CHAPTER LXVI.

DR. BAYLESS

All the long night that followed Leslie's appearance among the

Francoises, Mamma was alert and watchful.

Often she crept to the door of the inner room, where Leslie slumbered

heavily. Often she glanced, with a grin of satisfaction, toward the

couch where Franz lay breathing regularly, and scarcely stirring the

whole night through. Often she turned her face, with varying

expressions, toward the corner where Papa slumbered uneasily, muttering

vaguely from time to time. But never once did her eyes close. All the

night she watched and listened, pondered and planned.

As morning dawned, the stillness of the inner room was pierced by a

burst of shrill laughter, followed by words swiftly uttered but

indistinct. Mamma hastened at once to the bedside of her new charge.

Leslie had broken her heavy slumber, but the fire of fever burned in her

cheeks, the light of insanity blazed from her eyes; and for many days it

mattered little to her that she was a fugitive from home, a woman under

suspicion, and helpless in the hands of her enemies. Nature, indulging

in a kindly freak, had taken her back to her girlhood's days, before her

first trouble came. She was Leslie Uliman again; watched over by loving

parents, care-free and happy.

It was a crushing blow to Mamma's hopes and ambitions, and she faced a

difficult problem, there by that couch in the grey of morning. Leslie

was very ill. This she saw at a glance, and then came the thought: What

if she were to die, and just at a time when so much depended upon her?

It roused Mamma to instant action. Leslie must not die--not yet.

Papa and Franz were at once awakened, and the situation made known to

them. Whereupon Papa fell into a state of helpless, hopeless dejection,

and Franz flew into a fury.

"It's all up with us now," moaned Papa. "Luck's turned aginst us."

"It's up, sure enough, with your fine plans," sneered Franz. "_I'm_

goin' ter take myself out of yer muddle, while my way's clear."

"If I wasn't dealin' with a pair of fools," snapped Mamma, "I'd come

out all right. The gal ain't dead yet, is she?"

And then, while Leslie laughed and chattered, alone in the inner room,

the three resolved themselves into a council, wrangled and disputed, and

at last compromised and settled upon a plan--Papa yielding sullenly,

Franz protesting to the last and making sundry reservations, and Mamma

carrying the day.

Leslie must have a physician; it would never do to trust her fever to

unskilled hands; she must have a physician, and a good one. So said

Mamma.

"It ain't so risky as you might think," she argued. "A good doctor's

what we want--one whose time's valuable. Then he won't be running here

when he ain't wanted. He'll come an' see the gal, an' then he'll be

satisfied to take my reports and send her the medicine. Oh, I know these

city doctors. They come every day if you've got a marble door-step, but

they won't be any too anxious about poor folks. A doctor can't make

nothin' out of the kind of talk she is at now, and by the time she gits

her senses, we'll hit on somethin' new."

This plan was opposed stoutly by Franz, feebly by Papa; but the old

woman carried the point at last.

"I know who we want," said Mamma confidently. "It's Doctor Bayless. He's

a good doctor, an' he don't live any too near."

At the mention of Doctor Bayless, Papa's countenance took on an

expression of relief, which was noted by Franz, who turned away, saying:

"Wal, git your doctor, then, an' the quicker the better. But mind this:

_I_ don't appear till I'm sure it's safe. Ye kin git yer doctor, but

when he's here, I'll happen ter be out."

It was Mamma who summoned Doctor Bayless, and he came once, twice, and

again.

His patient passed, under his care, from delirium to stupor, from fever

to coolness and calm, and then to returning consciousness. As he turned

from her bedside, at the termination of his third visit, he said:

"I think she will get on, now. Keep her quiet, avoid excitement, and if

she does not improve steadily, let me know."

He had verified Mamma's good opinion of him by manifesting not the

slightest concern in the personality of his patient. If he were, for the

moment, interested in Leslie, it was as a fever patient, not as a woman

strangely superior to her surroundings. And on this occasion he dropped

his interest in her case at the very door of the sick-room.

At the corner of the dingy street, a voice close behind him arrested his

footsteps: "Doctor Bayless."

The man of medicine turned quickly to face the speaker.

"This is Doctor Bayless?" the owner of the intrusive voice queried.

Doctor Bayless bowed stiffly.

"Bayless, formerly of the R---- street Insane Asylum?" persisted the

questioner.

The doctor reddened and a startled look crossed his face, but he said,

after a moment's silence: "The same."

"I want a few words with you, sir."

"Excuse me;"--the doctor was growing haughty;--"my time is not my own."

"Neither is mine, sir. I am a public benefactor, same as yourself."

"Ah, a physician?"

"Oh, not at all; a detective."

"A detective!" Doctor Bayless did not look reassured. He glanced at the

detective, and then up and down the street, his uneasiness evident.

"I am a detective; yes, sir," said the stranger cheerily, "and you are

in a position to do me a favor without in any way discommoding yourself.

Don't be alarmed, sir; its nothing that affects you or touches upon that

asylum business. You are safe with me, my word for it, and here's my

card. Now, sir, just take my arm and come this way."

Doctor Bayless glanced down at the card, and then up at the speaker; and

a look of relief crossed his face as he accepted the proffered arm, and

walked slowly along at the side of his new acquaintance.

CHAPTER XLVII.

DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS.

Doctor Bayless had predicted aright. Leslie continued to gain slowly,

and in the third week of her illness, she could sit erect in her bed for

an hour or two each day, listening to Mamma's congratulations, and

recalling, one by one, her woes of the past. Not recalling them

poignantly, with the sharp pain that would torture her when she should

have gained fuller strength, but vaguely, with a haunting pang, as one

remembers an unhappy dream.

Day by day, as strength came back, her listlessness gave place to

painful thought. One day, sitting for the first time in a

lounging-chair, procured at second-hand for her comfort, she felt that

the time had come to break the silence which, since her first full

awakening to consciousness, she had imposed upon herself.

Mamma was bustling about the room, inwardly longing to begin the

passage-at-arms which she knew must soon ensue, and outwardly seeming

solicitous for nothing save the comfort of her "dear girl." As Leslie's

eyes followed her about, each seemed suddenly to have formed a like

resolve.

"How many days have I been ill?" asked Leslie slowly, and languidly

resting her head upon her hand.

Mamma turned toward her and seemed to meditate.

"How many days, my child? Ah, let us see. Why, it's weeks since you came

to us--two, yes, three weeks; three weeks and a day."

Leslie was silent for a moment. Then she asked:

"And you have nursed me through my illness; you alone?"

"Surely; who else would there be?" replied Mamma in an injured tone.

"Who, indeed!" repeated Leslie bitterly. "Sit down, Madam; I want to

talk with you."

Mamma drew forward a chair, and sank upon it with a gratified sigh. It

had come at last, the opportunity for which she had planned and waited.

She could scarcely conceal her satisfaction.

"You have nursed me," began Leslie slowly, "through a tedious illness,

and I have learned that you do nothing gratuitously. What do you expect

of me?"

"Oh, my child--"

"Stop!" lifting her head, and fixing her eyes upon the old woman; "no

evasions; I want the plain truth. I have no money. My husband's fortune

I will never claim. I have told you this; I repeat it. So _what_ do you

expect of me? Why was I not permitted to die in my delirium?"

Among her other talents, Mamma Francoise numbered that power, as useful

off the stage as it is profitable behind the footlights--the power to

play a part. And now, bringing this power into active use, she bowed her

head upon her breast and sighed heavily.

"Ah, Leschen, you break my heart. We wanted you to live; we thought you

had something to live for."

The acting was excellent, but the words were ill-chosen.

"Something to live for!" Leslie's hands met in a passionate clasp.

"Something to live for! Right, woman; I have. Tell me, since you have

brought me back to myself, how, _how_ can I ransom Daisy Warburton?"

Mamma's time has come. Slowly she wipes away an imaginary tear, softly

she draws her chair yet nearer Leslie, gently she begins.

"Leschen, my poor girl, don't think _us_ guilty of stealing your little

one; don't. When you came here that night, I thought you were wild. But

now,--since you have been sick--something has happened."

She paused to note the effect of her words, but Leslie sat quite still,

with her hands tightly locked together.

"Something has happened?" she echoed coldly. "I felt sure it would; go

on."

"It isn't what you think, my girl. We haven't found your little dear;

but there is a person--"

"Go on," commanded Leslie: "straight to the point. _Go on!_"

"A person who _might_ find the child, if--"

"If he or she were sufficiently rewarded," supplied Leslie. "Quick; tell

me, what must Daisy's ransom be?"

Mamma's pulse beats high, her breath comes fast and loud. It is not in

her nature to trifle with words now. She leans forward and breathes one

word into Leslie's ear.

"_Yourself._"

"Myself!" Leslie gasps and her brain reels. "_Myself!_" she controls her

agitation, and asks fiercely: "Woman, what do you dare to say?"

"Only this," Mamma continues, very firmly and with the tiger look

dawning in her eye. "You have no money, but you have beauty, and that is

much to a man. Will you marry the man who will find your little girl?"

