To lose his young wife for two
months was not a wholly pleasant prospect. However, he expressed himself
as resigned; for he would be very busy building and furnishing the new
house.
“You mean our new houses, dear. I declare it is an inspiration. We can
spend every other week in society and have the other week to rest in
peace and be by ourselves, quite out of the world.”
The next day young Mrs. Arburton and her mother started for New York,
and young Mr. Arburton went to the office of the defunct horse railroad
company to see about a house lot, it being reported that they had real
estate to sell—cheap.
Thirty-two days later young Mrs. Arburton and her mother returned. It was
dark when they arrived, and of course they went at once to their former
home. Naturally the return of the young wife had a most happy effect upon
the young husband. He was lively, was merry, and seemed to be immensely
amused over the prospect of moving at once into the new house.
“Is it all done?” cried both ladies, “and so soon?”
“Oh, it don’t take long to knock up a house in these days. We can move in
to-night. Everything is ready for you.”
“Which house shall we live in first?”
“Take your choice.”
“Then I’ll spend the first week in the uptown house.”
“All right. I thought so. As soon as you have had supper we’ll go over
there.”
“Is it far from here?”
“No. Only a short walk. I thought you might like to be near your mother.”
“My love, you are an angel!”
This remark clearly indicated an unstable frame of mind, and further
reports of the conversation may be cheerfully omitted.
About nine o’clock the young couple started, satchels in hand, to take
possession of their new home on the Heights. Mrs. Arburton was charmed.
It was just what she wanted, a pretty two-story colonial villa at the end
of a broad avenue, and close to the edge of the bluff overlooking the
river. The parlor was small, but exquisite, the dining-room cozy, the
kitchen perfection.
“Oh, and the view from the chamber window! Isn’t it grand? Why, the
house must be on the very edge of the bluff. My love, you have made me
perfectly happy. It is such a pretty house, and right in the very best
neighborhood.”
The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Arburton remarked that
he would come home to lunch.
“Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t think of it. It’s too far to come way up here
just for lunch. I’ll put up a little basket for you.”
“It will not take me two minutes to run over here from the office. I’ll
come home at noon.”
This he said as they stood at the kitchen door.
“What on earth are you talking about—”
She would have said more, but just at that moment her husband opened
the back door and stepped out into the dusty road that led to his
lumber yard. Mrs. Arburton stood by the door, looking up and down the
commonplace road, at the towering piles of lumber across the way, at the
tall stacks of a passing steamboat, just visible over the lumber heaps.
She kissed her husband in a mechanical way, and then closed the door
and went to her chamber and sat down by the window. Clearly this was
the lower town. There had been some mistake. She finished her morning
household duties and dressed to go out. Leaving the house by the most
convenient way, she crossed the street, and, turning back, looked at
the house. It was a plain, three-story wooden house, and in every way
suitable for such a commonplace business neighborhood.
“I must have been dreaming about that colonial villa. I’ll go and call on
mother.”
She took the trolley car up the great incline to the upper town and went
to her mother’s house. The moment she arrived her mother began to ask
about the new house.
“Oh, it’s just a plain, three-story, wooden affair down by the lumber
yard.”
“I thought you were to occupy the uptown house first.”
“Yes, I thought so, too; but we stayed last night in the lower town.”
Promptly at noon, just as the big whistle roared its hoarse summons to
rest, Mrs. Arburton returned to her humble dwelling in the lower town.
Lunch was served at once, and then her husband returned to business,
leaving his wife alone in the new house. She explored it thoroughly,
and felt sure that the parlor and dining-room were the same as she had
dreamed about the night before. At six o’clock Mr. Arburton returned to
dinner, and after that he proposed that they make a few calls on friends
in the upper town.
“Oh, no, not to-night. It’s too far and we shall be so late getting back
again.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Put on your things and I’ll be ready in two minutes.”
Five minutes later young Mrs. Arburton appeared arrayed in her best.
“I suppose the nearest way is to go out the back door.”
“What’s the use of a front door if we do not use it?” said her husband.
So saying, he opened the front door and led her out into the brilliantly
lighted avenue in the upper town.
Mrs. Arburton was perplexed. She took her husband’s arm and walked on for
a few steps in silence. Then she stopped and looked back at the house. It
was the colonial villa of her dream. Was it a dream? She wanted to ask
questions, but wisely said nothing. The young couple spent the evening
in calling, and then returned to their home.
Early the next morning Mrs. Arburton drew up the curtains of her room and
looked out. There, far below, were the river and the lower town. It was
not a dream.
Then for a week nothing in particular happened. Mrs. Arburton was
entirely happy in her charming colonial villa. Her mother called and
admired everything.
“I suppose next week you will bury yourselves in the lower town. Of
course your other house cannot be equal to this lovely place.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Why, my child, you told me it was a plain three-story affair. You said
you stayed there that first night.”
“Did I? I must have been dreaming.”
The next morning young Mrs. Arburton began to wonder if her mind had
given way. She was awakened by the hoarse boom of the lumber yard
whistle. She drew up her curtain and pulled it down, again quickly. The
street was full of teams. She pinched her arm. She looked at the mantel
clock. No; she was awake. Being a wise woman, she said nothing, and after
breakfast she bade her husband good-by at the back door.
“I’ll run over to lunch, dear.”
“Very well, Mr. Arburton.”
He looked at her with a peculiar smile.
“What’s the matter, love? Are you offended?”
“Oh, dear, no! I’m a little—a little confused, that’s all. I’ll go and
call on mother. I’ll feel better—for a walk.”
“Yes, do. Take the trolley back to town.”
She did, and the moment she reached the broad avenues of the upper city
she left the car and stood irresolute on the sidewalk.
“I wish I had been more observing. Let me see. There was a row of trees
on each side, and the houses were all of Milwaukee brick.”
She wandered up and down several streets and avenues looking for the
colonial villa.
“It was so stupid in me not to know the street and number of our own
house. If I knew that I could ask a policeman. I declare, I was never so
turned round in my life. This looks like the neighborhood—and yet—”
She gave it up in despair and took the trolley back to her home in the
lower town. Then for several days nothing happened. Mrs. Arburton tried
to be happy and failed miserably. Her husband, of course, observed it,
and said at the dinner table:
“My love, I fear you do not enjoy being down here among these lumber
yards and shops. After dinner we’ll go up town.”
She was delighted. When she reached the Heights she would ask him to take
her to the other house. Immediately after dinner she went to her room to
put on her hat. When she came down again she found her husband calmly
reading in the drawing-room.
“I thought we were going to the Heights, dear.”
He looked up in some surprise, and, instead of replying, asked if she
wished to go out.
“Yes. I do. I—I want to go to mother’s.”
“Certainly, my love. I’ll go with you.”
A moment later he was ready, and calmly opened the front door and led her
out into the broad, familiar avenue in the upper town.
She stood bewildered on the stoop, and looked at the street, at the
lemon-colored houses opposite, and at the colonial villa behind her.
“What are you waiting for, dear?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering where we live.”
“Why, how absent you are, dear. This is our uptown house.”
It was all right. The other house was the dream. They spent a pleasant
evening with her mother, and then they returned home. It was indeed all
right, and just as it should be. She had certainly eaten something that
was not best for her, or she would not have dreamed three times about
the house by the river. Under the assurance of a stable residence in one
place Mrs. Arburton’s spirits rose, and her health visibly improved. She
resolved never to mention her absurd dream about the other house. She
felt sure that it had never been built—and yet! Oh! she would not think
about it any more. She would enjoy the happy present in her lovely
colonial villa in the fashionable quarter of the town.