JIM BURNS AND HIS CONGRESSMAN PAL
Late in May of 1870, I was driving up Fifth Avenue in one of my finest
carriages, for an afternoon spin in Central Park. My name was called,
and, glancing toward the sidewalk, I saw Jim Burns, a pal of Hub Frank
and Boston Jack, three of the most successful sneak thieves of their
day. As an inkling to their right to this credit--from the professional
standpoint--I will say that in the fourteen years they conspired
together, Hub Frank and Boston Jack were never arrested, and Burns only
once. During that time they stole hundreds of thousands of dollars, and
spent nearly as much.
“George!” called out Jim, and I drew up beside the curb, as quickly as
I could control my mettled horses.
“Glad to see you, Jim,” I said, shaking his hand. He was a happy,
handsome fellow, with dark hair and mustache, and on the under side of
thirty.
“I wish you’d help me out,” said he. “I’ve got ten thousand in
ten-dollar notes, fresh from the United States Treasury. Mind you, they
haven’t been in circulation--I’d like you to do that. There’s ten per
cent in it for you, without doubt.”
Then, briefly, he told me how he got the money. I thought well of the
offer made me and so informed him, and making an appointment at the
Sinclair House in Broadway at Eighth Street, we parted.
It seemed that a New England congressman Jim knew was much addicted to
the gaming table. They met at Willard’s Hotel in Washington, and later
on were gambling together. It was rather of a queer combination, this
United States legislator and a sneak thief, but they became chummy, and
therein lies the secret. Of cash the congressman had none too much,
without having to settle gambling bills, and when luck was against
him, there were moments when it would seem to him that the muzzle of a
pistol at his head wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
“A clerk in the United States Treasury counting-room tells me that
packages of new money lie around loose in there, like so much waste
paper,” the congressman said to Burns one day, when his funds were low
and his conscience hard; “couldn’t you get away with one?”
“Nothing easier,” was Burns’s assuring response.
In Jim’s room at the Willard it was decided what to do, and the
congressman was to get twenty-five per cent of the proceeds. His only
part would be the “stalling.” In other words, he would talk to the
clerk while Jim took the package.
They went separately to the Treasury Department, one morning about
eleven o’clock, to do the job. The congressman, who was well acquainted
with the clerk, did his part splendidly. Not a dozen feet away on the
counter lay two packages of greenbacks. That could be told by the
wrapping paper, though there was nothing visible to the casual observer
to indicate how much money each package contained. One was about the
size of a square loaf of baker’s bread, and the other a trifle larger.
The counter was of the old-fashioned open sort, with none of the wicker
windows of to-day.
Our congressman deftly talked the clerk’s face away from the coveted
prize, and at the opportune moment Jim slipped the larger package in
the big pocket of his top-coat--a pocket that was designed for the
purpose, and had been the resting-place, temporarily at least, of many
a “touch.” Jim walked from the building and so did the congressman
presently, having bade the clerk a pleasant adieu.
Jim and his accomplice met in the former’s room at the hotel soon
after, and the package was opened. There were in it two thousand
ten-dollar treasury notes, twenty thousand dollars in all; but an
unbeliever ought to have been within ear-shot to have heard the
congressman swear! He about made the room crackle with electricity.
“Why, my share won’t buy my cigars!” he cried, in angry
disappointment. “Sometimes those packages, the clerk told me, contained
a million dollars, in one-thousand-dollar bills.” Burns considered it
a pretty good day’s work, however, and, having paid the disgruntled
congressman forty-five hundred dollars, divided with his associates,
and left for New York.
Jim’s selection of the larger package was the most natural thing to do
under the conditions, but, as I was informed some months afterward, his
eagerness to get the most he could out of the job lost him a fortune.
The smaller package contained a thousand one-thousand-dollar notes.
Just think! A cool million to be had for the plucking, as easily
as was the twenty-thousand-dollar package! But Jim took the matter
philosophically. The congressman, however, was quite ready to tear his
hair.
