When Dennis retired for the night at The Stag, his transit from his
room, which had never seemed so contracted as now, to the Land of Nod
was somewhat delayed by reason of the exhilarating conditions through
which he had just passed.
Toward midnight, however, his pulse had resumed its normal, and the
young man, reaching his drowsy destination at last, began a series of
the most surprising horticultural experiments until, what with orchids
as big as a barrel, and geraniums which could be reached only by a
ladder, he had converted the silvery strand of the dreamful domain into
a forest of atrocious color and floral monstrosity.
Awakening on the succeeding morning, Dennis, accepting the sense of
general lassitude which oppressed him as an indication of the arduous
nature of his efforts in his dreams, began to prepare for the activities
of the day.
On this occasion he was compelled to attire himself in the shirt which
he had worn on the occasion of his visit the evening before, since his
remaining bosoms, along with his heart, were in the possession of the
beautiful widow.
But the extravagance of such indulgence did not alarm him now.
Under the circumstances, what did a shirt more or less matter?
Was he not about to be admitted into paradise and receive twenty dollars
per week besides?
"Shirt, ha!" he exclaimed with a touch of Celtic wit; "it's a robe of
white I want." However, he compromised on a new necktie, and almost
ventured the length of patent leathers.
Stimulated by the prospect of all this beatitude, Dennis proceeded to
the dining-room and revived the spirit of the discouraged waiter by
ordering a liberal breakfast.
At the conclusion of the meal he further celebrated his disposition to
mortgage providence by the bestowal of a gratuity moderate enough to
renew the waiter's original unflattering estimation.
Had his father witnessed this imprudence he would have been prepared to
believe that Dennis was under the influence of a danseuse, and the
proportions of the breakfast could only have indicated a determination
to commit suicide by repletion.
On his way to the street Dennis paused to inform the barman of his
intended departure.
As an indication of his sentiments at this announcement, the barman, who
was engaged in the mixture of a mysterious decoction, said, as he poured
an amber-colored fluid into the glass: "This wan is fur grief at the
goin', an' this wan"--pouring from another bottle--"is fur good luck
when ye git there," and he pushed the mixture toward Dennis.
But the young Irishman, remembering his recent experience, declined with
thanks.
"No?" queried the barman. "Well, an' that's not a bad idea at all. It's
the right sthart fur a bad day an' a bad sthart fur a right wan. 'Tis
th' divil's own way av showin' wan's sintimints." Then, reaching for
the glass, he added: "I'll do th' honors fur th' two av us"; and with
the singular tendency, so often noted under such circumstances, to
swallow with haste that which it required such trouble to prepare, the
barman bolted the contents of the glass and looked his appreciation
through moist eyes.
As Dennis neared the establishment of his employer, he recalled his
obligation.
He must begin the day by informing the foreman of his changed
intentions.
He disliked the idea of the possible friction involved in the
performance of this disagreeable duty, but there seemed to be no other
way out of the dilemma.
His announcement, however, was to be less embarrassing than he
anticipated.
His providence was about to take a short nap.
As he approached the foreman, he discovered that individual, several
degrees less breezy than usual, engaged in an animated conversation with
a young man whose prevailing expression was so penitential that Dennis,
with prompt Celtic intuition, decided that he was gazing upon his
predecessor in office.
He was assured of this by the glance of belligerent appraisement with
which the young fellow surveyed him from head to foot, in response to
some suggestive indication from the foreman.
He seemed, to the apprehensive eyes of Dennis, to be calculating his
chances in the event of a physical contest.
And this recalled what the foreman had said about his biceps.
"You want to see me?" queried the latter with an expression in which the
sunshine seemed overdue.
"Yes," answered Dennis as his employer stepped aside to hear what he had
to say.
As Dennis proceeded the look of perplexity which he had noted upon the
face of his listener seemed to give way to one of unmistakable relief,
and when Dennis had stated his case he exclaimed: "Shure, now, it's an
aisy way out av a bad muss, so it is. Here, Phil!" he shouted, turning
to the young fellow in the background, who had witnessed this brief
interview with scowling interest, "here, you two can t'row th' gloves
down an' shake; Muldoon here wants to hand yure job back to ye."
At this announcement, the disfavor in the countenance of the other
disappeared and was replaced by an expression which indicated that he
regarded such liberality as something in the nature of a freak.
Some evidences of his debauch still clung to him.
His eyes were moist and heavy-lidded; his lips dry and tremulous, and
the hand which he extended to Dennis shook somewhat.
"Come, now!" exclaimed the foreman, "that's well over"; and addressing
the one he called Phil he added: "Now get to work."
Dennis looked his astonishment.
He had not calculated upon such a prompt acceptance of his resignation.
He felt that he presented an absurd appearance, and that the foreman did
not appear to his usual bluff advantage.
"Come this way," said the latter to Dennis, who followed him into his
office with a strange sinking at heart.
"I did not mean to hand over everything right off!" exclaimed Dennis.
"Well," replied the foreman, "Phil's wife came here early this mornin'
an' put up a few tears, an' Phil made all sorts av promises; an' you
have no children an' he has, an--oh, the divil!" cried the foreman,
weary of the series of explanations in which he was getting involved. "I
can't kape th' two av ye, an' Phil there is an ould hand at th'
paint-pot."
"Then," cried Dennis, "you mean that I must leave at once?"
"That's about th' size of it."
"Why," exclaimed Dennis, indignant at this injustice, "I tried to be
fair with you, and you haven't----"
"Here," interrupted the foreman, in evident haste to conclude a
disagreeable interview; "there's no use talking about it, it's got to be
done"; and turning to a drawer in the desk he extracted Monday's pay and
placed it in the young man's hand.
At that moment a burly porter filled up the doorway.