In spite of her weakness, Leslie springs up and stands above Mamma, a

fierce light blazing in her eyes.

"Woman, _answer me_!" she cries fiercely; "do you know where that child

is?"

"I? Oh, no, my dear."

"Is there another, a man, who knows?"

Slowly Mamma rises, and the two face each other with set features.

"There is a man," says Mamma, swaying her body slightly as she speaks,

and almost intoning her words--"There is a man who swears he can find

the child, but he will not make any other terms than these. He will not

see you at all until you have agreed to his demands. You will marry him,

and sign a paper giving him a right to a portion of your fortune, in

case you should make up your mind to claim it. You may leave him after

the ceremony, if you will; you need not see him again; but you must

swear never to betray him or us, and never to tell how you found the

child."

Into Leslie's face creeps a look of intense loathing. All her courageous

soul seems aroused into fearless action. Her scornful eyes fairly burn

into the old woman's face.

"So," she says, low and slowly, "I have found you out at last." And then

the weak body refuses to support the dauntless spirit.

She sinks back upon her chair, her form shaking, her face ghastly, her

hands falling weakly as they will. But as Mamma comes forward, the

strong spirit for a moment masters the weak body.

"Don't touch me," she almost hisses, "or, weak as I am, I might murder

you! wait."

And Mamma stands aloof, waiting. Not while Leslie thinks--there is no

confusion of mind--only until the bodily tremor ceases, until the nerves

grow calmer, until she has herself once more under control. She does not

attempt to rise again. She reclines in her easy chair, and looks at her

adversary unflinchingly.

"At last," she says, after favoring Mamma with a long look of scorn; "at

last you show yourself in your true character. Your own hand pulls off

your hypocrite's mask. Woman, you were never so acceptable to me as at

this moment. It simplifies everything."

"You must not think--" begins Mamma. But Leslie checks her.

"Stop!" she says imperiously. "Don't waste words. We have wasted too

many, and too much time. I desire you to repeat your proposition, to

name your terms again. No more whining, no more lies, if you want me to

listen. You are my enemy; speak as my enemy. Once more, your terms for

Daisy's ransom."

And Mamma, too wise to err in this particular, abandons her _role_ of

injured affection. Dropping her mantle of hypocrisy, not without a sense

of relief, she repeats her former proposal, clearly, curtly, brutally,

leaving no room for doubt as to her precise meaning.

Leslie listens in cold silence and desperate calm. Then, as Mamma

ceases, she sits, still calm, cold and silent, looking straight before

her. At last she speaks.

"This person," she says slowly; "this man who can find Daisy if he

will--may I not see him?"

"When you have given your promise; not before."

"He will accept no other terms?"

"Never."

"And this transaction, this infamy--he leaves all details to you?"

"Just so."

"Then there is no more to be said. I might hope for mercy from the

beasts of the field, but not from you."

"You consent?"

"If I refuse, what will be the consequences to Daisy?"

"You had better not refuse!" retorts Mamma, with a glare of rage.

Before Leslie's mind comes the picture of little Daisy, and following it

a panorama of horrors. Again she feels her strength deserting her.

"Wait," she whispers with her last fragment of self-command. "Leave me

to myself. Before sunset you shall have my answer."

Further words are useless. Mamma, seeing this, turns slowly away, saying

only, as she pauses at the door:

"Don't waste your time; _delays are dangerous_."

CHAPTER LXVIII.

A PROMISE RETRACTED.

Left alone, Leslie Warburton faced her problem, and found herself

mastered by it. She had believed herself already overwhelmed with

misery--had fancied that in coming among these people who claimed her,

she had taken the last step down into the valley of humiliation, of

shame, of utter wretchedness. But they had shown her a lower depth

still, and bidden her descend into it.

Should she obey them? Her pulses were throbbing violently, a fierce

flame burned in either cheek, a shade of the old delirium lurked in her

eye. Should she crown her list of miseries with this culminating horror?

Why should she not? What had she to lose? She, who had already lost

husband, home and happiness; she, who was already an outcast, accused of

treachery, of child-stealing, of murder; she, who was only a waif at

best, and who could claim no kindred unless she accepted those whose

roof then sheltered her? What had she to lose? Only her life, and that

must end soon. Why not make this last sacrifice, then let it end.

Her calmness, that before had been at best but the calmness of despair,

had forsaken her; had changed to the recklessness of desperation. Faster

and faster throbbed her pulses, hotter surged the blood through her

fevered veins, wilder gleamed the light of her eyes.

Born of her weakness, her misery, her growing delirium, came a fierce,

unreasoning rebellion; a longing to thrust upon the shoulders of Alan

Warburton, who, more than any other, had been the cause of her present

woe, a portion of this weight that dragged her down. Had she not

suffered enough for the "Warburton honor?" Why not force him to tread

with her this valley of humiliation?

Then followed other thoughts--better thoughts, humbler thoughts, but all

morbid, all tinged by her half delirious fancy, all reckless of self.

And now every moment adds to her torture, increases the fever in her

blood, the frenzy of her brain.

"I _must_ end it!" she cries wildly. "I _must_ save Daisy! And after

that what matter how my day goes out?"

She walks swiftly to the door and attempts to open it. Useless; it is

fastened from the outer side. She seizes the handle and shakes it

fiercely. It seems an hour, it is really a moment, when Mamma unlocks

the door and appears before her.

"You--"

"I have decided," breaks in Leslie. "I shall make the sacrifice."

"You will marry this worthy man?"

"I will save Daisy from your clutches, and his."

"In his own way?"

"In his own way, and yours. Let it be over as soon as possible. Where is

this man?"

"Gently, gently; he is not far away."

"So much the better. I cannot rest now till all is done. I must take

Daisy back to her home; the rest is nothing."

Mamma looks at her craftily.

"You agree to _all_ the terms?" she asks. "Will you swear to keep your

word?"

"I will do anything, when I am assured that I shall have Daisy safely

back."

"Ah!" ejaculates Mamma, indulging in a long sigh of relieved anxiety, "I

will go tell Franz. He is as anxious to have the business settled as you

are."

"_Franz!_"

"Yes; it is Franz that you will marry."

"Franz!" the word comes in a breathless whisper. "_Your son--the

convict?_"

"You needn't put so much force upon that. Yes; Franzy's the man."

A new look dawns upon Leslie's face. A new light gleams from her eyes.

She presses her palms to her forehead, then slowly approaches Mamma,

with the uncertain movements of one groping in the dark.

"You told--" she articulates, as if struggling for self-mastery. "Woman,

you told me that Franz Francoise was _your_ son."

"So he is. _I_ ain't ashamed of him," Mamma answers sullenly.

"Then,"--Leslie clutches at the nearest support and fairly gasps the

words--"then--_who am I_?"

"Well, it can't be kept back any longer, it seems. You are--"

"Not your child?" cries Leslie. "Not yours?"

"No; you ain't ours by birth, but you're ours by adoption. We've reared

ye, and we've made ye what ye are."

But Leslie pays no heed to this latter statement. She has fallen upon

her knees with hands uplifted, and streaming eyes.

"Not her child; not hers! Oh, God, I thank thee! Oh, God, forgive me for

what I was about to do!"

Long, shivering sighs follow this outburst; then moments of silence,

during which Mamma stands irresolute, puzzled as to Leslie's manner,

uncertain how to act.

A sound behind her breaks the uncomfortable stillness, and Mamma turns

quickly, to see Franz standing in the open doorway.

"Franz,--" begins the old woman.

The word arouses Leslie, she rises to her feet so swiftly, with such

sudden strength of movement, and such a new light upon her face, that

Mamma breaks off abruptly and stands staring from one to the other.

"Woman," says Leslie slowly and with strange calm, "those are the first

welcome words you ever uttered for my hearing. Say them again. Say that

I am not your child."

"I don't see what it matters," mutters Mamma sullenly. "You will be

our'n fast enough when you're married to Franz."

"Eh!" Franz utters only this syllable, and advances step by step into

the room.

A moment Leslie stands gazing from one to the other. Then her form grows

more erect, the new hope brighter in her eyes, she seems growing

stronger each moment.

"Half an hour ago," she says, "I had not one thing to hope for, or to

live for, save the restoration of Daisy Warburton, for I believed myself

accursed. Rebel as my soul would, while your lips repeated your claim

upon me I could not escape you. While you persisted in your lies, I was

helpless. Now--"

Mamma's hands work convulsively; her eyes glitter dangerously; she looks

like a cat about to spring upon its prey. As Leslie pauses thus

abruptly, her lips emit a sharp hiss, but before words can follow, a

heavy hand grasps her arm.

"Go on," says Franz coolly; "now?"

"Do you know the proposition that woman has just made me?" asks Leslie

abruptly.

"'Twon't be good for her, if she has made ye a proposition I don't know

on," says Franz grimly, and tightening his clutch upon Mamma's arm. "An'

fer fear of any hocus-pocus, suppose you jest go over it fer my

benefit."