I met Burns at the Sinclair House the next morning as we’d agreed,
and that night I paid him nine thousand dollars for the two thousand
ten-dollar notes. Two days later I gave two thousand dollars to my
stable partner, Charles Meriam, with instructions to liquidate some
personal notes that were about due. He deposited the money to the
stable account in the Stuyvesant Bank at Broadway and Astor Place,
where I was a large depositor, and with which I had had many cash
transactions. In fact, the cashier, James Van Orden, was my friend
and debtor. I considered he would do about anything in reason that I
asked. Two days after that I made a deposit of ten thousand dollars,
seventy-five hundred of which were the new ten-dollar notes. I passed
the money to the teller and went back in Van Orden’s office and told
him what I had done. I didn’t say anything of the deposit Meriam had
made. The Stuyvesant Bank cleared through the Mechanics and Traders’,
farther down Broadway, so I requested the cashier not to send the new
bills when he made the day’s clearance. He didn’t know why I asked
this, but no doubt believed there was something not altogether right.
However, as he was a reckless speculator in Wall Street, and I had
loaned him money at times when he was much in need of it, and in fact
he was indebted to me about five thousand dollars, he said it would be
all right.
“Mr. Miles,” exclaimed my second foreman, John McGurk, as I walked into
the stable a few days after my talk with Van Orden, “Charley Meriam has
been arrested by Colonel Whiteley, chief of the Secret Service men.”
I knew what that meant, and that there would have to be some pretty
tall hustling if I didn’t find myself in the same boat. No doubt
Washington had discovered Jim Burns’s steal, and had telegraphed on the
numbers of the missing bank-notes and a description of the series. How
the clew had led up to me so soon, or rather Meriam, I could not tell.
Warning McGurk to keep a close tongue, I hurried to my residence,
then at 206 West Twenty-first Street, took from the safe five hundred
dollars’ worth of the ten-dollar notes,--all I had left,--put them in
my pocket, packed my satchel, told the servant-girl not to admit any
one from heaven or hades, and went to a hotel. From there I made a
visit to a close friend in Thirty-fourth Street, where I found I could
hide, and did for more than two weeks. In the meantime I was kept well
informed as to what was transpiring outside. Frank Houghtaling, then a
clerk in Jefferson Market Police Court with Justice Cox, daily visited
my stables and residence, always returning to the court, thence to my
hiding-place in the evening. In this way I furnished bail for Meriam,
and laid my plans for getting out of the city on an ocean steamer. I
had determined to make a dash for Scotland, where my wife at the time
was visiting her mother. The good Scottish people had often invited me
to come to them, and I had always promised to. I had to smile when I
thought what a mighty excellent opportunity had come to help me keep
my word. In fact, I was being almost forced to. Among other things
Houghtaling did for me was to purchase a ticket on the Hamburg-American
Line steamer _Alimania_, which sailed from her Hoboken pier on the 5th
of July. I was listed as a first-class cabin passenger, under the name
of Edward Whittle.
In the meantime Colonel Whiteley of the Secret Service and a safe
expert had broken through the iron gate at the basement of my home,
having been refused admittance by the servant-girl, and, driving in the
rivets in the hinges of the safe, went through all my papers. Owing to
my care, Whiteley gained nothing for his pains.
As the time drew near for my sailing I had my Police Headquarters
friends clear the way. Jack McCord and George Radford agreed to be at
the pier an hour ahead of the steamer’s departure, and on the arrival
of my carriage I was to get a certain signal if everything was all
right. When the day came, I drove to Hoboken, not, however, without
some misgiving that Whiteley or some of his agents would be laying for
me. But McCord and Radford were faithful, and when the latter tipped
his hat that all was well, I went aboard and, safely in my stateroom,
was joined by them. They remained until the steamer sailed, wishing me
a safe voyage.
The trip was a fine one, so far as the weather and passengers could
make it. Of course I had no way of knowing what the Atlantic cable,
that great intercepter of criminals, would do in the way of providing
a warm reception for me on the other side; which naturally bothered
me considerably. The passengers were for the most part Germans, but
there was a sprinkling of Americans and less of Frenchmen, all of
whom went to make up a very convivial party, there being scarcely any
illness aboard. Next to my state-room was that of an exceedingly fat
German lady and her pretty daughter. They furnished me many pleasant
hours, the mother being a most amusing old soul and the daughter
a veritable young, but accomplished, chatterbox. Both could speak
excellent English, so I gathered that they were making a visit to the
“Faderland,” after prosperous years in America.
Well, we arrived in the English Channel, and I began to be more on the
watch for trouble. Not far off Plymouth a tug was sighted, and, our
vessel slacking headway, several officers in uniform climbed aboard and
went to the captain’s cabin. I was unable to tell whether or not they
were police officials. Presently they departed, when I learned that
some of them were customs officers, and others were officials of the
Hamburg-American Line.