"What is it?" asked the foreman, glad of the interruption, as he
hastened, with unnecessary and suspicious promptness, to attend to the
wants of the intruder.
In a little while Dennis realized that he waited in vain for the return
of the foreman, and that, in so far as he was concerned, he was out of a
job.
Dennis had been, at various times in his life, subjected to some rugged
experiences, but could not recall any treatment quite so heartless as
this.
It upset all his calculations.
He must exist somehow between the unhappy realities of the present and
the blissful expectations of the approaching Monday.
He recalled, with the self-accusation of a repentant prodigal, his
needlessly elaborate breakfast, the extravagance of the necktie.
His return led him past the cheap amusement district of the Bowery.
Never had their tawdry invitations seemed so alluring.
By that singular perversity which opens up every suggestion of riotous
expenditure to destitution, the poor fellow felt inclined to indulge
himself regardless.
An obese nymph pictured in the foam of a beer sign, apparently
elaborated with a whitewash brush and finished in the throes of an
epileptic fit, solicited a share of his patronage.
Long rows of slot machines offered all sorts of libidinous suggestions
in placards, which proposed to debauch his morals for a penny a sight.
And with absurd propriety a vender of shoddy jewels presented the chance
of his lifetime in bizarre decoration.
But somehow Dennis reached Broadway at last, and faced the unpleasant
prospect of the next few days with despairing calculation.
As Dennis looked up and down this busy thoroughfare, with its thousands
speeding oppositely in preoccupied interest, as if all that was vital
and worthy was to be found at either extreme of its splendid distances,
he paused for a moment to account his meager finances.
He found that he possessed just four one-dollar bills and about eighty
cents in small change.
Since he was compelled to pay a half dollar each night in advance for
his lodgings, a little over two dollars would remain to him.
With rigid economy and almost miserly abstemiousness this sum would
suffice for his meals, unless he developed a mania for Delmonico's, and
for his carfare, provided he did not venture outside the possibilities
of the elevated.
As he was about to return his resources to his pocket there was a rattle
and clamor up the street, and looking in that direction he beheld a
glittering engine, drawn by a splendid team of white horses, speed along
with plunging dash and portent rumble.
Along the sidewalk directly in his rear the usual mob of men and boys
who have nothing more to do apparently than to attend fires and scramble
with a morbid curiosity to behold the misery of some victim of accident,
ran in scuffling uproar.
With a pathetic realization of his own idleness, Dennis turned to join
the speeding throng, when suddenly he became aware of a desperate clutch
at his hand, heard the rattle of scattering change at his feet, and
felt the bills which he held slip away from his grasp and disappear in
the rush.
It was over in a second. Apparently no one noticed him or his loss. He
was as abandoned as the unfortunate marooned by rushing waters; as
unheeded as a lame lamb in the multitude of the flock.
Not a head turned, and by the time he realized precisely what had
happened and prepared to give chase to the thief, a score of other men
and boys formed an unconscious barricade between the unfortunate boy and
the rogue.
His suddenly created interest in the fire vanished and was replaced by
the despair of his own disaster.
The nap of his providence was developing into a sound slumber, and since
this deity never gets up before noon Dennis had still two hours of
despair before him.
And what despair!
Of his pitiful hoard of a few moments since only a few dimes and nickels
remained.
And just across the street was the Third National Bank with barrels of
them.
The whimsies of the contrast almost amused him; but there was not enough
of the Tapley about him to detect its humor.
Again he counted his resources.
Fifty-eight cents!
He could lodge to-night, at any rate, and dine on one of those sidewalk
pretzels.
"The darkest hour is just before the dawn." Dennis tried to cheer
himself with this reflection, but the only dawn upon which he could
calculate was five days off.
In vain the poor fellow adjured his brains for some homely suggestion,
some meager inspiration.
Nothing responded but his destitution, like the echo of a groan; and
through such mental straits he arrived, at last, at The Stag.
He decided that he would do nothing radical until the following day.
He could afford a night's rest, at least, and that might revive his
numbed faculties.
As he reached the office he glanced at the proprietor.
Could he persuade that cynical-visaged individual to trust him until he
received his first week's pay?
Would he be credited if he related his prospects?
As a measure in this assurance, would not the proprietor feel justified
in calling upon the widow for indorsement of the statement of the young
man?
This would never do.
He could not endure the humiliation of such a revelation.
The poor fellow got little encouragement from the face of the
proprietor.
This was suspicious and hard. It had scarcely the perfunctory smile of
the professional boniface.
The prospect of having to address that forbidding ensemble was
disheartening.
Suddenly his reflections were interrupted.
The proprietor waved a beckoning hand to him.
Dennis hurried to the desk.
"A letter for you," said the proprietor, as he placed in the young man's
hand an envelope addressed in a handwriting which he recognized at
once.
"'Dennis Muldoon'; yes, that's mine," and hastening to an unoccupied
seat in a remote portion of the office, Dennis hastily opened the
envelope and withdrew a short letter, and--ye gods! was it possible?--a
postal order for twenty-five dollars.
Philadelphia.
DEAR DENNIS:
It's a hard row you have to hoe, I'm a-think-in', and it's a bad
spot you have to hoe it in. I know New York of old, and it's a
lonesome place for a poor lad.
I send you the week's wages due you, and an extry five to come
back with in case your dreams don't come true.
I've got over my mad, my boy, and I'll be glad to see you.
Run over annyhow; it's a dull place without you. The mother misses
you bad.
Come Saturday if you can; I've got a business proposition I want
to make.
Tell me how you're getting on, annyway.
THE OLD MAN.
"Oh, ho!" cried Dennis. His providence was wide awake now, had made its
toilet, and was ready for business.
For a long while Dennis sat with the letter in his hand, gazing, with
unseeing eyes, upon its eccentric chirography.
His exultation had not fully materialized.
