THE “NELLIE BLY” SERIES
The Mystery of
Central Park
[Illustration: cover]
BY NELLIE BLY
Originally published in the New York EVENING WORLD
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES’ NOVELS
Over a MILLION Sold.
_THE NEW BOOK_
GRETCHEN.
JUST OUT.
The following is a list of Mary J. Holmes’ Novels.
TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
ENGLISH ORPHANS.
HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.
LENA RIVERS.
MEADOW BROOK.
DORA DEANE.
COUSIN MAUDE.
MARIAN GREY.
EDITH LYLE.
DAISY THORNTON.
CHATEAU D’OR.
QUEENIE HETHERTON.
DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
HUGH WORTHINGTON.
CAMERON PRIDE.
ROSE MATHER.
ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.
MILLBANK.
EDNA BROWNING.
WEST LAWN.
MILDRED.
FORREST HOUSE.
MADELINE.
CHRISTMAS STORIES.
BESSIE’S FORTUNE.
GRETCHEN. [_New._]
THE
MYSTERY
OF
CENTRAL PARK.
A Novel.
BY
NELLIE BLY,
AUTHOR OF
“TEN DAYS IN A MAD HOUSE” AND “SIX MONTHS
IN MEXICO.”
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK:
COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY
_G. W. Dillingham, Publisher_,
SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & CO.
MDCCCLXXXIX.
_All Rights Reserved._
TROW’S
PRINTING AND BOOK BINDING CO.,
N. Y.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. The Young Girl on the Bench 7
II. Penelope Sets a Hard Task for Dick 19
III. Wherein Dick Treadwell Meets with Another
Adventure 45
IV. Story of the Girl who Attempted Suicide 64
V. The Failure of the Strike 77
VI. Is the Girl Honest? 87
VII. Mr. Martin Shanks: Guardian 95
VIII. The Missing Stenographer 103
IX. The Stranger at the Bar 114
X. Tolman Bike 121
XI. Who was the Man that Bought the Gown? 139
XII. One and the Same 153
XIII. A Lovers’ Quarrel 166
XIV. “Give Me Until To-Morrow.” 177
XV. “To Richard Treadwell, Personal.” 190
XVI. The Mystery Solved 205
XVII. Sunlight Through the Clouds 220
THE
MYSTERY OF CENTRAL PARK.
CHAPTER I.
THE YOUNG GIRL ON THE BENCH.
“And that is your final decision?”
Dick Treadwell gazed sternly at Penelope Howard’s downcast face, and
waited for a reply.
Instead of answering, as good-mannered young women generally do,
Penelope intently watched the tips of her russet shoes, as they
appeared and disappeared beneath the edge of her gown, and remained
silent.
When she raised her head and met that look, so sad and yet so stern,
the faintest shadow of a smile placed a pleasing wrinkle at the corners
of her brown eyes.
“Yes, that is--my final decision,” she repeated, slowly.
Dick Treadwell dropped despondently on a bench and, gazing steadily
over the green lawn, tried to think it all out.
He felt that he was not being used quite fairly, but he was at a loss
for a way to remedy it.
Here he was, the devoted slave of the rather plain girl beside him,
who refused to marry him, merely because he had never soiled his firm,
white hands with toil, nor worried his brain with a greater task, since
his school days, than planning some way to kill time.
He was one of those unfortunate mortals possessed of an indolent
disposition, and had been left a modest legacy, that, though making
him far from wealthy, was still enough to support him in idleness.
He lacked the spur of necessity which urged men on to greater deeds.
In short, Richard was one of those worthless ornaments of society that
live, and die without doing much good or any great harm.
That he was an ornament, however, none dared to deny, and the
expressive brown eyes of the girl, who had seated herself beside him
bore ample testimony that she was not unconscious of his manly charms.
Dick took off his straw hat, and after running his firm, white fingers
through his kinky, light hair, crossed one leg over the other, while
he brooded moodily on his peculiar fate. The frank, boyish expression,
that had won him so many admirers, was displaced by a heavy frown, and
his bright blue eyes gazed unseeingly over the beautiful vista before
him.
He could not understand why a girl should get such crazy ideas, any
way. There were plenty of girls who made no effort to hide their
admiration for him, and he knew that they could be had for the asking,
if it only wasn’t for Penelope.
But, somehow, Penelope had more attraction for him than any girl he had
ever met. Her very obstinacy, her independence, made her all the more
charming to him, even if it was provoking.
Penelope Howard was in no wise Dick Treadwell’s mate in beauty.
She was slender to boniness and tall, but willowy and graceful, and one
forgot her murky complexion when gazing into the depths of her bright,
expressive eyes and catching the curve of a wonderfully winsome smile.
Penelope was an heiress, though, to a million dollars or more, and so
no one ever called her plain.
She was an orphan and had been reared by a sensible old aunt, who would
doubtless leave her another million.
Penelope knew her defects as well and better than did other people. She
had no vanity and was blessed with an unusual amount of solid sense.
Penelope Howard was well aware that she would not have to go begging
for a husband, but she had loved handsome Dick Treadwell ever since
the year before she graduated at Vassar. He had gone there to pay his
devotions to another fair under-graduate and came away head over heels
in love with Penelope. Nevertheless Penelope was in no hurry to marry.