They bore news of considerable importance to the German and French
passengers, and no less to the captain; that since our departure from
America, war had been declared between Germany and France. Before
I left the ship, the German and French men and women were ready to
pitch in and wallop or scratch the eyes out of each other. To me it
was amusing in the extreme. My good fat German neighbor, to whom I
expressed great concern over the declaration of war, rose up in her
might and exclaimed loudly: “Ach Gott! Have no alarm, for we’ll lick
’em! We’ll lick ’em!”
I decided to debark at Plymouth and go to Scotland by rail. I arrived
there safely and was received with open arms. I told the good Scots
that I had decided at the last moment to pay them a visit, but to my
wife I said that I’d got in some difficulty with the United States
custom-house officials.
When it was safe to do so I communicated with my police friends in
New York and learned that affairs were pretty hot there and that I
was a very badly wanted man by the Secret Service. But in September,
having made a good visit and being somewhat of the opinion that I could
return to America and “square” things, my wife and I sailed. I had,
however, sent a timely word to McCord and Radford that I was coming and
indicated on what steamer I might be expected. I knew that they would
be on hand to see me safely landed.
So when the _Europa_, of the Anchor Line, on a Sunday about noon, was
pretty near her wharf at the foot of Liberty Street, I had Albert
Wright, the purser of the _Europa_, a long-time acquaintance of mine,
on the lookout. I had previously confided to him that I might get in
some trouble with the custom-house officers. Presently Wright informed
me that two Police Headquarters detectives were aboard, having put out
in a small boat to meet the ship. They proved to be McCord and Radford.
I met them on deck, where they assured me I could land without any
fear of being arrested by the Secret Service agents. I thanked the boys
for their good offices, and presently my wife and I were let out at the
Ashland House on Fourth Avenue. Not long after this she went to our
home in Twenty-first Street, but I remained at the hotel.
It was not much after one P.M. that we arrived at the hotel, and but
mighty few minutes were allowed to pass before I was in ex-Judge
Stuart’s house looking for legal advice and urging him to assist me
out of my troubles. He said he’d see what could be done. Perhaps he
might be able to settle the case with Colonel Whiteley, the Secret
Service chief. Then I went to Cashier Van Orden’s house in Harlem. He
fluttered like a bird in captivity when his eyes fell on me. I presume
he had a mental picture of my arrest, and the possibility of his own
implication, vividly before him. I wanted a settlement of my account in
the Stuyvesant Bank. My visit was fruitless.
“Pretty soon,” he said, and I left him, intending to call again for
further information as to what he had done or would do.
My next call on ex-Judge Stuart met with some satisfaction. He had
seen Colonel Whiteley, and there was hope that I might fix the case.
I went to Cashier Van Orden again, and told him that I must get my
financial affairs in the Stuyvesant Bank settled; that I wanted to and
must withdraw my account, and that I was anxious to get hold of the
seventy-five hundred, Jim Burns’s money, I’d deposited there. Again was
confronted with procrastination. Van Orden said he hadn’t been able to
get to my account owing to the press of business in the bank. He was so
sorry, you know.
A week passed in this manner and I was beginning to grumble not a
little, when ex-Judge Stuart brought me further good news.
“I have arranged a meeting with Colonel Whiteley for you,” he said,
“and you’re to name the place and time.”
“That sounds like business,” was my reply; “but are you sure you can
trust this Secret Service man? Mind you, he’s about the hungriest
fellow after reputation in his business that ever came along. He may be
putting up a job to nail me. I’ve escaped the nab too long in this case
to have it come now.”
Stuart was inclined to be irritated if any one questioned his word or
intelligence, so I came in for a round scoring, which terminated in his
demanding to know whether I thought he was an infernal fool. I assured
him that he was the finest fellow that ever followed in the footsteps
of Daniel Webster, whereat he regained his good humor. I named a day
for the meeting in the last week of September, and added that I would
send my second foreman, John McGurk, with a carriage, to the Grand
Central Hotel in Broadway, near Bond Street.
“The carriage will be at the hotel not later than eight P.M.,” I
told Stuart, “and McGurk will be looking for you in the lobby or
reading-room. You and Whiteley get in the carriage, and my man will do
the rest.”