To grope in the valley of despair one moment and skip along the summit
of beatitude the next was a little too much for immediate comprehension.
Somewhat in the manner of the metaphysician, he was inclined to believe,
since his misfortune was no longer a reality, that his prosperity might
be equally immaterial, and in unaware corroboration he made a minute
tear in the edge of the postal order to establish its tangibility.
In the evening, influenced perhaps by his comparative weal, Dennis
decided that he would purchase a ticket to the Olympus, and climbing the
rear approach to that elevation, found himself seated shortly with the
gallery gods, viewing with uncritical contrasts the relative merits of
the clown, the harlequin and the columbine.
Between the acts his roving glance found a sudden destination and his
elation went into abrupt decline, for seated in one of the boxes, her
glass surveying the house in all sorts of disconcerting directions, sat
the beautiful widow.
Instinctively Dennis crouched into his seat.
Fortunately he was able by thus collapsing within himself, to escape the
radius of her vision, which was interrupted by the railing extending
around the balcony.
It would never do to be discovered in his present situation. The
elevation was degrading, and Dennis understood the unhappy paradox.
It emphasized the social distinctions too much, and caused the distance
from where he sat to the placid beauty below to appear immeasurable.
But this was not the least of his perturbations.
Near the widow a gentleman sat, solicitous, engaging, persistent.
A certain air of distinction rendered doubly obnoxious the assumption of
proprietorship which Dennis believed he remarked, and while the young
man was able to comfort himself with the discovery that his bewitching
companion devoted more attention to the stage and the house than to her
escort, still, as Dennis contemplated the faultless attire of the
gentleman in the box and contrasted it with his own modest apparel, he
felt unaccountably depressed.
All this was revealed by the furtive glances which the young Irishman
ventured over the gallery rail.
A strange foreboding overwhelmed him.
The bewildering tinsel of the stage no longer diverted, and he would
have been astonished to analyze the reason why.
As the last curtain fell and Dennis was no longer able to adjust his
gloomy contemplation to incongruous orchestration, he hastened from the
theater, scrambled down the precipitate stairs and hastened to The Stag.
It was midnight before he slept, and scarcely morning when he awoke.
He dressed himself like an automaton, and breakfasted like an anchorite.
He left the hotel without his personal knowledge, and traversed half the
length of Broadway without volition. His mind was making the visit in
advance of the appointed time, and his torpid body alone observed the
social usages.
By noon the patent leathers were a reality; by six-thirty he had assumed
a clean shirt and his new necktie.
When the clock struck seven he hastened to the elevated; a half hour
later found him parading the street opposite the conservatory, and at
eight he arrived with a promptness which, persistently observed,
commends a young man to a junior partnership.
When the widow finally presented herself, Dennis was more than ever
convinced, by the richness of her attire, that the business must be in a
flourishing condition.
For some unknown reason the beautiful woman was dressed entirely in
black with the exception of some exquisite traceries in white about her
throat and wrists.
Had his life depended upon it Dennis could never have described the
fabric of her gown.
He only knew that it was distinguished by a sort of subdued sheen; that
it rustled with an entrancing swish and suggestion of femininity as she
moved, and that it was adjusted to her shapely figure as though her
delightful personality had been moulded into it.
A slim wonder of a white hand was extended to him, a bright smile
illumed her bewildering eyes and bent the Cupid bow of her lips into a
curve which sent an intangible arrow into the young man's heart as she
said with musical simplicity:
"I am glad to see you."
To this Dennis made no direct reply.
His eyes gleamed their idealized eloquence, however; his attitude
presented unmistakable shades of deference, and to save himself further
revelation he collapsed into the chair indicated by his hostess.
Apparently the widow extracted the same enjoyment from these ingenuous
acknowledgments as ever, for she did not immediately resume the
conversation.
Fortunately, Dennis assembled himself, so to speak, and realized his
psychological moment.
"Shure," he said as he became aware of his involuntary self-revelations,
"'shure, an' you would know that I am glad to see you if I was deaf and
dumb."
The widow laughed heartily at this, as she replied:
"I'm afraid that you have kissed the blarney stone, Mr. Muldoon."
Having no response for this, Dennis substituted: "I saw you at the
theater last night," and a palpable degree of joy left his countenance
at the announcement.
"Ah!" exclaimed the widow, regarding him curiously. "Where were you?"
"In th' lobby," replied Dennis unblushingly.
"What did you think of the performance?" asked his companion after a
moment.
Dennis looked her directly in the eyes with the light of inspiration in
his glance as he said:
"I did not see it."
The widow gazed at the young man for one searching moment, reddened
slightly, and, rising, proceeded to the music rack, from which she
extracted bosoms Nos. 2 and 3.
"Suppose we read the story," was her reply.
As the widow extended the bosoms toward him, Dennis could not avoid the
thought which had presented itself to him on the day before, that this
woman had not only two bosoms of his in her possession, but his heart as
well; and a certain degree of the animation of this reflection found its
way into his eyes.
"Well," inquired this observing woman, "what is it?"
Dennis flushed as he replied: "I'll tell you by-and-by," and added:
"Will you do me a great favor?"
"What is it?" she asked.
"Why," answered Dennis, "I would like to hear you read bosom No. 2."
"Why?"
"Well," replied the young man, with a sincerity that was unmistakable,
"I think it would sound like a song then."
"Very well," she assented, "let me have it"; and with a voice that
reflected, to this young man's ears, at least, at one moment the
rippling of silver brooks, the trill of woodbirds, the sigh of zephyrs
scented with daffodils, and the next the full, round resonance of an
animated day in June, she read:
* * * * *
"Now!" exclaimed Gratz as the familiar click assured him that the
handcuffs were in place, "now you can lower your hands and come over
here."