She loved Richard with all her heart, but there was a barrier between
them which he alone could remove.
“You know, Dick,” she said, softly, as he still gazed across the green
lawn, trying to find a mental foothold, as it were, “that I told you
this before”----
“Yes, this makes the sixth time I have proposed,” he said, savagely,
still looking away.
“I have always told you,” smiling slightly at his remark and lowering
her voice as she glanced apprehensively at a girl seated on a bench
near by, “that I will not marry you as long as you live as you do. I
have money enough for two, so it makes no difference whether the man
I marry has any or not. But I can’t and won’t marry a--a worthless
man--one who has never done anything, and is too indolent to do
anything. I want a husband who has some ability--who has accomplished
something--just one worthy thing even, and then--well, it won’t make so
much difference if he is indolent afterwards. You know, Dick, how much
I care for you,” softly, “how fond I am of you, but I will not marry
you until you prove that you are able to do something.”
“It’s all very easy to talk about,” he replied savagely, “but what can
I do? I don’t dare risk what little I have in Wall street. I don’t know
enough to preach, or to be a doctor, or a lawyer, and it takes too
infernally long to go back to the beginning and learn. You object to my
following the races, and I couldn’t sell ribbons or run a hotel to save
me. Tell me what to do, Penelope, and I will gladly make the attempt.
When you took a--a craze to walk in the Park at a hideous hour every
morning before your friends, who don’t think it good form, were out
to frown you down, did I not promise to be your escort, and haven’t I
faithfully got up--or stayed up--to keep my promise?”
“And only late--let us see how many times?” she asked roguishly.
“Penelope, don’t,” he pleaded. “You know I love you. Why, Penel’,
love, if I thought that your foolish whim would separate us forever
I’d----Oh, darling, you don’t doubt my love, do you?”
“Hush!” she whispered, warningly, pointing to the girl on the other
bench.
“Oh, she is asleep,” Dick replied carelessly.
“Don’t be too sure,” Penelope urged, gazing abstractedly towards the
girl, her eyes soft with the feeling that was thrilling her heart.
Like all girls Penelope never tired of hearing the man who had won her
love swearing his devotion, but like all girls she preferred to be the
sole and only listener to those vows, to that tone.
“If she is awake she is the first young woman I ever saw who would let
her new La Tosca sunshade lie on the ground,” he said laughingly.
“She must be sleeping,” Penelope assented indifferently, glancing at
the parasol lying in the dust where it had apparently rolled from the
girl’s knee.
Two gray squirrels, with their bushy tails held stiffly erect, came out
on the dusty drive, and finding everything quiet scampered across to
the green sward, where they stood upright in the green grass viewing
curiously the unhappy lovers.
Penelope had a mania for carrying peanuts to the Park to give to the
animals. She took several from her reticule and tossed them towards the
gray squirrels.
The one, with a little whistling noise scampered up the nearest tree
and the other, taking a nut in his little mouth, quickly followed.
“I have not seen her move since we came here,” she said, returning to
the subject of the girl. “Do you suppose she put her hat over her eyes
in that manner to keep the light out of them, or was it done to keep
any passers-by from staring at her?”
“I don’t know,” carelessly. “Probably she is ill.”
“Ill? Do you think so, Dick? I am going to speak to her,” declared
Penelope, impulsively.
“Don’t, I wouldn’t,” urged Dick.
“But I will,” declared Penelope.
“You don’t know anything about her,” he continued pleadingly. “She
may have been out all night, or you can’t tell but perhaps she has
been drinking too much, and if you wake her she will doubtless make it
unpleasant for you.”
“How uncharitable you are,” indignantly exclaimed Penelope, who feared
no one. She had spent much time and money in doing deeds of charity,
and she had met all sorts and conditions of women. That a woman was in
trouble and she could help her, was all Penelope cared to know.
She got up and walked towards the girl. Richard, knowing all argument
was useless, went with her. When they stopped, Penelope, bending down,
peeped beneath the brim of the lace hat which, laden with an abundance
of red roses, was tilted over the motionless girl’s face.
“She is sleeping,” she whispered softly to Dick. “Her eyes are closed.
She has a lovely face.”
“Has she, indeed?” and Dick, with increased interest, bent to look.
“She is very pale and--I am afraid that she is ill,” in an awed tone.
“Young lady!” he called nervously.
The girlish figure never moved. Richard’s and Penelope’s eyes met with
a swift expression--a mingled look of surprise and fear.
“My dear!” called Penelope, gently shaking the girl by the shoulder.
The lace hat tumbled off and lay at their feet; the little hands,
which had been folded loosely in her lap, fell apart and the girlish
figure fell lengthwise on the bench.
Breathlessly and silently the frightened young couple looked at
the beautiful upturned face framed in masses of golden hair; the
blue-rimmed eyes, with their curly dark lashes resting gently against
the colorless skin; the parted lips in which there lingered a bit of
red.
Nervously Richard touched the cheek of pallor, and felt for the heart
and pulse.
“What’s wrong there?” called a gray-uniformed officer, who had left his
horse near the edge of the walk.
Penelope silently looked at Richard, waiting for him to answer, and as
he raised his face all white and horror-stricken, he gasped:
“My God! The girl is dead.”