What was the Grand Central Hotel then is now known as the Broadway
Central. It got well advertised at one time, as the place where Jim
Fisk, the Erie Railway magnate, was murdered by Ed Stokes, who became
the proprietor of the Hoffman House, after serving a short sentence
in the state prison at Auburn, New York. Like the Metropolitan Hotel,
a few blocks below, the Grand Central was the resort of prominent
professional men and Wall Street speculators, and the class of cheap
men who trail them. In directing McGurk to drive ex-Judge Stuart to
me, I said nothing as to whom the other man would be, not deeming it
necessary, for I would have trusted my life in the hands of my second
foreman.
“Be at the hotel at eight,” I said to him, “and drive Stuart and his
companion to me at Eighty-sixth Street and Eighth Avenue. Turn in
Central Park, and I will be there. But don’t by any means tell a soul
where you are going. Do you understand?”
I knew he did. Then I told him, upon leaving the hotel, to drive
ten blocks north, four blocks east, five more up-town, seven blocks
down-town, and west to Eighth Avenue, where, if he was not being
followed, he might come straight to me.
“Trust me, Mr. Miles,” said John McGurk; and I did, knowing full well
that neither ex-Judge Stuart nor any one else in the world would be
able to make him disobey or prove unfaithful to his promise.
I was at the appointed place ten minutes before nine, with Gus Fisher,
a man of my profession. I brought him along to drive the buggy back
to my stables, in case I didn’t need it. With the same caution that I
exercised in getting Colonel Whiteley to the appointed place, I had
planned to outwit him, should he prove to be decoying me into his
hands. I had one of my fleetest horses in front of my buggy, and with
Gus Fisher for an assistant I felt pretty sure of getting ahead of any
game the Secret Service chief might attempt. Really I had considerable
confidence in Stuart’s judgment, but I couldn’t afford to proceed
blindly.
It was a beautiful night, light with the shimmering of more stars than
I think I had ever seen before. There weren’t many dwellings in the
neighborhood at that period, and Central Park was more like nature
intended it than now. All together, the night, with its calmness, was
of the kind that should bring forth man’s deepest gratitude for having
been given being, but I was too much concerned with my planning for
liberty unquestioned, to give way to the sentiment. I had left my buggy
in charge of Fisher and walked a few rods to a hill thickly covered
with trees and a small growth of bushes, where I was in waiting only a
minute, or such a matter, when I heard a great clattering of horses’
hoofs. I needed no better indication that my visitors were coming. Five
minutes later McGurk swung his team into the park and dashed up to the
spot where in the shadows I stood. The horses were steaming and their
flanks dripping with foam. McGurk had put them through.
Before he could alight from the box, ex-Judge Stuart, followed by
Colonel Whiteley, sprang from the carriage. He was delivering himself
of some very strong language, in which there was interspersed much
profanity, and the Secret Service chief was not leaving all the
swearing to the ex-judge. As I stepped out of the shadows and greeted
them with a “Good evening, gentlemen,” Stuart, bristling with anger,
exclaimed:--
“Do you take us for thieves, Miles? Are we blacklegs, liars, or what
not?”
“Be calm, judge,” said I, soothingly, but scarcely able to restrain
laughter. I was fully aroused to the cause of the profanity. They had
been given a much longer ride than they anticipated. Besides, the
ex-judge didn’t like my distrust of his influence over Colonel Whiteley.
“Damn it,” said Stuart, “why didn’t you drive us to Yonkers and done
with it? Do you think that I’ve got too much time on my hands?”
“Never mind, gentlemen,” I replied, in a most conciliatory manner;
“you’re here with your bones whole, and I’m ready for business. Of
course, when you examine the case from my end of it, you’ll not blame
me for being cautious, I know.”
“When I give my word to a man, it’s better ’n my bond,” said Colonel
Whiteley; “and this man of yours drove us to hades and back, so it
seemed.”
“Yes, and I wasn’t certain but that he’d shake my poor bones apart, at
times, with his infernal square turns about corners. Anything follow
him? Why, the devil with his cloven hoofs and wings thrown in couldn’t
have kept us in sight,” growled Stuart.
“A drink will smooth you out, judge,” laughed I; “and we can’t get it
here, so let’s go to Stetson’s.”
I directed Gus Fisher to take my buggy to the stables, and McGurk drove
us to the restaurant in Central Park. There we talked business over a
few dainties and a bottle of wine.