As the Sepoy advanced into the light, Gratz instructed Robert to pick up
the remaining coins and restore them to the bag.
During all this time the Sepoy had not uttered a word, but his fierce
eyes, which stared with savage intentness in the direction of the disk
of light, from the rear of which issued that implacable voice, were
vital with rage and impotent menace.
As he gazed thus with his distorted countenance concentrated into a look
of bitter speculation in his futile attempt to discover by whom he was
addressed in this tone of insolent authority, there was something
frightful in the quest and uncertainty of the disturbed features.
An unnatural luster, partly the reflection of his somber eyes and partly
from the tawny hue of his saturnine visage, added an inexpressible
degree of malignant rancor to his expression.
His hands, which he was compelled by the manacles to hold directly in
front of him in an absurd travesty of penitential clasp, gripped each
other in his consuming resentment until the tendons of his wrist stood
out with the tense distinction of whipcords.
While Robert was engaged in restoring the coins to the bag, the only
sound came from the derisive click and fall of the gold-pieces as they
chinked their mockery into the ears of the raging prisoner.
As the last coin joined its fellows a neighboring clock chimed the hour
of two.
"Good!" exclaimed Gratz; "there is time to settle this business before
morning"; and turning to the Sepoy he added: "I will trouble you to
precede me to your room."
There was something unreal in the silence which the Sepoy still
maintained and the enforced apathy with which he proceeded to obey
these instructions, and Robert, unaccustomed to such episodes as this,
in which he was a contributing factor, was more affected than if he had
witnessed some violent demonstration or listened to a raging
vituperation.
The transit of the trio from the cellar to the apartment of the Sepoy
was effected without attracting further regard, and the balance of the
boarders slept away in snoring oblivion and provided another instance of
the frail partition which separates the violent from the placid.
Arrived at the room of their swarthy prisoner, Gratz provided the
uncomfortable Robert with the relief he required by instructing him to
hasten to his uncle and summon him to the scene, and to avoid giving him
any of the details of what had transpired.
Glad to escape the depression of the gloomy vicinity, and the unabashed
directness of the Sepoy's glance, the young man hurried away.
If the terrible concentration which the Sepoy resumed, with his luminous
eyes upon the countenance of the detective, affected the latter, there
was certainly no such evidence.
It was as dull and lifeless as ever; the eyelids had fallen to their
accustomed suggestion of ambush, and it seemed scarcely possible that
the sharp directions of a few moments since could issue from such
flaccid lips, and so much determination could dominate such an
insignificant figure.
Apparently exasperated by the undemonstration of this negative aspect,
the Sepoy was near the limit of his repression.
The lines about his lips relaxed somewhat, the pupils of his eyes
reduced their staring diameter, and his head was inclined forward a
trifle.
Gratz concluded that his companion had decided to speak.
He was not mistaken.
"Can I be spared the humiliation of meeting that old dotard you have
sent for?"
"I do not see how," replied Gratz.
"What do you gain by it?" asked the Sepoy.
"I cannot tell that in advance; possibly nothing," replied Gratz.
"That is likely," replied the Sepoy quietly.
"We shall see," exclaimed the detective. "I am working out a theory; I
need the assistance of all concerned."
"Look at me!" exclaimed the Sepoy abruptly. "I will credit you with
being something of a physiognomist. Do you see any evidences of
determination in my face?"
"And if I do?" queried Gratz.
"Only this," was the reply: "No matter what your object may be, I will
oppose it with all the resolution and dexterity at my command, if you
conduct your inquiries as you contemplate."
In reply Gratz offered an exasperating shrug of the shoulders.
"There is no mystery to be solved," he said. "I have no further facts to
discover; I know that you have managed to secure three separate bags of
coin from Raikes, and I am aware of your process."
"If you know all this," replied the other with curious calmness, "why do
you----"
The question was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Now!" exclaimed Gratz, as if with sudden determination, "I will try to
grant your request in part. Retire into your bedchamber, leave the door
open, and listen.
"I will place Raikes and his nephew where they cannot see you, but I
will sit here where I can note your slightest move."
The Sepoy arose hastily and entered the bedchamber, seating himself
according to the direction of the detective.
At that moment there was a knock upon the door.
In answer to the salutation of the detective Raikes and his nephew
entered.
Seating themselves in the chairs indicated, they awaited with intense
curiosity the proceedings of this enigmatical man.
Noting the alert questioning in the eyes of the young man, and the
half-awakened inquiry in the sordid countenance of Raikes, Gratz, in
order to prevent the intrusion of any disturbing remark upon his present
purpose, said impressively:
"I must ask you both to listen without interruption. When I want you to
speak I will question you"; and fastening his strange eyes upon the
blinking Raikes, he added: "Now we will proceed.
"You have lost four bags of coin."
"Three!" corrected Raikes, despite his instructions to silence.
"Pardon me," continued Gratz, "and please do not interrupt. I said
four--and here is the fourth," and he pointed to the bag upon the table.
The miser's jaw dropped helplessly, and he stared at the bag with a
superstitious terror.
"But," continued Gratz, "what seems so incredible to you is merely the
logical outcome of a cunningly established sequence," and the speaker
shot an incredibly quick glance at the silent figure in the adjoining
room.
"Now attend me closely.
"During the last few evenings you have heard some very curious
narratives."
Raikes nodded with gloomy corroboration.
"A series of well-arranged events have introduced a startling
episode--the substitution of pebbles for diamonds."
Again Raikes nodded.
"At this point in the narrative the first instalment concludes. Am I
right?"
"Yes," answered Raikes.
"Then," continued Gratz, "you went directly to your room; you retired.
In the morning you are prompted, with more than your usual eagerness, to
open your private safe."
"Right!" exclaimed Raikes in indorsement of this relentless resume.