"She has told me that you can, if you will, restore Daisy Warburton to

her home."

"No? has she?"

"That you, and you only, know where to look for the child."

"Umph!"

"And that you will restore the child only on one condition."

"And wot's that?"

"That I consent to marry you."

"Wal," says Franz, turning a facetious look upon Mamma, and giving her

arm a gentle shake; "the old un may have trifled with the truth, here

and there, but she's right in the main. How did the proposition strike

ye?"

Leslie turns from him and fixes her gaze upon the old woman.

"And this," she says, "is the man you would mate me with! Woman, you

have overreached yourself. Believing, or fearing, myself to be _your_

child, I might have been driven to any act of desperation. You have

lifted that burden of horror from off my heart. I am _not_ your child!

No blood of yours poisons my veins! Do you think in the moment when I

find the taint removed, I would doubly defile myself by taking the step

you have proposed? Never! Your power over me is gone!"

"Do ye mean," queries Franz quite coolly, "that you won't take up with

the old woman's bargain?"

"She _has_ done it!" cries Mamma fiercely. "She's given her promise!"

"And I now retract it!"

"What!" Mamma suddenly wrenches herself free and springs toward Leslie.

"You won't marry Franz?"

"Never! The fear which has made me a coward is gone. I shall go back to

my own. I will tell my story far and wide. I feared nothing so much as

the shame of being pointed out as the child of such parents. You will

not dare repeat that imposture; I defy you. As for little Daisy, I will

find her; I will punish you--"

"You will find her!" Mamma's voice is horrible in its hoarse rage. "Now

mark my words: You will _never_ find her. She will never see daylight

again. As for _you_, you will marry Franz Francoise to-morrow, or you

will go out of this place between two officers, arrested as the

murderess of Josef Siebel!"

It is more than she can bear. The strength born of her strong excitement

deserts her. Mamma's eyes burn into her own; she feels her hot, baleful

breath upon her cheek; hears the horrible words hissed so close to her

ear; and with a low moan falls forward, to be caught in the arms of

Franz Francoise, where she lies pallid and senseless.

"Git out!" says Franz, as he lifts her and turns toward Mamma. "You've

done it now, you old cat. Let me lay her down."

He carries Leslie to the bed, and places her upon it so gently that

Mamma sneers and glares upon him scornfully.

"Ye're a fool, Franz Francoise."

[Illustration: "Now mark my words: You will never find her. She will

never see daylight again."--page 354.]

"Shet up, you! Ye've got somethin' to do besides talk. D'ye mean to have

her die on our hands?"

"'Twon't matter much, it seems."

"I tell ye 'twill matter. Do ye think this thing's settled? Not much.

We're goin' ter bring her to terms yet, but she's got ter be alive

first."

She turns upon him a look in which anger and admiration are curiously

mingled.

"'Tain't no use, Franzy; that gal won't give in now."

"I tell ye she will. You've tried your hand; now I'll try mine. Bring

the girl out o' this faint, an' I'll manage her. Do what ye can, then

git yer doctor. Ye'd better not have him come here ef ye kin manage

without him; but go see him, git what she needs, an'," with a

significant wink, "ye might say that she don't rest well and git a few

sleepin' powders."

"Franz," chuckles Mamma, beginning her work of restoration with bustling

activity, "ye ought to be a general. I'm proud of ye."

CHAPTER XLIX.

A WELCOME PRESCRIPTION.

Savage Mamma Francoise was not an unskillful nurse, and Leslie was soon

restored to consciousness. But not to strength; the little that she had

gained was spent by that long interview, with all its attendant

conflicting emotions, and Leslie lay, strengthless once more, at the

mercy of her enemies.

After much thinking, Mamma had decided that Franz had offered sound

advice, and having exhausted her own resources, she set out to consult

Doctor Bayless.

Her visit was in every way satisfactory. Doctor Bayless manifested no

undue curiosity; seemed to comprehend the case as Mamma put it; prepared

the necessary remedies, and spoke encouragingly of the patient.

"These relapses occur often after fevers," he said; "the result of too

much ambition. You understand about the drops, yes? These powders you

will administer properly; not too often, remember. Careful nursing will

do the rest. Ah, good-day."

* * * * *

"Ye needn't be afraid to take yer medicine," said Mamma to her patient,

coming to the bedside with a dose of the aforesaid "drops." "'Tain't no

part of my plans to let ye die. I intend to nurse ye through, but I tell

ye plain that when ye're better ye'll have to settle this business with

Franzy. When ye're on yer feet agin, I'm goin' to wash my hands of ye.

But ye may not find Franz so easily got rid of, mind that."

Realizing her helplessness, Leslie swallowed the drops and then lay

back, pale and panting, upon her pillow. As the moments passed, she

could feel the liquid coursing its way through her veins; her nerves

ceased to quiver, a strange calm crept over her, her pulses throbbed

quite steadily. She was very weak, but found herself able to think

clearly.

Half an hour later, Doctor Bayless appeared upon the Francoise

threshold, a small vial in his hand, a look of anxiety upon his

countenance.

He pushed his way into the room, in spite of the less than half opened

door, and Mamma's lukewarm welcome. He seemed to notice neither. Still

less did he concern himself with Papa and Franz, partaking of luncheon

in the opposite corner of the room.

He addressed Mamma almost breathlessly.

Had the drops been administered?

Mamma replied in the affirmative.

Then he must see the patient at once. There had been a dangerous

mistake. By some inadvertence he had exchanged two similar vials; he had

given Mamma the wrong medicine. The result _might_ prove fatal.

It was no time for parley or hesitation. Mamma promptly led the way to

the inner room.

As Leslie greeted her visitor with a look of inquiry, Doctor Bayless,

standing by the bedside, with his back to Mamma, put a warning

forefinger upon his lips, his eyes meeting Leslie's with a glance full

of meaning.

"Keep perfectly quiet, young woman," he said in his best professional

tone. And as Mamma presented a chair, he seated himself close beside the

bed and bent over his patient, seemingly intent upon her symptoms.

Presently he turned toward Mamma.

"I must have warm water; prepare it at once." Then rising, he followed

Mamma to the door, saying in a low tone: "Your patient must have perfect

quiet; let there be no loud noise about the house. Now the water, if you

please, and make haste."

He turned and went back to the bedside, seated himself as before, and

taking one of the patient's hands, seemed intently marking every

pulse-beat. A look of deep concern rested upon his face; and Mamma

closed the door softly and went about her task.

"Old un," began Franz, "ye're gittin' careless--"

"Sh!" whispered Mamma; "no noise."

But Franz, with a crafty leer, left his place at the table and tiptoed

to the door, where he crouched, applying alternately his eye and his ear

to the keyhole, while Mamma busied herself at the fire.

But Franz caught no word from the inner room, for Doctor Bayless never

once opened his lips. The watcher could see his large form bending over

the bed, with one hand slightly upraised as if holding a watch, the

other resting upon the wrist of the patient.

But Leslie saw more than this. Locked in that strange calm, she saw the

doctor's hand go to his side, and take from a pocket a card which quite

filled his palm.

Holding this card so that Leslie could easily scan its contents, he sat

mutely watching her face.

The card contained these words, closely written in a fine, firm hand:

Seem to submit to their plans. We can conquer in no other way. At

the right time I shall be at hand, and no harm shall befall you.

Let them play their game to the very last; it shall not go too

far. Feign a continual stupor; they will believe it the result of

drugs. Trust all to me, and believe your troubles almost over.

STANHOPE.

Three times did Leslie's eyes peruse these words, and in spite of that

powerful soothing draught, her composure almost forsook her. But she

controlled herself bravely, and only by a long look of hopeful

intelligence, and a very slight gesture, did she respond to this written

message so sorely needed, so welcome, so fraught with hope.

When Mamma returned with the water, Leslie lay quiet among the pillows,

her eyes half closed, and no trace of emotion in her face. But her heart

was beating with a new impulse. That message had brought with it a

comforting sense of protection, and of help near at hand.

The last instructions of Doctor Bayless, too, fell upon her ear with

hopeful meaning, although they were spoken, apparently, for Mamma's sole

benefit.

"She is a trifle dull," he said, turning from the bed and confronting

Mamma. "It's the result of that mistaken dose, in part. In part, it's

the natural outcome of her fever. It's better for her; she will gain

strength faster so. These powders"--depositing a packet of paper folds

in Mamma's hand,--"are to strengthen and to soothe. She must take them

regularly. She will be a little dull under their influence, very docile

and easy to manage, but she will gain strength quite rapidly. In a week,

if she is not unnerved or excited, she should be able to be up, to be

out."

Once more he turned toward Leslie, and took her hand in his.

What Mamma saw, was a careful physician going through with a last

professional formula. What Leslie felt, was a warm, reassuring

hand-clasp, friendly rather than professional.