“By the way, Miles,” Colonel Whiteley was saying, “when did you get to
town?”
“About a week ago, on the Anchor Liner _Europa_.”
“And you were in Scotland all the time?” he continued.
“Yes, paying a visit long promised my friends,” I explained.
“And you left town--”
“On the 5th of July by way of the Hamburg-American Line.”
“Sorry I didn’t know it,” said Whiteley, with a laugh.
“I felt no discomfort at missing your _bon voyage_,” said I, joining in
the laugh. “But seriously, colonel, I can’t just realize why you were
so anxious to get your hooks on me. I got that money fairly through my
Broad Street office. I sold ten bonds to a customer, and he gave me ten
thousand in new money for them. I don’t know why I should suffer all
this inconvenience.”
“Miles is right, Whiteley,” put in the ex-judge.
“But why did you get out of the country?” inquired the colonel.
“For a reason--I wanted to avoid trouble. My man Meriam was
arrested--wrongfully, and I didn’t want to get in the same box. There’s
no telling what you United States fellows will do to a man, once you
get him in your toils.”
“Well, you gave us a good chase, Miles,” said Whiteley. “I had two
hundred men looking for you, and it was lucky that you kept out of
sight.”
“But you see I came back to you, colonel; that doesn’t look so bad in
me, does it?”
“If you were innocent, of course you had a right to feel safe in coming
back,” was his doubtful remark. “You were cautious enough in making
this meeting, too.”
“For the same reason that I got out last July. Now that we’ve met,
colonel,” continued I, “you will no doubt come to some sort of an
agreement, in which I can claim my money in the Stuyvesant Bank. The
judge, I presume, told you that a meeting between us would, in all
probability, straighten out this very disagreeable tangle.”
“You surely don’t mean the seventy-five hundred you deposited in the
Stuyvesant Bank?”
“I do, colonel--certainly.”
“You needn’t worry about getting that dust there,” said Whiteley. “It’s
at the district attorney’s office.”
“What,” I cried, “not in the Stuyvesant Bank?”
“No. I asked Van Orden about the two thousand your man Meriam
deposited, and he pulled open a drawer and showed me the rest of the
stuff. I took it.”
“The devil,” I cried. “So that’s the way Van Orden deals with his
friends. He didn’t tell me, in all my visits to him after a settlement,
that you had the money.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Whiteley.
I thought that it would have been a pure piece of scoundrelism on Van
Orden’s part to have sent the money to the clearing-house. It seems he
hadn’t, but had done worse--had actually betrayed me. Not because he
wanted to do me harm, but for fear of endangering his own neck, the
coward. All this I said to myself. Aloud I declared that Van Orden
would be held to account for his failure to settle with me.
“It seems to me that you played a pretty high-handed game,” I continued
to Whiteley; “about like the burglary committed on my dwelling and on
my safe.”
“I wanted the ten thousand five hundred still missing,” replied
Whiteley. “I had reason to believe the money was in your safe.”
“But you were mistaken,” said I, scornfully. “The thief who stole the
government money and bought my bonds didn’t pay me but ten thousand.
How much was missing?”
“A matter of twenty thousand dollars.”
“I suppose you’d been after me just as hard if your thief had bought
twenty bonds of me and passed over the whole twenty thousand dollars?”
said I, with an attempt at a little sneer, though not wishing to play
the game I was playing too far.
“Well, it looks as if you were the victim of circumstances, Miles,”
said the colonel; “but it’s too late now.”
“Not to get my money back,” said I, firmly.
“Yes, too late for that,” was his reply and just as firmly.
“You mean that I can’t have the ten thousand dollars that rightfully
belongs to me?”
“That’s it, Miles. The money was stolen from the government. It
has been identified by the proper authorities. You had it in your
possession. That you came honestly by it I shall not dispute. I’m
taking your word for that. If I didn’t, you’d have to produce the man
who bought the bonds, and perhaps you’d have to go farther and prove
what bonds you had to sell.”
“So I can’t get any part of the money?”
“No! It’ll have to go back to the United States Treasury,” said
Whiteley. I knew that it was hopeless to argue further. Stuart told me
it was.
“It’s mighty hard,” I said, “to shoulder such a loss, but I suppose I
must. As you say, I had stolen property.”
That end of the game was up. I had played and lost. But Van Orden’s
cowardice angered me. Here was a man who owed me five thousand dollars.