"You find the locks undisturbed; the contents apparently as you left
them on retiring. Some difference in the conformity of one of the bags
urges a nearer examination. You discover that this indicates a
difference in the contents. You grasp it; it comes away in your hands
with startling lightness. You discharge its deposit upon the table--a
shower of coals follows."
"Yes, yes!" stammered Raikes with impatient eagerness.
"Well, you are convinced, by an examination of the fastenings of the
door, an inspection of the window, that no human being could have
effected an entrance from either direction.
"The next evening is a repetition of the history of the night before.
"The strange Indian narrative, another gem to examine--an additional
loss on the succeeding morning."
Raikes nodded savagely.
"On the following night the same unhappy series of events occur,
followed by the loss of the third bag."
"But why all this again?" inquired Raikes.
"That concerns me," exclaimed the detective with another rapid glance at
the undemonstrative figure in the next room. "You must follow my
instructions or you will conclude as badly as you have begun. Now,"
continued Gratz, "it is incredible to me that, with the astuteness with
which you are credited, that having such a good standpoint to begin
with, you did not proceed upon that basis."
"I?" questioned the astonished Raikes. "What standpoint had I?"
"Elimination," replied Gratz.
"Several puzzling possibilities were retired permanently.
"Recall the details as we have enumerated them: An impossible door; the
window equally out of the question; the substitution of the coals for
the coin.
"It is very simple. The outside agency unfeasible, we must look within.
There is but one conclusion----"
"And that?" interrupted Raikes.
"An accessory."
"Ah!" cried Raikes, "unthinkable!"
"Not at all," replied Gratz; "there was an accessory--yourself!"
At this announcement Raikes seemed about to collapse into his original
helplessness. The facts of his losses were extraordinary enough, but
this was too much.
But Gratz hurried on, explained the unconscious visits of his astounded
hearer to the cellar, and all that followed.
"Then," exclaimed Raikes, when he had concluded, "I have been the victim
of hypnotic suggestion."
"Precisely!" replied Gratz. "The story was merely the medium of
transmission, and through this weird conduit the story-teller conveyed
his instructions to your subconsciousness."
"But," demanded Raikes, "why this substitution of coals? It strikes me
that a scheme so clever as all this would scarcely be jeopardized by
such an absurdity."
"That contingency," answered Gratz, "was never intended. In your
condition of mind, having discharged the coin upon the floor of the bin,
a mental idiosyncrasy of years insisted upon recognition.
"In some inexplicable way you retained enough of your mental identity to
preserve some manifestation of the law of equivalents. In other words,
having parted with something, you demanded something in return.
"With as much deliberation, therefore, as you manifested in contributing
to your loss, you attempted to reimburse yourself by filling the bag
with coal.
"In some occult way you assured yourself that you were engaged in a
transaction where one commodity took the place of another.
"To this freak of mentality the idea of the pebbles in the story being
substituted for the diamonds contributed; and what was intended by the
narrator as a consistency of detail, to be explained later on, made an
unforeseen appeal to your native cupidity and provided me with a very
satisfactory clue.
"Moreover, the narrator assisted himself by allowing you to contemplate
some brilliants--a sapphire, a diamond.
"In such demonstrations a centralizing object is an almost indispensable
adjunct; and putting the two together, the stories, the brilliants, it
is not difficult to see that you have received your instructions in the
manner indicated, and obeyed them with unexpected consistency."
For a moment there was silence, which was sharply disturbed by an
unexpected and apparently unsuggested query from Gratz.
"Were you ever," he asked, looking directly at Raikes, "in this
apartment during the absence of its occupant?"
"No!" stammered Raikes, apparently very much astonished at the question.
"You lie!"
Raikes and his nephew sprang to their feet, their eyes bulging in the
direction of the bedroom.
In the doorway stood the Sepoy.
"You lie!" he repeated, "you miserable husk, you! You were here one
evening in my absence, or, at least, what you supposed was my absence,"
and raising his manacled hands the speaker pointed to the closet. "I was
there," he said.
"Ah--ah!" faltered Raikes chokingly.
"And now," continued the Sepoy, "let us get to the end of this business.
It ought to be a simple proceeding. You want three missing bags of gold;
they will be forthcoming on one condition."
"And what is that?" cried Raikes, beginning to withdraw into himself as
if he expected a sharp bargain.
"That you leave the details of the transaction in the hands of this
gentleman," answered the Sepoy, pointing to Gratz. "You had better
consent," he added as he analyzed the hesitation of the startled Raikes,
"or I shall describe, with photographic minuteness, all that occurred in
the few short moments of your visit."
Raikes regarded Gratz helplessly.
During all this conversation the detective had been doing some rapid
thinking and had decided upon his course, so nodding to Raikes, he said:
"Leave the matter to me; I will restore your coin to you in the morning.
See that neither of you leaves the house until then, or speak to a soul
before I see you."
Whatever objections may have been forming in the mind of the miser were
quickly dissipated by a look from the Sepoy, and without another word
Raikes and his nephew departed.
"Well," inquired Gratz, when the two were again alone, "what have you to
say to me that you do not want Raikes to hear?"
"You will know shortly," replied the Sepoy after a few moments of
reflection, with his eyes directed upon the handcuffs. "I do not have to
resort to your elaborate reasoning to discover the nature of your
profession. These," holding up his hands, "are unmistakable."
"Yes," answered Gratz drily, "they require no trope or metaphor to
illustrate their application."
"However," continued the Sepoy, "I have just listened to the deductions
of an unusual acumen for analysis along abstract lines."
Gratz bowed his acknowledgments.
"That is simple," he said, "when there is such a liberal supply of
data."
"True," responded the Sepoy. "That was an oversight on my part. Still,
your constructive application, too, is no less convincing."
