A BUSINESS CALL.
It was grey dawn when Stanhope left the hospital and turned his face
homeward, and then it was not to sleep, but to pass the two hours that
preceded his breakfast-time in profound meditation.
Seated in a lounging-chair, with a fragrant cigar between his lips, he
looked the most care-free fellow in the world. But his active brain was
absorbed in the study of a profound problem, and he was quite oblivious
to all save that problem's solution.
Whatever the result of his meditation, he ate his breakfast with a keen
relish, and a countenance of serene content, and then set off for a
morning call upon Mr. Follingsbee.
He found that legal gentleman preparing to walk down to his office; and
after an interchange of salutations, the two turned their faces townward
together.
"Well, Stanhope," said the lawyer, linking his arm in that of the
detective with friendly familiarity, "how do you prosper?"
"Very well; but I must have an interview with Mrs. Warburton this
morning."
"Phew! and you want me to manage it?"
"Yes."
The lawyer considered a moment.
"You know that the Warburtons are overwhelmed with calamity?" he said.
Stanhope glanced sharply from under his lashes, and then asked
carelessly:
"Of what nature?"
"Archibald Warburton lies dying; his little daughter has been stolen."
"What!" The detective started, then mastering his surprise, said
quietly: "Tell me about it."
Briefly the lawyer related the story as he knew it, and then utter
silence fell between them, while Richard Stanhope lost himself in
meditation. At last he said:
"It's a strange state of affairs, but it makes an immediate interview
with the lady doubly necessary. Will you arrange it at once?"
"You are clever at a disguise: can you make yourself look like a
gentleman of my cloth?"
"Easily," replied Stanhope, with a laugh.
"Then I'll send Leslie--Mrs. Warburton, a note at once, and announce the
coming of myself and a friend, on a matter of business."
An hour later, a carriage stopped before the Warburton doorway, and two
gentlemen alighted.
The first was Mr. Follingsbee, who carried in his hand a packet of
legal-looking papers. The other was a trim, prim, middle-aged gentleman,
tightly buttoned-up in a spotless frock coat, and looking
preternaturally grave and severe.
They entered the house together, and the servant took up to Leslie the
cards of Mr. Follingsbee and "S. Richards, attorney."
With pale, anxious face, heavy eyes, and slow, dragging steps, Leslie
appeared before them, and extended her hand to Mr. Follingsbee, while
she cast a glance of anxious inquiry toward the seeming stranger.
"How is Archibald?" asked the lawyer, briskly.
"Sinking; failing every moment," replied Leslie, sadly.
"And there is no news of the little one?"
"Not a word."
There was a sob in her throat, and Mr. Follingsbee, who hated a scene,
turned abruptly toward his companion, saying:
"Ours is a business call, Leslie, and as the business is Mr. Stanhope's
not mine, I will retire to the library while it is being transacted."
And without regarding her stare of surprise, he walked coolly from the
room, leaving Leslie and the disguised detective face to face.
"Is it possible!" she said, after a moment's silence; "is this Mr.
Stanhope!"
The middle-aged gentleman smiled and came toward her.
"It is I, Mrs. Warburton. An interview with you seemed to me quite
necessary, and I considered this the safest disguise, and Mr.
Follingsbee's company the surest protection."
She bowed her head and looked inquiringly into his face.
"Mrs. Warburton, are you still desirous to discover the identity of the
person who has been a spy upon you?" he asked gravely.
"I know--" she checked herself and turned a shade paler. "I mean I--"
again she paused. What should she say to this man whose eyes seemed
looking into her very soul? What did he know?
"Let me speak for you, madam," he said, coming close to her side, his
look and manner full of respect, his voice low and gentle. "You do not
need my information; you have, yourself, discovered the man."
Then, seeing the look of distress and indecision upon her face, he
continued:
"On the night of our first interview, I pledged my word to respect any
secret of yours which I might discover. At the same time I warned you
that such discovery was more than possible. If, in saying what it
becomes my duty to say, I touch upon a subject offensive to you, or upon
which you are sensitive, pardon me. Under other circumstances I might
have said: Mrs. Warburton, it is your brother-in-law who has constituted
himself your shadow. But the events that followed that masquerade have
made what would have been a simple discovery, a most complicated affair.
Can we be sure of no interruption while you listen?"