When he had gone, Leslie lay quiet, repeating over and over in her mind

the words of Stanhope's note, and feeling throughout her entire being a

strong, new desire to live.

CHAPTER L.

MR. FOLLINGSBEE'S SOCIAL CALL.

[Illustration: "Holding this card so Leslie could easily scan its

contents, he sat mutely watching her face."--page 359.]

Five weeks have passed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since

Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks,

the bearded Englishman. Five weeks since that last named and eccentric

individual set sail for far-off Australia.

Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there

now, and Stanhope is not seen at all.

In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not

placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a

dark frown upon his broad, high brow.

The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the

desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter

from California, from Walter Parks.

It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the

astute Chief not a little.

John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in

two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine,

and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the

Arthur Pearson mystery.

Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an

advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also

contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary

interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew

nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him.

And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward

at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man.

Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was

scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to

urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson.

They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what

had been done?

Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to

announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case,

nothing had been heard from him.

"You will not see me again," he had said, "until I can tell who killed

Arthur Pearson." And he was keeping his word.

Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement,

and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he

doing? What had he done?

It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his

services to Walter Parks, he had said: "I'll do my level best for you."

But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five

days later: "I shall not return until I have found the criminal."

What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening

days?

Something, it must have been, or else--perhaps, after all, it was a mere

defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to

succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer

fellow, and he _had_ been sadly cut up by Vernet's falling off.

The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.

"I may as well leave Dick to his own devices," he muttered, "but I'll

send for Vernet. He has kept shy enough of the office of late, but I

know where to put my hand on him."

As he reached out to touch the bell, some one tapped upon the door.

"Come in," he called, somewhat impatiently.

It was the office-boy who entered and presented a card to the Chief.

"The gentleman is waiting?" queried the Chief, glancing at the name upon

the bit of pasteboard.

"Yes, sir."

"Admit him."

Then he rose and stood to receive his visitor.

"Ah, Follingsbee, I'm glad it's you," extending his hand cordially. "Sit

down, sit down."

And he pushed his guest toward a big easy chair just opposite his own.

The little lawyer responded warmly to his friendly greeting, established

himself comfortably in the chair indicated, and resting a hand upon

either knee, smiled as he glanced about him.

"You seem pretty comfortable here," he said, as his eye roved about the

well-equipped private office. "Are you particularly busy just now?"

"I can be quite idle," smiling slightly, "if you want a little of my

leisure."

The attorney gave a short, dry laugh.

"Do you talk at everybody over the top rail of a fence?" he asked. "I

thought that belonged to us lawyers. The fact is that although this is

not strictly a social call, it's a call of minor importance. If you have

business on hand, I can wait your leisure."

The Chief leaned back in his chair and smiled across at his visitor.

"I don't suppose you or I can ever be said to be free from business," he

responded. "I was just growing weary of my bit of mental labor; your

interruption is quite welcome, even if it is not 'strictly social.' You

are anxious to make an informal inquiry about the search for the lost

child, I presume?"

"I should be glad to hear anything upon that subject, but that is not my

errand."

"Ah!" The Chief rested his head upon his hand, and looked inquiringly at

his _vis-a-vis_.

"I wanted," said Mr. Follingsbee, taking out a huge pocket-book and

deftly abstracting from it a folded envelope, "to show you a document,

and ask you a question. This," unfolding the envelope, "is the

document."

He smoothed it carefully and handed it to the other, who glanced over it

blankly at first, then looked closer and with an expression of surprise.

"Did you write that letter?" queried Mr. Follingsbee.

"N-no." He said it hesitatingly, and with the surprise fast turning to

perplexity.

"Did you cause it to be written?"

The Chief spread the letter out before him on the desk, and slowly

deciphered it.

"It's my paper, and my envelope," he said at last; "but it was never

sent from this office."

"Then you disown it?"

"Entirely. I hope you intend to tell me how it came into your

possession."

"It is written, as you see, to Mr. Warburton--"

"To Mr. Alan Warburton; yes."

"Introducing one Mr. Grip, late of Scotland Yards."

"I see."

"Well, sir, Mr. Warburton received this note the day on which it was

dated."

The Chief glanced sharply at the date.

"And on that same day, Mr. Augustus Grip presented himself, stating that

he was sent from this Agency, with full authority to take such measures

as he saw fit in prosecuting the search for the lost child."

"Well?"

"The fellow began by being impertinent, ended by being insulting--and

made his exit through the study window, his case closed."

The Chief smiled slightly, then relapsed into meditation. After a brief

silence, he said:

"Mr. Follingsbee, can't you give me a fuller account of that interview

between Mr. Warburton and this--this Mr. Grip?"

"No," returns the lawyer, "no; I can't--at present. There were some

things said that made the visit a purely personal affair. The fellow

gained access to the house through making use of your name, rather by

seeming to. You see by that scrawl he was too clever to actually commit

forgery."

The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature and said:

"I see; sharp rascal."

"I thought," pursued the lawyer, "that it might interest you to hear of

this affair. The fellow may try the trick again, and--"

"It does interest me, sir," interrupts the other. "It interests me very

much. May I keep this letter?"

"For the present, yes."

"Thanks. I'll undertake to find out who wrote it--very soon. And, having

identified this impostor, I shall hope to hear more of his doings at

Warburton Place."

"For further information," said Mr. Follingsbee, rising and taking up

his hat, "I must refer you to Mr. Grip, or Mr. Warburton."

[Illustration: "The Chief looked closely at the illegible signature, and

said: "I see; sharp rascal.""--page 366.]

And having finished his errand, Mr. Follingsbee made his adieu and

withdrew.

When he was gone, the Chief sat gazing at the chair just vacated, and a

curious smile crossed his lips.

"Follingsbee's a clever lawyer," he muttered; "maybe that's why he is so

poor a witness. There's a stronger motive behind his friendly desire to

warn me of poachers abroad. He was in a greater hurry to finish his

errand than to begin it, and he was relieved when it was done. I wonder,

now, why he didn't ask me if there _really was such a person as Augustus

Grip_!"

CHAPTER LI.

VERNET AT HEADQUARTERS.

After Mr. Follingsbee's departure, the Chief of the detectives took up

his work just where he had laid it down to receive his visitor.

Ringing the bell he summoned the bright-eyed boy who waited without, and

said, as soon as the lad appeared in the doorway:

"You know where to look for Vernet, George?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go to him as soon as possible; tell him I wish to see him at his

earliest leisure; and you may wait a reasonable time, if he is out."

When George had bowed and departed on his mission, the Chief opened his

door and entered the outer office.

"Has Carnegie been in to-day?" he asked of a man seated at a desk

between two tall windows.

"Not yet, sir."

"Ah, then he will probably come soon. Send him in to me, Sanford."

"Very well, sir."

Others were seated about the room. He nodded silently to these, and went

over to one of the windows near the desk occupied by the man he had

addressed as Sanford.

For a few moments he seemed engaged with something going on in the

street below, then he moved a step nearer, and leaned over Sanford's

desk.

"Find a pretext for coming to my room presently," he said in a low tone.

Then he took a careless survey of the letters and papers upon the desk,

glanced out of the window once more, and went back to his den.

One or two of the loungers made some slight comment upon this quiet

entrance and exit of their Chief.

But Sanford wrote on diligently for many minutes, folding and unfolding

his letters and deeply absorbed in his task. Then something seemed to

disturb him. He uttered an impatient syllable midway between a word and

a grunt; read and re-read the contents of a sheet spread out before him;

referred once and again to his book; and then, seemingly, gave it up,

for he laid down his pen--at a less serious interruption, he would have

stuck it behind his ear. He slid reluctantly off his stool, glanced once

more over the troublesome sheet, and then, folding it carefully, carried

it with a rueful face to the inner office.

Once within this apartment, the look of rueful reluctance vanished. He

slipped the troublesome document into his breast-pocket, and smiled as

he seated himself in the chair indicated by his superior.

"Sanford," began the latter, "I want to ask about your office

regulations, rather your habits. Our boys do much of their letter

writing there, eh?"

"They do some of it; yes sir."

"There is always stationery at the desk for their use?"

"Certainly, sir." Sanford's none too expressive face began to lengthen a

trifle.

"Does any one not connected with the office, but who happens in upon

some errand or some matter of business, ever find it convenient to write

at the table or the desks?"

"I don't think any one ever did so, except in cases where the writing

was done at our requests, or in some way in the interests of business."

"That is what I thought. Now, Sanford, our paper, that which is intended

solely for business purposes and which has our letter head--is that

accessible to any one in the office?"

"No, sir," said Sanford, a trifle coldly; "your orders were otherwise."

"Very good, Sanford. I am not about to find fault with you, my boy, but

tell me if any one--any one connected with the office, I mean, who is

there habitually, and is not supposed to need watching--could not one of

our own people get possession of a sheet or two of our business tablets,

if he tried?"

"If you mean our own fellows," said Sanford slowly, "I suppose there are

half a dozen of our boys who could steal that paper from under my very

nose, if they liked, even if I stood on guard. But no stranger has

access to my desk, and there's no other way of getting it from _that_

office."