"But to what does all this lead?" inquired Gratz with a degree of
impatience. "Suppose we admit that there is an exquisite balance
maintained between my analysis and my synthesis, and have done with it.
You have some appeal to make to one or both of these faculties."
"Your penetration is the peer of your reasoning. Listen: Will you do me
the favor of assuming that your comprehensive resume of a few moments
ago is all I care to hear on the subject?" asked the Sepoy.
"I understand," replied Gratz.
"Very well, then," continued the Sepoy. "I will extend to you the
courtesy of offering no denial to anything you have said."
"That," laughed Gratz, "is the height of affability, under the
circumstances; but proceed."
"Good!" responded the Sepoy. "I have a suggestion to make. It is
understood, in the first place, that Raikes is to recover his coin; on
that point he will be fully satisfied. But there still remains the
recognition of your services to him; you will have more difficulty in
convincing him of his obligation than you had in persuading me of your
acumen."
"Ah!" murmured Gratz; "it is coming."
"Are you any judge of brilliants?" inquired the Sepoy abruptly.
"Somewhat," answered Gratz; "I have seen a few in my time."
"Well," continued the Sepoy, "kindly put your hand in my right vest
pocket and withdraw a small case of shagreen which you will find there."
Gratz obeyed.
"Now," continued the Sepoy, "press the spring."
As Gratz complied with this instruction, the lid of the shagreen case
flew open and revealed the superb sapphire which had radiated such
insidious depravity into the mind of the miser.
"What do you think of that?" inquired the Sepoy.
For a moment or so Gratz did not reply. The mastery of its cutting, its
magnificent bulk, its unrivaled purity overwhelmed him. "I have never
seen one like it," he said finally, "if it is genuine."
"Oh, you need not doubt it!" exclaimed the Sepoy, "or, if you do, you
can assure yourself on that point. Now follow me. Six bags of Raikes'
coin could not buy that."
"You set its value high," suggested Gratz.
"Naturally; its like does not exist. Money has never been able to
purchase it. There is just one consideration I can accept for it."
"And that?" inquired Gratz as the Sepoy paused.
"A lapse of memory," replied the Sepoy.
"A lapse of memory!" repeated Gratz.
"Yes. Unlock these handcuffs and forget that you have done so."
A sudden irradiation seemed to shoot from the gem. It was the impulse
communicated by the trembling hand of the detective, who, either to
conceal the flush that was gradually transforming his pallid face, or
from his reluctance to remove his gaze, continued to hold the brilliant
in much the same oblivious regard as that bestowed upon it by the
unhappy Raikes.
Gratz was having the struggle of his life.
The veins fretted through his temples with frightful distinction; his
forehead was moist with a profuse perspiration; his breath labored with
intermittent entrance and egress.
His well-known apathy, his exasperating negation of demeanor, where were
they now?
Gradually, however, in the manner of disheartened stragglers whipped
again into the firing line, there shadowed in his expression evidences
of moral recovery which the Sepoy did not like.
The professional instincts of the detective, reinspired by his better
nature, were making some very obvious appeals.
The eclat of this singular case beckoned. He seemed to brace himself
morally and physically as he leaned back in his chair and again looked
at his desperate companion.
At once the Sepoy, upon whom no vestige of this mental tumult was lost,
again restored the ebbing temptation to its flood by exclaiming:
"Here is a more convincing reason still," and raising his hands to his
breast, in order to give the detective easier access to the point
designated beneath his arms, he said: "Reach into the pocket on the
left."
For a moment Gratz hesitated. If he had found the first subsidy
difficult to refuse, how might he resist the second, or, he added to
himself, with a sort of usurious exaltation, the depravity of the two
combined?
Curiosity, too, without which no detective is truly fit for his calling,
moved him, so with the impatient impulse we so often witness when
rectitude is about to subject itself to the persuasions of the evil one
for the ostensible purpose of combating them and the private
determination to yield, Gratz extended a trembling hand toward the
Sepoy, who had drawn himself to the extreme limit of his sinewy height,
the better to accommodate his figure to the intent search of the
detective, and then----
Just as Gratz managed to insert his trembling fingers over the edge of
the pocket rim, a pair of tense, sinewy hands shot upward and with
incredible dexterity encircled the throat of the detective.
The surprise was complete.
The hands of the unfortunate man flew out wildly, grasping at nothing,
and the next instant closed upon the wrists of the Sepoy.
But the recoil was too late. The frightful grasp concentrated its deadly
pressure.
The livid face of the detective grew purple. His eyes seemed about to
bulge from their sockets. His grip relaxed from the wrists of his
antagonist, and then all vigor seemed to vanish from his body, and he
sank inertly to the floor.
As the malignant Sepoy bestowed the stiffening body upon the carpet, he
released his horrible clutch upon the detective's throat, and, despite
his manacles, began with desperate agility to search the silent man's
waistcoat pockets.
From one futile quest his implacable hands leaped to another, the length
of chain which held the two handcuffs together rattling an eerie
accompaniment to his eagerness.
At last he withdrew a tiny key.
Grasping the precious bit of steel in his right hand the Sepoy inserted
it in the latch-hole of the left manacle; a quick turn, and the steel
clasp relaxed its obnoxious embrace.
It was but the work of a second to repeat these operations on his right
arm, and the Sepoy was free.
"Ha!" The breath seemed to whistle from his lungs with one sharp,
exulting impulse.
He stretched his superb figure to its utmost, and with the smile of a
re-embodied Lucifer restored the sapphire to its case.
For a brief space he gazed upon the man extended upon the floor, and
then, urged by some devilish impulse, if one might judge from the
expression of his countenance, he knelt by the prostrate body and placed
his ear to the pulseless breast.
The next instant, stimulated, apparently, by some unexpected endorsement
of a vague possibility, he was upon his feet and had darted to a small
cabinet near-by.