His fear had made him, without good reason, betray me.
“I’d like to ask a favor of you, colonel,” I said, as the interview
came to an end. “Meet me at the Stuyvesant Bank as soon after ten
o’clock to-morrow morning as you can. Will you?”
“I’ll be there.” With that we drove down-town. My man put the gentlemen
at their doors, and I went home, satisfied that I’d made the Secret
Service chief believe I’d come by the money honestly. But it had cost
me nine thousand dollars, not including other expenses, and the end
might not yet be in sight.
I was at the bank at ten promptly the next day, and without any warning
walked into Van Orden’s office. I thought he’d drop to the floor. His
cheeks grew white, and he clutched at his beard nervously. He thought
I was in danger of arrest and that he might be involved. I was glad to
make him suffer for his treatment of me.
“You--you--ought not to come here, Mr. Miles,” he said in a voice that
trembled. “The Secret Service men are likely to drop in here at any
moment. Please go away. I--”
“Let them, Van Orden,” I answered savagely. “However, I didn’t come
here for trouble. I want a settlement. I must and will withdraw my
account from this bank.”
“Very well, you shall, Mr. Miles--as soon as I can balance the books!”
The door of Van Orden’s room faced the main entrance to the bank.
As he spoke the last word, his face grew still whiter if that were
possible, and his lips had a purplish hue. I glanced over my shoulder
to ascertain the reason. It was obvious. Colonel Whiteley was just
entering the office door.
“Good morning, colonel,” I exclaimed, with all the warmth of a
long-time friend, for Van Orden’s benefit, and we shook hands
vigorously, the colonel not being able to resist my energy without
appearing unnecessarily rude.
“Let me introduce you to my friend, Cashier Van Orden,” I added, with a
wide sweep of my hands.
“We’ve met,” said Whiteley; “haven’t we, Mr. Van Orden?”
“Well, yes,” responded the cashier. Seeing that I was not likely to
be arrested, but still in doubt as to the meaning of the meeting, Van
Orden grew calmer and invited Colonel Whiteley to be seated.
Then I proceeded to make things as uncomfortable for the cashier as I
could. First I adroitly had Whiteley tell how he learned of my deposit,
and how unnecessarily, through it, Van Orden had lost for me the
seventy-five hundred. After grinding him with this sort of reminder,
not forgetting to upbraid him for failing to tell me that my account in
the bank had been tampered with, I demanded that he make a settlement
at once.
“I got that money,” said I, “through the sale of Union Pacific Bonds,
and deposited it with this bank. Now, I shall hold you responsible.
Colonel Whiteley, as a business man, doesn’t think that I’d take those
ten-dollar greenbacks, knowing they had been stolen. Do you, Colonel?”
“No, I don’t think you would,” agreed Whiteley.
“Colonel Whiteley tells me that, of your own volition, you told him
I was a depositor here and showed him the money I had placed in your
care. Now you must make good to me.”
I gave the cashier a look that made him fear I would inform certain
superiors of his of a number of questionable money transactions,
which, if made known, would ruin him, financially, professionally, and
socially. But that I would not do.
Van Orden was completely floored by the turn of circumstances. Though
I knew his promises would be worthless, I could do nothing more than
accept them. Colonel Whiteley left the bank presently, and I soon
followed. I had had revenge, but it was dearly bought.
Colonel Whiteley and I had met for the first time, though I had been
in the line of getting something for nothing about four years. He went
away believing me to be an honest man. As for him, I don’t know that
he didn’t turn the nine hundred and fifty ten-dollar notes over to the
Treasury Department. But I was to meet him again before many years, and
under most unusual conditions. Of this meeting I shall be able to tell
in another volume of my series of Bliss books.
As to my foreman, Meriam, when he came up for a preliminary trial,
ex-Judge Stuart, whom I retained for him, so confused the young woman
who came on from the Treasury Department to identify the bills that her
testimony was valueless. As the case depended upon her identification,
it fell through, and Meriam was discharged from custody.
All together it was a costly meeting that I had had with Jim Burns
in Fifth Avenue. I had started out to make a profit of one thousand
dollars, and it had cost me more than ten thousand, besides bringing
grief to my beloved wife; for until that time she’d been kept in entire
ignorance of the fact that I was a professional burglar.
The New England congressman got more out of the job than I. Lucky
congressman!