"Well," responded his Chief, "it's also the only way of getting it from

mine. Nevertheless, Sanford, somebody has possessed himself of a sheet

or two, and used it for fraudulent purposes."

Sanford stared, but said nothing.

"Now,"--the chief grew involuntarily more brisk and business-like--"we

must clear this matter up. You can give me samples of the handwriting of

every one of our men, can't you?"

"I suppose I can, sir, of one sort or another; letters, reports--"

"Samples of any sort will do, Sanford. Let me have them as soon as

possible."

Sanford arose, hesitated, and then said:

"If you would trust me, sir, I might--but you have sent for Carnegie?"

"Yes; it's about this business. What were you going to say, Sanford?"

"I know all their hands so well, sir, I was about to offer my services,

but--"

"It's a good idea; thank you, thank you. I think I'll give you both a

chance at it. Now, bring me the specimens, Sanford. We will talk this

over again."

In half an hour, Carnegie presented himself. He was a small, old man,

with a shrewd face and keen, intelligent eye.

"I've got some work for you, Carnegie," began the Chief, waiving all

ceremony. "It's of the kind you like, too."

"Ah!" Carnegie dropped his hat upon a chair, rubbed his hands softly

together and smiled upon his patron, looking as if at that instant ready

and anxious to pounce upon any piece of work that was "of the kind he

liked."

"It's a forgery on this office," went on the Chief, as quietly as if he

had said, it's an invitation to tea. "And you'll have a variety of

handwritings to gloat over; Sanford is looking them up."

"Ah!" said Carnegie, and that was all. Some men could not have said more

in a folio.

As Carnegie passed out of the Chief's office, the boy, George, entered

it. He had found Mr. Vernet, and that gentleman would present himself

right away.

And he did, almost at the heels of his herald; scrupulously dressed,

upright, handsome, and courteous as usual.

Perfectly aware as he was that his Chief had not summoned him there

without a motive, and tolerably sure that this motive was out of the

regular business routine, his countenance was as serene as if he were

entering a ball-room, his manner just as calm and courtly.

"I hope I have not interfered with any man[oe]uvre of yours, Van," said

the Chief, smiling as he proffered his hand.

"Not at all, sir. I was just in and preparing for an hour or two of

rest." And Vernet pressed the outstretched hand. "I am glad of this

opportunity, sir."

"The fact is--" began the Chief, after Vernet had ensconced himself in

the chair opposite his own--"the fact is, I want to talk over this

Englishman's business a little, in a confidential way."

"Yes?" The change that crossed Vernet's face was scarcely perceptible.

"You see, just between us, I have no report from Stanhope, and none from

you. And I want, very much, to get some new idea on the subject, soon."

Vernet scanned his face for a moment, then:

"You have heard something," he said, withdrawing his gaze slowly.

The Chief laughed. This answer, put not as a question, but as a

statement of a fact, pleased him.

"Yes," he said, "I have heard something. The Englishman is coming back.

I have a letter from him. It is somewhat mysterious, but it says that he

is on his way here, accompanied by one John Ainsworth."

"John Ainsworth?"

"Supposed to be the father of the child mentioned in the advertisement

from Australia,"

"Yes; I see."

"Well, I _don't_ see anything clearly, except this: These two men will

come down upon us presently; they will want to hear something new--"

"Their affair is twenty years old; do they expect us to get to the

bottom of it in five weeks?"

"Well, not that exactly, but I think they will expect us to have

organized--to have hit upon some theory and plan of action."

"Oh," said Vernet, "as to that, I have my theory--but it is for my

private benefit as yet. As to what I have done, it is not much, but it

is--"

"Something? a step?"

"Yes; it is a step. I have found, or I know where to find, one of the

ten men who composed that Marais des Cygnes party."

"Good! I call that more than a step."

"I may as well tell you that I have worked through a 'tracker.' You know

how much I am interested in that other affair."

"The Sailor business? yes."

"It seemed to me," continued Vernet, "that I might succeed there by

doing the hard work myself, and that this other matter, in its present

stage, might be worked out by an intelligent 'inquirer.' So I adopted

this plan. I think my murder case is almost closed. I hope to have my

hand upon the fellow soon. Then I can give all my time to this other

case."

"So!" gazing admiringly at the handsome face opposite him. "I'm glad of

your success, Van. I suppose, at the right time, you will let me into

the 'true inwardness' of the Sailor business?"

"I should have been under obligation to do that long ago, if you had not

been so good as to leave it all to my discretion."

"True. Well, I find that it's not unsafe to leave these things to you

and Stanhope. You both work best untrammelled. Has this fellow given you

much trouble?"

Vernet smiled. "Plenty of it," he said. "But in playing his last trick,

he bungled. He had dodged me beautifully, and had left me under the

impression that he had sailed for Europe."

"Ah!"

"Of course I wired to the other side. He had sailed in company with a

lady, handsome and young. He was also good-looking and a young man."

"Well?"

"When the two arrived on the other side, they turned out to be--an old

man aged sixty-five, and a child, aged ten."

"Oh!" said the Chief, as though he enjoyed the situation; "a clever

rascal!"

"Well, I know where to look for him now--when I need him. I want to run

down an important witness; then I shall make the arrest."

"Good! We will have the particulars at that time. And now about this

Englishman's case; put what your 'tracker' has done into a report--or do

you intend to work in the dark, like Stanhope?"

"Ah, what is Stanhope about?"

"I don't know. He took his time; has not been seen or heard of here for

four weeks."

Vernet tapped the desk beside him, and looked thoughtfully at his

_vis-a-vis_.

"Stanhope's a queer fish," he said abstractedly; "a queer fish." Then,

rising, he added: "I will send my report to-morrow."

"Very good."

"And I shall not follow Stanhope's example. Once I am fairly entered

into the case, I shall send my reports regularly."

"I'm glad of that," said his Chief, rising and following him to the

door. "Under the circumstances, I'm glad of that."

CHAPTER LII.

THE VERDICT OF AN EXPERT.

Late in the afternoon of the day following that on which Carnegie the

Expert had received his commission from the Chief of the detectives, he

appeared again in the presence of that personage.

He carried his "documents" in a small packet, which he laid upon the

desk, and he turned upon the Chief a face as cheerful and as full of

suppressed activity as usual.

"Well?" queried the Chief, glancing down at the packet, "have you done?"

"Yes;" beginning to open the packet with quick, nervous fingers.

"And you found--" He paused and looked up at the Expert.

Carnegie took from the packet the letter addressed to Alan Warburton,

and written in the scrawling, unreadable hand. This he spread open upon

the desk. Then he took another letter, written in an elegant hand, and

with various vigorous ornamental flourishes. This he laid beside the

first, pushing the remaining letters carelessly aside as if they were of

no importance.

"I find--" he said, looking hard at the Chief, and putting one

forefinger upon the elegant bit of penmanship, the other upon the

unreadable scrawl;--"I find that these two were written by the same

hand."

The Chief leaned forward; he had not been able to see the writing from

the place in which he sat. He leaned closer and fixed his eyes upon the

two signatures. The one he had seen before; the other was

signed--_Vernet_.

Slowly he withdrew his eyes from the signature, and turned them upon the

face of the Expert.

"Carnegie," he asked, "do you ever make a mistake?"

"_I?_" Carnegie's look said the rest.

"Because," went on the Chief, scarcely noticing Carnegie's indignant

exclamation, "if you _ever_ made a mistake, I should say, I should wish

to believe, that this was one."

"It's no mistake," replied the Expert grimly. "I never saw a clearer

case."

[Illustration: "Carnegie, do you ever make a mistake?"--page 376.]

The Chief passed his hand across his brow, and seemed to meditate,

while the Expert gathered up the heap of letters and arranged them once

more into a neat packet.

"If you are still in doubt," he said tartly, "you might try--somebody

else."

"No, no, Carnegie," replied the Chief, rousing himself, "you are right,

no doubt. You must be right."

Carnegie snapped a rubber band about the newly-arranged packet, and

tossed it down beside the two letters.

"Then," he said, taking up his hat, "I suppose you have no further use

for me?"

"Not at present, Carnegie."

The Expert turned sharply, and without further ceremony whisked out of

the room.

For some moments the Chief sat wrinkling his brow and gazing upon the

two letters outspread before him.

Then he took up the elegantly-written epistle, folded it carefully, and

thrust it in among those in the rubber-bound packet. This done he rang

his bell, and called for Sanford.

The latter came promptly, and stood mutely before his Chief.

"Sanford," said that gentleman, pointing to the packet upon the table,

"you may try your hand as an Expert."

"How, sir?"

"Take those letters, and this," pushing forward the outspread scrawl,

"and see if you can figure out who wrote it."

Sanford took up the packet, looked earnestly at his superior, and

hesitated.

"Carnegie has given his opinion," said the Chief, in answer to this

look. "I want to see how you agree."