His hasty foray among its drawers was rewarded with a small bottle, the
stopper of which he removed.
With a quick motion of the head to escape the full force of the pungent
odor of ammonia which issued, the Sepoy returned to the unfortunate
Gratz, and wetting the tip of his handkerchief with a few drops from the
vial, he passed it gently to and fro under the nostrils of the
detective.
Repeating these maneuvers several times, the Sepoy believed that he
remarked a faint twitching of the eyelids.
At this manifestation he seized a sheet of paper and directed a mimic
breeze upon the drawn face.
Again he attempted an enforced inhalation of the strong odor, this time
from the bottle itself.
The result was startling.
There was a scarcely perceptible attempt to turn the head; a spasmodic
throb in the throat.
Renewing his efforts with the paper, the Sepoy, encouraged by what he
saw, placed his arms beneath the body and lifted it to a semi-reclining
attitude, so that it rested, with a tilt forward, against a chair-arm.
From the table the evilly-smiling man took the handcuffs, and grasping
the unresisting arms of the unfortunate Gratz, bent them with cruel
force until the hands met behind the gradually stiffening back.
There was a sharp click, and the next instant the manacles embraced the
wrists of the detective.
Again the Sepoy placed the bottle so that a concentration of the
stinging odor, which by now permeated the atmosphere of the entire room,
could attack the sensitive nasal membranes more directly, and
unmistakable evidences of imminent reanimation quickened the twitching
features.
Again he lifted the uneasy figure and placed it upon the reclining
chair, into which it collapsed helplessly with a nerveless huddle.
A few minutes more of alternate fan and bottle resulted in the opening
of the eyes and the utterance of a choking gasp.
Assured now, the Sepoy rushed to the bedroom, threw aside the coverlets
and possessed himself of one of the sheets.
With the aid of his pocket-knife he ripped this into several lengths,
with which he returned to the rapidly reviving Gratz.
In his grim struggle for reanimation the firm lines about the mouth of
the unfortunate man had finally relaxed, and into this ugly opening the
Sepoy inserted a strip of the sheet and secured it in a rigid knot
behind the neck of his victim.
With a few dexterous turns and knots he bound the body to the chair with
the remaining lengths of linen, and hastening to the washstand grasped a
water pitcher and deluged the face of the now thoroughly awakened Gratz.
From the look in his eyes it was evident that his senses had not only
fully returned, but that he was perfectly aware of the changed
conditions and their relative humiliations.
For a moment an expression vaguely suggestive of admiration shadowed
through the slightly flushed countenance, and the next instant it
returned to its customary apathy, from which it was not again disturbed
during the bitter ordeal to which the helpless Gratz was subjected.
"And now," exclaimed the Sepoy with a frightful grin of malice, "I trust
that your senses are sufficiently restored to receive a farewell
suggestion or two. You will notice," he went on with evil emphasis,
"that I say 'farewell suggestions,' for I assure you that you will never
set eyes on me again.
"A little previous to the change which resulted in your present
predicament, I extended to you the courtesy of all sorts of tribute to
your acumen.
"Now--note my liberality--I do not insist upon a reciprocal indorsement
of my dexterity, since I see"--pointing to the gag which he had inserted
in the mouth of the detective--"since I see, with deep regret, that you
have an impediment in your speech.
"I excuse you in advance.
"Still, I cannot resist the temptation of chiding your indifference to
such a brilliant argument as this," and the Sepoy caused the sapphire
to scintillate its mocking rebuke into the eyes of the wretched Gratz.
"I must also improve the occasion by calling your attention to the
reprimand offered by your plight to your curiosity, for you see to what
a pass it has brought you.
"However, since it would be a malice of which I am incapable not to
gratify it, I will show you what it was I had in reserve," and the Sepoy
produced the small shagreen case with which Raikes had been on such
questionable terms of familiarity, and pressing back the lid revealed
the splendid diamond to the still impassive Gratz.
With a continuation of his elaborate courtesy and his purposely stilted
phrasing, the Sepoy said: "If the sapphire was argument, this was
certainly conviction. The moral barrier which could withstand the
assault of the first, must, unquestionably, have yielded to the
insidious attack of the second.
"But since you have managed to place yourself beyond the reach of such
considerations, I will be compelled to discontinue my futile eloquence
and leave you to your more mature reflections.
"Observe!" he continued, as he replaced the sapphire in the case and
restored the latter to the right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, "I place
the argument in this repository"; and treating the diamond in like
manner, he deposited that in the left-hand pocket and added: "And place
the conviction on this side.
"It is not often that one is the embodiment of _belles-lettres_, having
such details of logic so easily within reach."
During all this travesty of demeanor and phrase, with its tantalizing
mockery and its crafty insinuation, Gratz had betrayed no emotion
whatever, nor did his eyes lose one whit of their usual placidity as he
beheld the Sepoy, with a sort of lithe, animal rapidity, produce a small
traveling-case from the wardrobe and return with it to the bag of coin
on the table.
"You see," continued the Sepoy as he was about to deposit the bag in the
case, "I have left room for this. I anticipated its addition to my
paraphernalia and made preparations accordingly.
"Notice how neatly it fits in. And now I offer you my sympathy for the
miscarriage of your plans.
"This, to a man of sentiment and enterprise, is always obnoxious. I feel
myself indebted to you for some exceedingly intelligent mental
processes, and, believe me, I part with you with a feeling so nearly
resembling regret that I will not do you the discourtesy of doubting
that the sentiment is genuine.
"I leave you to make explanations to your clients in whatsoever way you
may see fit. I salute you!" and the next instant the Sepoy had slipped
through the doorway into the hall, along which he hurried until he
reached the main entrance of the house.
To make his way through this into the vestibule and thence into the
street was the work of the next few moments, and with a grin of
malicious triumph he descended the steps which led to the pave.