She sank into a chair, with a weary sigh.
"There will be no interruption. Miss French and my brother-in-law are
watching in the sick-room; the servants are all at their posts. Be
seated, Mr. Stanhope."
He drew a chair near that which she occupied, and plunged at once into
his unpleasant narrative, talking fast, and in low, guarded tones.
Beginning with a description of the Raid as it was planned, he told how
he had been detained at the masquerade--how he had discovered the
presence of Vernet, and suspected his agency in the matter--how, without
any thought other than to be present at the Raid, to note Vernet's
generalship, and satisfy himself, if possible, as to the exact meaning
of his unfriendly conduct, he, Stanhope, had assumed the disguise of
"Silly Charlie", had encountered Vernet and been seized upon by that
gentleman as a suitable guide,--and how, while convoying his false
friend through the dark alleys, they were startled by a cry for help.
As she listened, Leslie's face took on a look of terror, and she buried
it in her hands.
"I need not dwell upon what followed," concluded Stanhope. "Not knowing
what was occurring, I managed to enter first at the door. I heard Alan
Warburton bid you fly for your husband's sake. I saw your face as he
forced you through the door, and then I contrived to throw Vernet off
his feet before he, too, should catch a glimpse of you."
Leslie shuddered, and as he paused, she asked, from behind her hands:
"And then--oh, tell me what happened after that!"
"Your brother-in-law closed and barred the door, and turned upon us like
a lion at bay, risking his own safety to insure your retreat. What! has
he not told you?"
"He has told me nothing."
"There is little more to tell. I knew him for your brother-in-law,
because, here at the masquerade, I was a witness to a little scene in
which he threw off his mask and domino. It was when he met and
frightened the little girl, and then reproved the servant."
"I remember."
"I recognized him at once, and fearing lest, by arresting him, we might
do harm to you, or bring to light the secret I had promised to help you
keep, I connived at his escape."
She lifted her head suddenly.
"_Arrest!_" she exclaimed; "why should you arrest _him_?"
Stanhope fixed his eyes upon her face; then sinking his voice still
lower, he said:
"Something had occurred before we came upon the scene; what that
something was, you probably know. What we found in that room, after your
flitting, was Alan Warburton, standing against the door with a table
before him as a breast-work, in his hand a blood-stained bar of iron,
and almost at his feet, a dead body."
"What!"
"It was the body of a dead rag-picker. Before you left that room, a
fatal blow was struck."
"Yes--I--I don't know--I can't tell--it was all confused."
She sank back in her chair, her face fairly livid, her eyes looking
unutterable horror.
"Some one had committed a murder," went on Stanhope, keeping his eyes
fixed upon her pallid face; "and the instrument that dealt the blow was
in your brother-in-law's hand. To arrest him would have been to
compromise you, and I had promised you safety and protection."
She bent forward, looking eagerly into his face.
"And you rescued him?" she said, eagerly.
"You could scarcely call it that. He resisted grandly, and was brave
enough to effect his own rescue. I guided him away from that unsafe
locality, and warned him of the danger which menaced him."
"And is that danger now past?"
"Is it past!" He took from his pocket a folded placard, opened it, and
put it into her hands.
It was the handbill containing the description of the escaped Sailor,
and offering a reward for his capture.
With a cry of remorse and terror, Leslie Warburton flung it from her,
and rose to her feet.
"My God!" she cried, wringing her hands wildly, "my cowardice, my folly,
has brought this upon him, upon us all!"
Then turning toward the detective, a sudden resolve replacing the terror
in her eye, a resolute ring in her voice, she said:
"Listen; you have proved yourself worthy of all confidence; you shall
hear all I have to tell; you shall judge between my enemies and me."
"But, madam--"
"Wait; I want your advice, too, your aid, perhaps. Mr. Follingsbee also
shall hear me."
She started toward the library, but the detective put out a detaining
hand.
"Stop!" he said, firmly. "If what you are about to say includes anything
concerning Alan Warburton, or the story of that night, we must have no
confidants while his liberty and life are menaced. His identity with
that missing Sailor must never be known, even by Mr. Follingsbee."
She breathed a shuddering sigh, and returned to her seat.
"You are right," she said hurriedly; "and until you shall advise me
otherwise, I will tell my story to none but you."