FLAMES.
It was past midnight when the muffled figures of Papa and Mamma
Francoise emerged stealthily from the tenement house, and took their way
toward the river. Now and then they looked anxiously back, and
constantly kept watch to the right and left.
[Illustration: "Franz and Nance, poor Nance, going--whither?"--page
230.]
A little way behind them, two other figures followed; the man half
supporting, half dragging, a reeling, stupefied girl, and urging her
along by alternate coaxing and threats.
Franz and Nance, poor Nance, going--whither?
Keeping the same path, and always the same brief space between them, the
four moved onward until they were almost at the river. Then, in
obedience to a low whistle, Papa and Mamma turned, passed the other two,
and retraced their steps swiftly and silently.
When they had gone by, Franz Francoise turned and looked after them
until their figures had vanished in the darkness.
Then he seized the arm of his companion, and hurried her around the
nearest corner and on through the gloom; on till the river was full in
sight.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Van Vernet, having been brought out from his closet-prison,
lay upon the floor of the inner room at the lately-deserted Francoise
abode, still bound, and gagged almost to suffocation, while, to make his
isolation yet more impressive, Mamma had tied a dirty rag tightly about
his eyes.
Left in doubt as to the fate that awaited him--unable to move, to see,
or to use his voice,--Van Vernet lay as helplessly ensnared as if he
were the veriest dullard and bungler, instead of the shrewdest and most
daring member of the force.
They had transferred him from the closet to his present position in
profound silence. He knew that they were moving about stealthily--he
could guess, from the fact that but one door had been opened, and from
the short distance they had borne him, that he was in the inner instead
of the outer room--he had heard them moving about in the next room, and
had caught the murmur of their voices as they engaged in what seemed a
sharp dispute, carried on in guarded tones--then slower movements, sharp
whispers, and finally retreating footsteps, and the careful opening and
closing of a door.
After this, only silence.
Surrounded by the silence and darkness, Van Vernet could only think.
What were their intentions? Where had they gone? Would they come back?
Bound and helpless as he was, and menaced by what form of danger he knew
not, his heart still beat regularly, his head was cool, his brain clear.
"They dare not kill me," he thought, "for they can't bury me handily,
and are too far from the river. They'd have to leave my body here and
decamp, and they're too shrewd thus to fasten the crime upon themselves.
I wish I knew their plans."
By and by, as the silence continued, he began to struggle; not with his
bonds, for he knew that to be useless, but in an effort to propel
himself about the room.
Slowly, with cautious feeling of his way, by bringing his head or feet
first into contact with the new space to be explored, he made the
circuit of the room; rolling from side to side across the dusty floor,
bringing himself up sharply against the walls on either side, in the
hope of finding anything--a hook, a nail, a projecting bit of
wood--against which he might rub his head, hoping thus to remove the
bandage from his eyes, perhaps the gag from his mouth.
But his efforts were without reward. The room was bare. Not a box, not a
bit of wood, not a projecting hook or nail; only a few scattering rags
which, as he rolled among them, baptized him with a cloud of dust and
reminded him, by their offensive odor, of the foul cellar in Papa
Francoise's deserted K--street abode.
There was nothing in the room to help him. It was useless to try to
liberate himself. And he lay supine once more, cursing the Fate that had
led him into such a trap; and cursing more than all the officious,
presumptuous meddler, the jail-bird and ruffian, who had thus entrapped
_him_, Van Vernet.
"If I escape," he assured himself, "and I _will_ escape, I'll hunt that
man down! I'll put him behind the bars again if, to do it, I have to
renounce the prospect of a double fortune! But I won't renounce it,"
thought this hopeful prisoner. "When I find them again, and I will find
them, I'll first capture this convict son, and then use him to extort
the truth from those old pirates--the truth concerning their connection
with Alan Warburton, aristocrat. And when I have that truth, the high
and mighty Warburton will learn what it costs him to send a black
servant to dictate to Van Vernet!"
Easily conceived, this pretty scheme for the future, but its execution
depends upon the liberation of Van Vernet and, just now, that seems an
improbable thing.
Moments pass away. They seem like hours to the helpless prisoner; they
have fitted themselves into one long hour before the silence is broken.
Then he hears, for all his shut-up faculties seemed to have merged
themselves into hearing, a slight, a very slight sound in the outer
room. The door has opened, some one is entering. More muffled sounds,
and Vernet knows that some one is creeping toward the inner room.
Slowly, with the least possible noise, that door also opens. He hears
low whispering, and then realizes that two persons approach him. Are
they foes or friends? Oh, for the use of his eyes--for the power to
speak!
Presently hands touch him. Ah, they are about to liberate him; but why
so silent?
They are dexterous, swift-moving hands; but his fetters remain, while
the swift hands work on.
They are robbing him. First his watch; his pocket-book next; then shirt
studs, sleeve buttons, even his handkerchief.
And still no word is spoken.
He writhes in impotent anger. His brain seems seized with a sudden
madness. These swift, despoiling hands, the darkness, the horrible
silence, appall him--fill him with a sort of supernatural terror.
The hands have ceased their search, and he knows that the two robbers
have risen. He feels the near presence of one; the footsteps of the
other go from him, toward the street.
A scraping sound; a soft rustle. They are gathering up the rags from the
floor. The closet again: this time it is opened, entered. A moment's
stillness; then a sharp sound, which he knows to be the striking of a
match. Another long silent moment. _What_ are they doing?
Ah! the footsteps retreat. They go toward the outer room; creeping,
creeping stealthily.
Now they have crossed the outer room. They go out, and the door is
softly closed.
What does this mystery mean? Have they returned to rob him, and then to
leave him? Will they come back yet again?
A moment passes; another, and another. Then a sickening odor penetrates
to his nostrils, like the burning of some foul-smelling thing.
Crackle, crackle, crackle!
Ah! he comprehends now! The fiends have fired the closet! They have left
him there to perish in the flames--the hungry flames that will wipe out
all traces of their guilt!
Oh, the unutterable horror that sweeps over him! To die thus: fettered,
blinded, powerless to cry for aid! A frenzied madness courses through
his veins.
Crackle, hiss, roar!
The flames rise and spread. The door of the closet has fallen in, and
now he feels their hot breath. They are closing around him; he is
suffocating. He tugs at his fetters with the strength of despair. All is
in vain.
Hiss! hiss! hiss!
His brain reels. He is falling, falling, falling. There is a horrible
sound in his ears; his eyes see hideous visions; his breath is
strangled; he shudders convulsively, and resigns his hold upon life!