Scarcely had his feet touched the ground when a man from either side of
the stone balustrade stepped out, and each grasped an arm of the
scowling Sepoy.
"A moment, please!" exclaimed one of the men, as he snapped back the
shield of a small lantern he carried and directed its searching light
into the distorted countenance.
"Ah!" exclaimed his captor to the fellow on the other side of the
prisoner, "this is the chap, Tom."
"Now, mister, you can walk back. Not a word; you may be all right and we
may be all wrong; it can soon be settled in there."
"One question, please," begged the Sepoy. "Who are you? By what right do
you detain me?"
"One at a time, mister," replied the man with the lantern. "There's a
man inside who can answer these questions for you."
A sudden light penetrated the mind of the Sepoy. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "I
understand."
"That's good, mister; it will save a deal of explanation."
"These men, then," muttered the Sepoy to himself, "are the subordinates
of the detective within."
At that moment the moon slipped out from behind a mask of cloud and
silhouetted the three.
By its light the prisoner examined the grim countenances before him.
"Surely," he decided, "there is nothing in these features to indicate a
strenuous moral objection to the bribery of the contents of my
traveling-case," and at the thought of the absurd discrepancy between
his present predicament and the cynical altitudes of a short time since,
and as he considered the humiliation awaiting him when he was compelled
once more to face the detective, he decided to venture on another
attempt to purchase his freedom.
With this thought he was about to place the case he carried on the
ground, when one of the men, remarking his movement and mistaking its
purpose, cried: "Here; none of that!"
"But," expostulated the Sepoy, "you do not----"
"Shut up!" replied the fellow coarsely. "Come inside and show us where
you have left the chief. You here, the boss in there--something's
wrong."
With a muttered curse, and urged by no ceremonious hands, the Sepoy
reascended the steps.
Having in his haste to escape neglected to latch the doors, the raging
Sepoy had no difficulty in conducting his captors along the hallway to
his room.
In a few moments this strangely assorted trio reached the apartment in
which the Sepoy had but a short time before disported himself, so to
speak, with such waspish reprisal, and delivered such a farrago of
ridicule and cynicism upon the defenseless head of the silent figure
bound to the chair.
At sight of this extraordinary spectacle the two understrappers came to
a standstill and looked upon the Sepoy with a species of respect.
Never before had they beheld their chief in such a predicament; the
means of its accomplishment must have been amazingly clever, and the
agent himself somewhat of a marvel.
However, while one of the men stood guard over the Sepoy, with a renewal
of his watchfulness awakened by what he saw, the other proceeded to
unfasten the gag and remove the strips which bound the unfortunate
Gratz.
After a pause of inscrutable regard of the Sepoy, who, despite the
embarrassing denouement, managed to maintain a fair degree of composure,
Gratz, addressing the man who had released him, said:
"You will find the key of these handcuffs on the table yonder."
Obedient to the direction of the detective's glance, the man proceeded
to the table, found the object of his quest, and inserting it in the
handcuffs detached them from the hands of the still impassive Gratz.
"Now," continued the latter calmly, "I will transfer these ornaments to
that gentleman. Secure him precisely as you found me, with the exception
of the gag."
Presently this was done.
At this, turning to his subordinates, the detective said: "Leave me with
this gentleman for a while; I will call you in case of need."
As the pair passed through the doorway, Gratz, with no intimation of
triumph or exultation in his manner, addressed the unhappy Sepoy, with
an emphasis, however, which implied that he had not forgotten the
experience to which he had been subjected.
"And _now_ what have you to say?"
The Sepoy looked his questioner directly in the eyes, with a glance that
was subtle in its insinuation and eloquent of collusive suggestion, and
replied:
"The sapphire is still in my right waistcoat pocket, and the diamond in
the left."
THE END
As the beautiful reader reached this singular conclusion, which came
with an abruptness that indicated the decrepit imagination of the author
and his overworked vocabulary, she looked up from the absurd vehicle of
all this hectic style and incident and beheld in the eyes of her auditor
a suggestion of the light that is indigenous to neither land nor sea.
To Dennis, who had in his composition the material of a poet, if not the
finish, the melodious intonations of the widow had seemed like the
incongruous orchestration of birds in the treetops to some minor
tragedy among the denizens of the underbrush.
Her elocution was exquisite and provided the bizarre narrative with a
refinement which contrasted with its crudities, like Valenciennes lace
on a background of calico.
"Well," she said smilingly, after she had subjected his ingenuous glance
to the rapid analysis of her intuition, with a satisfaction which it
startled her to recognize, "what do you think of it?"
"Is that the end?" asked Dennis.
"Yes, it is the end."
With a shade of emphasis, intended by Dennis to indicate that the words
of the reply of the widow were suggestive of other finalities which he
did not like to consider, he said:
"That is no end; it looks to me as though the author has struck his
limits."
"No," objected the widow, "I fancy that he has left the subject open so
that the reader can solve the riddle in his own way."
"There is no riddle!" exclaimed Dennis.
"No?" inquired the widow; "and that splendid sapphire, that magnificent
diamond to tempt the detective?"
"They will not tempt him," said Dennis with simple conviction and a
degree of feeling that might lead one to suppose that he was an
indispensable element in the situation. "He will recollect his
professional pride; he will remember that he is a man."
"Oh!" exclaimed the widow with an indescribable intonation.
"Don't you think that I am right?" asked Dennis.
"Yes," replied his companion with a pronounced emphasis on the personal
pronoun which followed, "yes, _you_ are right"; and as she considered
the frank revelation of character in his reply and contrasted it with
the possible disclosures of similar situations among the majority of men
she knew, she added:
"I am glad that we have read the story."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Flaw in the Sapphire, by Charles M. Snyder