Sanford took up the scrawl, scanned it slowly, folded it and slipped it

underneath the rubber of the packet.

"Is that all, sir?" he asked quietly.

"That is all. Take your time, Sanford; take your time."

Sanford bowed and went slowly from the room.

A few moments longer the Chief sat thinking, a look of annoyance upon

his face. Then he slowly arose, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a

small, thick diary, reseated himself.

"I must review this business," he muttered. "There's something about it

that I don't--quite--understand."

He turned the leaves of the diary quickly, running the pages backward,

until he reached those containing an account of the events of one or two

days five weeks old upon the calendar. Here he singled out the notes

concerning the Raid and its results, following which were the outlines

of the accounts of that night as given him by Vernet and Stanhope.

Now, in giving his account of that night, Van Vernet had said little of

his experience with Alan Warburton, and at the masquerade. And in giving

his account of the Raid and its failure, he had omitted the fact that he

had accepted and used "Silly Charlie" as a guide, speaking of him only

as a spy and rescuer. Hence the Chief had gained anything but a correct

idea of the part actually played by this bogus idiot.

On the other hand, Stanhope had described at length the events of the

masquerade, as they related to himself, but had said little concerning

Leslie and the nature of the service she required of him, referring to

her only as Mr. Follingsbee's client. He had related his misadventures

with the Troubadour and the Chinaman, leaving upon their shoulders the

entire blame of his failure and non-appearance at the Raid. And he had

never once mentioned Vernet's presence, nor the part the latter had

played to gain the precedence with his Chief.

In thus omitting important facts, each had his motive; and the omissions

had not, at the time, been noted by the Chief. Now, however, as he read

and re-read his memoranda--recalling to mind how he had shared with

Vernet his chagrin at the failure of the Raid, and laughed with Stanhope

over his comical mishaps--he seemed to read something between the lines,

and his face grew more and more perplexed as he closed the diary, and

sat intently thinking.

"There's a mystery here that courts investigation," he muttered, as he

arose at last and put away the diary. "I'd give something, now, for

twenty minutes' talk with Dick Stanhope."

Early on the following morning, Sanford presented himself before his

Chief, the bundle of letters in his hand, and a troubled look upon his

face.

"Well, Sanford, is it done?"

"I wish," said Sanford, as he placed the packet upon the table, "I wish

it had never been begun--at least by me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to believe the evidence of my senses."

"There's a sentiment for a detective! Out with it man; what have you

found?"

Sanford took two papers from his pocket and held them in his hand

irresolutely.

"I hope I am wrong," he said; "if I am--"

"If you are, it will rest between us two. Out with it, now."

"There's only one man among us that I can trace this letter to,"

beginning to unfold the troublesome scrawl, "and he--" He opened the

second paper and laid it before his Chief.

The latter dropped his eyes to the vexatious paper and said,

mechanically: "Vernet!"

"I'm sorry," began Sanford, regretfully. "I tried--"

"You need not be," interrupted the Chief. "It's Carnegie's verdict too."

Sanford sat down in the nearest seat, and looked earnestly at his Chief,

saying nothing.

After a moment of silence, the latter said:

"Sanford, I want Vernet shadowed."

Sanford started and looked as if he doubted his own ears.

"I don't want him interfered with," went on the Chief slowly, "and

watching him will be a delicate job; but I wish it done. I want to be

informed of every move he makes. You must manage this business. I shall

depend upon you."

CHAPTER LIII.

JOHN AINSWORTH'S STORY.

The Chief of the detectives was now furnished with ample food for

thought, but the opportunity for meditation seemed remote.

While he sat pondering over the discovery of Carnegie and Sanford, two

visitors were announced: Walter Parks, the English patron of Stanhope

and Vernet, and John Ainsworth, the returned Australian.

An accident of travel had thrown these two together, almost at the

moment when one was landing from, and the other about to embark for,

Australia. And the name of John Ainsworth, boldly displayed upon some

baggage just set on shore, had put Walter Parks on the scent of its

owner. The two men were not slow in understanding each other.

As they now sat in the presence of the Chief, these two men with faces

full of earnestness and strength, he mentally pronounced them fine

specimens of bronzed and bearded middle age.

Walter Parks was tall and athletic, without one ounce of flesh to spare:

with dark features, habitually stern in their expression; a firm chin,

and well-developed upper cranium, that made it easy for one to

comprehend how naturally and obstinately the man might cling to an idea,

or continue a search, for more than twice twenty years; and how

impossible it would be for him to abandon the one or lose his enthusiasm

for the other.

John Ainsworth was cast in a different mould. Less tall than the

Englishman, and of fuller proportions, his face was not wanting in

strength, but it lacked the rugged outlines that distinguished the face

of the other; his once fair hair was almost white, and his regular

features wore a look of habitual melancholy. It was the face of a man

who, having lost some great good out of his life, can never forget what

that life might have been, had this good gift remained.

"I received your letter," the Chief said, after a brief exchange of

formalities, "but I failed to understand it, Mr. Parks, and was finally

forced to conclude that you may have written a previous one--"

"I did," interrupted the Englishman.

"Which I never received," finished the Chief. "I supposed you voyaging

toward Australia, if not already there."

"I wrote first," said Walter Parks, "to notify you of our accidental

meeting, and that we would set out immediately for this city. And I

wrote again to tell you of Mr. Ainsworth's sudden illness, and our

necessary delay."

"Those two letters I never saw."

"I shall be sorry for that," broke in John Ainsworth, "if their loss

will cause us delay, or you inconvenience."

"The non-arrival of those two letters has made the third something of a

riddle to me," said the Chief. "But that being now solved, I think no

further mischief has been or will be done."

Then followed further explanations concerning the meeting of the two,

and John Ainsworth's fever, which, following his ocean voyage, made a

delay in San Francisco necessary.

"It was a tedious illness to me;" said the Australian. "Short as it was,

it seemed never-ending."

And then, at the request of the Chief, John Ainsworth told his story:

briefly, but with sufficient clearness.

"I was a young man," he said, "and filled with the spirit of adventure,

when I went West, taking my youthful wife with me. It was a hard life

for a woman; but it was her wish to go and, indeed, I would have left

her behind me very unwillingly. We prospered in the mining country. My

wife enjoyed the novelty of our new life, and we began to gather about

us the comforts of a home. Then little Lea was born."

He paused a moment and sighed heavily.

"My wife was never well again. She drooped and faded. When Lea was six

months old, she died, and I buried her at the foot of her favorite

mountain. I put my baby into the care of one of the women of the

settlement--it was the best I could do,--and I lived on as I might. But

the place grew hateful to me. There was one man among the rest whose

friendship I prized, and after the loss of my wife I clung to him as if

he were of my own blood. His name was Arthur Pearson."

Again the narrator paused, and the eyes of the two listeners

instinctively sought each other.

"Pearson was younger than I, and was never rugged like most of the men

who lived that wild life. And after a time I saw that he, too, was

failing. He grew thin and began to cough dismally. Pearson was very fond

of my baby girl; and sometimes we would sit and talk of her future, and

wish her away from that place, where she must grow up without the

knowledge and graces of refined civilization.

"As Pearson became worse, he began to talk of going back to the States,

and much as I would miss him, I strongly advised him to go. At last when

he had fully decided to do so, he made me a proposition: If I would

trust my baby to him, he would take her back and put her in the care of

my sister, who had no children of her own, and who was just the one to

make of little Lea all that a woman should be. I knew how gladly she

would watch over my daughter, and after I had thought upon the matter, I

decided to send Lea to her, under the guardianship of Pearson. As I look

back, I can see my selfishness. I should have gone with Arthur and the

child. But my grief was too fresh; I could not bear to turn my face

homeward alone. I wanted change and absorbing occupation, and I had

already decided to dispose of my mining interest, and go to Australia.

"I found a nurse for my baby girl; a woman in our little community, who

had lost her husband in a mine explosion a few months before. She was

glad of an opportunity to return to her friends, and I felt sure that I

could trust her with Lea. So they set out for the East, and I made

preparations for my journey, while waiting to hear that Pearson and the

train were safely beyond the mountains and most dangerous passes.

"They had been gone some two weeks when a train came in from the East,

and among them was Mrs. Marsh, the nurse. The two trains had met just

beyond the range, and Mrs. Marsh had found among the emigrants some of

her friends and towns-people. The attraction was strong enough to cause

her to turn about, and I may as well dispose of her at once by saying

that she shortly after married one of her new-found friends.

"She told me that Pearson had joined a train which crossed their trail

the morning after the meeting of the first two parties, and before they

had broken camp. This train was going through by the shortest route, as

fast as possible; and Pearson had found among the women one who would

take charge of little Lea. She brought me a letter from him."

"Did you preserve the letter?" interrupted the Chief.

"I did; it has never been out of my possession, for it was the last I

ever heard of Pearson or my little Lea, until--" He paused and glanced

toward the Englishman.

"Until you met Mr. Parks?" supplemented the Chief.

"Yes."

"I should like to see that letter," said the Chief.

The Australian took from his breast an ample packet, and from its

contents extracted a worn and faded paper. As he handed it to the Chief

there was a touch of pathos in his voice.

"It is more than twenty years old," he said.

The writing was in a delicate, scholarly hand, much faded, yet legible.

DEAR AINSWORTH

I suppose Mrs. Marsh has made you acquainted with her reasons for

changing her plans. It remains for me to inform you of mine.

Our train, as you know, is not precisely select, and as we

advance towards "God's Country" the roystering ones become a

little too reckless for my quiet taste. The train from the North

is led by one Walter Parks, an Englishman, of whom I know a

little, and that little all in his favor. The others are quiet,

sturdy fellows, of the sort I like. The woman who will care for

little Lea is a Mrs. Krutzer; a very good woman she seems. She is

going East with her husband, who has the rheumatism and, so they

tell me, a decided objection to hard labor. She has a little boy,

some six years older than Lea, and she seems glad to earn

something by watching over our pet.

We are almost out of the "Danger Country." There is little to

dread between this and the Marais des Cygnes, and once we have

crossed that, there will be nothing to fear from the Indians.

Still, to make little Lea's safety doubly sure, I shall at once

tell Mrs. Krutzer her history, and give her instructions how to

find Lea's relatives should some calamity overtake me before the

journey ends.

I will at once put into Mrs. Krutzer's hands your letter to your

sister, together with the packet, and money enough to carry her

to her destination. Having done this, I can only watch over the

little one as you would, were you here, and trust the rest to a

merciful Providence.

May your Australian venture prosper! I will write you there; and

may the good God have us all in his keeping!

Yours as ever,

A. PEARSON.

This was the letter that the Chief perused with a face of unusual

gravity; and then he asked, as he laid it down:

"And your child: you have never heard of her since?"

"Never. I was always a poor correspondent, but I wrote many letters to

my sister, to her husband, and to Pearson. They were not answered. The

Ulimans were rising people, and they had left their old residence, no

doubt. So I reasoned, and I worked on. After a time I was sick--a long

tedious illness. When I recovered, and asked for letters, they told me

that during my illness some had arrived, and had been lost or mislaid.

Then I assured myself that these were from Pearson and my sister; that

my little one was safe; and I settled down to my new life. Every year I

planned a return, and every year I waited until the next, in order to

take with me a larger fortune for little Lea. I became selfishly

absorbed in money-getting. Then, as years went by, and I knew my girl

was budding into womanhood, I longed anew for tidings of her. I wrote

again, and again; and then I set my lawyer at the task. He wrote, and he

advertised; and at last I settled my affairs out there and started for

the United States. An advertisement, asking news of Pearson or Lea

Ainsworth, was sent to a city paper only a week before I sailed, and it

was this that caught the eye of Mr. Parks here."

Again the Chief and Walter Parks exchanged glances, and John Ainsworth

rose slowly to his feet.

"Sir," he said in a husky voice, "Mr. Parks has offered a fortune to the

man who discovers the slayer of Arthur Pearson. I offer no less for the

recovery of my child."

The Chief shook his head.

"That search," he said, "like the other, must cover twenty years."

"To begin," said the Australian, "we must find the Ulimans."

"Who?"

"The Ulimans; my sister was the wife of Thomas Uliman."

"Oh!" said the Chief, and then he leaned forward and touched the bell.

"Send Sanford in," he said to the boy who appeared in the doorway.

In another moment Sanford stood before them.

"Sanford," said his Chief, "Thomas Uliman and wife, residents here

twenty years ago, are to be found. Have the records searched, and if

necessary take other steps. Stop: what was the calling of this Thomas

Uliman?"

"Merchant," said John Ainsworth.

Sanford started suddenly, and lifted one hand to his mouth.

"I wonder--" he began, and then checked himself, bowed, and turned

toward the door. "Had this gentleman a middle name?" he asked, with his

hand upon the latch.

"Yes; it was R., I believe; Thomas R. Uliman," replied the Australian.

Sanford bowed again and went out quietly. Then Mr. Ainsworth turned

toward the Chief.

"You have a system?" he queried.

"Yes; a very simple and effectual one. We keep the census reports, the

directories, and a death record. When these fail, we have other

resources; but we usually get at least a clue from these books. This

part of the work is simple enough. By to-morrow I think we can give you

some information about Thomas Uliman."

There was a moment's silence, then Walter Parks leaned forward:

"Have you anything to tell me concerning my two detectives?" he asked.

"Stanhope and Vernet? Well, not much; but I expect a report from Vernet

at any moment. We will have that also to-morrow."

CHAPTER LIV.

A CHIEF'S PERPLEXITIES.

On Wednesday, the day following that which witnessed the arrival of

Walter Parks and John Ainsworth, Mr. Follingsbee, seated at a late

breakfast, perused a letter, which, judging from the manner of its

reception, must have contained something unusual and interesting.

He read it, re-read it, and read it again. Then pushing back his chair,

and leaving his repast half finished, he hurried from the

breakfast-room, and up stairs, straight to that cosey room which, for

many days, had been occupied by a guest never visible below. This guest

had also recently turned away from a dainty breakfast, the fragments of

which yet remained upon the small table at his elbow, and he was now

perusing the morning paper with the bored look of a man who reads only

to kill time.

He glanced up as the lawyer entered, but did not rise.

"Well," began his visitor, "at last I have something to wake you up

with: orders to march."

He held in his hand the open letter, and standing directly in front of

the other, read out its contents with the tone and manner of a man

pronouncing his own vindication after a long-suffering silence:

DEAR SIR:

At last you may release your voluntary prisoner. It is best that

he return at once to W---- place. Let him go quietly and without

fear. By afternoon there may be other arrivals, whom he will be

glad to welcome. For yourself, be at the Chief's office this day

at 4. P.M.

STANHOPE.

The reader paused and looked triumphantly at his audience of one.

"So," commented this audience, "his name is Stanhope."

Mr. Follingsbee started and then laughed.

"I don't think he cared to keep his identity from you longer," he said,

"otherwise he would not have signed his name. I think this means that

the play is about to end"--tapping the letter lightly with his two

fingers. "You have heard of Dick Stanhope, I take it?"

"Stanhope, the detective? Yes; and I am somewhat puzzled. I have always

heard of Stanhope in connection with Van Vernet."

"Umph! so has everybody. They're on opposite sides of _this_ case,

however. Well, shall you follow Mr. Stanhope's advice?"

"I shall, although his advice reads much like a command. I shall take

him at his word, and go at once."

"Now?"

"This very hour, if your carriage is at my disposal."

"That, of course."

"I feel like a puppet in invisible hands"--rising and moving nervously

about--"but, having pledged myself to accept the guidance of this

eccentric detective, I will do my part."

"Well," said the lawyer dryly, "you seem in a desperate hurry. Be sure

you don't overdo it."

"I won't; I'll go home and wait for what is to happen in the afternoon."

Half an hour thereafter, a carriage drew up at the side entrance of the

Warburton mansion, and a gentleman leaped out, ran lightly up the steps,

opened the door with a latch-key held ready in his hand, and disappeared

within. The carriage rolled away the moment its occupant had alighted.

In another moment, a man, who had been lounging on the opposite side of

the street, faced about slowly, and sauntered along until he reached the

street corner. Turning here he quickened his pace, increasing his speed

as he went, until his rapid walk became a swift run just as he turned

the second corner.

At ten o'clock of this same morning, the Chief of the detectives is

sitting again in his sanctum, his brow knit and frowning, his hands

tapping nervously upon the arms of his easy chair, his whole mind

absorbed in intensest thought. Usually he meets the problems that come

to him with imperturbable calm, and looks them down and through; but

to-day the thought that he faces is so disagreeable, so perplexing, so

baffling,--and it will not be looked down, nor thought down.

Up to the date of this present perplexity, he has found himself equal to

all the emergencies of his profession. Living in a domain of Mysteries,

he has been himself King of them all; has held in his hand the clue to

each. His men may have worked in the dark, or with only a fragment of

light, a glimmer of the truth, to guide them. But he, their Chief, has

overlooked their work, seeing beyond their range of vision, and through

it, to the end.

Always this had been the case until--yes, he would acknowledge the

truth--until this all-demanding Englishman had swooped down upon him

with his old, old mystery, and taken from the Agency, for his own

eccentric uses, its two best men. Always, until Van Vernet and Richard

Stanhope had arrayed themselves as antagonists, in seeking a solution of

the same problem.

Following up the train of thought suggested by the re-reading of his

diary, the Chief has been suddenly confronted with some unpleasant

suspicions and possibilities.

He has pondered everything pertaining to the mystery surrounding

Vernet's improper use of his business letter-heads, and his visit to the

Warburton mansion in the guise of Augustus Grip. And he has vainly tried

to trace the connection between these man[oe]uvres and some of

Stanhope's inconsistencies.

In the search, he has made a discovery: Alan Warburton, the uncle of the

lost child for whom his men have been vainly searching, and Leslie

Warburton, the widow of the late Archibald Warburton, have both sailed

for Europe. Business connected with the search has been transacted

through Mr. Follingsbee; and this voyage across the sea, at so

inopportune a time, has been treated by the lawyer with singular

reticence, not to say secrecy.

What could have caused these two to make such a journey at such a time?

Why did Van Vernet enter their house in disguise? Who were the two that

had sailed to Europe by proxy? What was this mystery which, he

instinctively felt, had taken root on the night of the fruitless Raid?

"It was young Warburton who had secured Vernet's services, and

afterwards dismissed him in such summary fashion. It was Mr. Follingsbee

who had engaged Stanhope, for that self-same night, _for a masquerade_.

If I could question Stanhope," he muttered. "Oh! I need not wait for

that; I'll interview Follingsbee."

He dashed off a note, asking the lawyer to wait upon him that

afternoon, and having dispatched it, was about to resume the study of

his new problem, when Sanford entered with a memorandum in his hand.

"Beale has come in," he said in a low tone. "He has been the rounds, and

gives a full report of Vernet's movements."

"Has Beale been out alone?"

"Not since the first two hours; he has three men out now."

"Phew! Well, read your minutes, Sanford; I see you have taken them down

from word of mouth."

"Yes, it was the shortest way. Vernet is watching three localities."

"Oh!"

"Beale shadowed him, first, to the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, the

lawyer."

"Umph!" The Chief started, then checked himself, and sank back in his

chair.

"Here," continued Sanford, "he had a man on guard. They exchanged a few

words, and Vernet went away, the shadower staying near the lawyer's

house. From there Vernet went direct to Warburton Place."

The Chief bit his lips and stirred uneasily.

"Here he had another shadower. They also conferred together. Then Vernet

took a carriage and went East to the suburbs; out to the very edge of

the city, where the houses are scattering and inhabited by poor

laborers. At the end of K. street, he left his carriage, and went on

foot to a little saloon, the farthest out of any in that vicinity. There

he had a long talk with a fellow who seemed to be personating a

bricklayer. He left the saloon and went back to his carriage, seemingly

in high spirits, and the bricklayer departed in the opposite direction."

"Away from the city?"

"Yes; toward the furthermost houses."

The Chief bent his head and meditated.

"This happened, when?" he asked.

"Yesterday."

"And Beale; what did he do?"

"Set three men to watch three men. One at Follingsbee's, one at

Warburton Place, and one at the foot of K. street."

"Good; and these shadowers of Vernet's--could Beale identify either of

them?"

"No; he is sure they do not belong to us, and were never among our men."

"Very well. Beale has done famously. Let him keep a strict watch until

further orders."

Once more the Chief knits his brow and ponders. The mystery grows

deeper, and he finds in it ample food for meditation.

But he is doomed to interruption. This time it is Vernet's report.

He eyes it askance, and lays it upon the desk beside him. Just now it is

less interesting, less important, than his own thoughts.

But again his door opens. He lifts his head with a trace of annoyance.

It is George, the office boy. He comes forward and proffers a note to

his Chief.

The latter takes it slowly, looks languidly at the superscription, then

breaks the seal.

One glance, and the expression of annoyance and languor is gone; the

eyes brighten, and the whole man is alive with interest.

And yet the note contains only these two lines:

Send three good men, in plain clothes, to the last saloon at the

foot of K. street, 2 P. M. sharp.

DICK S.

"Oh!" ejaculates the Chief, "Dick at last! Something is going to

happen."

And then he calls the office boy back.

"Go to this address," he says, hastily writing upon a card; "ask for Mr.

Parks, and say to him that I am obliged to beg himself and friend to put

off their interview with me until this afternoon, say three o'clock."

When the boy had departed, he turned to the desk and took up Vernet's

report. As he opened it, he frowned and muttered:

"Vernet's doing some queer work. If it were any one else, I should say

he was in a muddle. As it is, I shall not feel sure that all is right

until I know what his man[oe]uvres mean. I'll have no more interviews

until I have seen Follingsbee, and studied this matter out."

CHAPTER LV.

THE LAST MOMENT.

At two P. M. of the same day, the day that witnessed Alan Warburton's

return to his own, and the Chief's perplexity, there is an ominous

stillness brooding about the Francoise dwelling.

In the outer room, Papa Francoise is alone, and, if one may judge from

his restlessness, not much relishing his solitude.

The room is cleaner than usual. All about it an awkward attempt at

tidiness is visible. Papa, too, is less unkempt than common, seeming to

have made a stout effort at old-time respectability. But he cannot

assume a virtuous and respectable calm, a comfortable repose.

He goes to the window and peers anxiously into the street. Sometimes he

opens the outer door, and thrusts his head half out to gaze along the

thoroughfare cityward. And then he goes across the room, and opens the

door of a big dingy closet: looks within, closes the door quietly, and

tiptoes back to the window.

There is nothing remarkable in that closet. It is dark and dirty. A few

shabby garments are hanging on the wall, and a pallet occupies the

floor, looking as if it had been carelessly flung there and not yet

prepared for its occupant.

Papa seems to note this. Stooping down, he smoothens out the ragged

blanket and straightens the dirty mattress, cocking his head on one side

to note the improvement thus made. Then he goes back to the window, and

again looks out. With every passing moment he grows more and more

disquieted.

* * * * *

In the inner room, Leslie Warburton sits alone. Her arms are crossed

upon the rough table beside her; her head is bowed upon her arms; her

attitude betokens weariness and dejection. By and by she lifts her face,

and it is very pale, very sad, very weary. But above all, it is very

calm.

Since the day when Stanhope's message brought her new hope, she has

played her part bravely. Weak in body, harassed in mind, filled with

constantly-increasing loathing for the people who are her only

companions, utterly unable to guess at the meaning of Stanhope's

message--she has battled with illness, and fought off despair, fully

realizing that in him was her last hope, her only chance for succor; and

fully resolved to cling to this last hope, and to aid her helper in the

only way she could--by doing his bidding.

"Seem to submit," he said. She had submitted. "Let them play their game

to the very last." She had made no resistance.

And now the end had come. She had obeyed in all things. And to-day the

Francoises were jubilant. To-day Leslie Warburton, by her own consent,

was to marry Franz Francoise.

It was the last day, the last hour; and Leslie's strength and courage

are sorely tried.

"Trust all to me," he had said. "When the right time comes, I will be at

hand."

Leslie arose, and paced slowly up and down her narrow room, feeling her

heart almost stop its beating. Had she not trusted to him? trusted

blindly; and now--had not the right time come? Was it not the only time?

And where was Stanhope? "If he should fail me!" she moaned, "if he

should fail me after all!"

And her heart leaps suddenly; its tumultuous throbbings nearly suffocate

her. She sits down again and her breath comes hard and fast.

"If he should fail me," she says again, "then--that would be the end."

For she has made a fearful resolve. She would play her part, as it was

the only way. _She_ would not fail in the task he had assigned her, and

if, at the last, _he_ failed, then--before she became the wife of Franz

Francoise, she would die!

And Daisy--what, then, would become of her?

Leslie puts back the thought with a passionate moan. She must not think

now.

Mamma has sworn to produce the child within the hour that sees Leslie

the wife of Franz. And Leslie has vowed, when the child's hand is in

hers, to sign a paper which Mamma shall place before her--anything; she

cares not what.

She has agreed to all this, suffered her martyrdom, sustained by the

promise: "At the right time I shall be at hand. I will not fail you."

And the last moments are passing.

She can hear Papa shuffling about the outer room, and she knows that

Franz has gone to bring the Priest. The right time is very near; but

Stanhope--

She has not seen Mamma since morning. She has not heard her rasping

voice, nor her heavy step in the outer room. But the minutes are going

fast; Franz will be back soon.

And Stanhope--O, God, _where_ is Stanhope?

Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low moan.

"Oh, if he should fail me! If he _should_ fail me!"

In the outer room, Papa's restlessness increases. He vibrates constantly

now between the window and the door.

The curtain is drawn up to the low ceiling; the entire window is bare

and stares out upon the street like a watchful eye.

And now Papa turns suddenly from the door, closes it, and hastens to the

window; looks out once again to reassure himself, and then, rising on

tiptoe, draws down the dark curtain. He measures the window with a

glance, lowering the curtain slowly and stopping it half way down.

It is a signal, prearranged by Mamma, and it tells that approaching

personage that the way is clear, that Franz is absent.

[Illustration: "Again she bows her head upon her arms and utters a low

moan."--page 398.]

Another moment of waiting and he hears shuffling footsteps, and the

sound of receding wheels. Then he opens the door, opens it wide this

time, and admits Mamma.

Mamma, and something else. This something she carries in her arms. It is

carefully wrapped in a huge shawl, and is quite silent and moveless.

"You are sure it's all right?" whispers Papa nervously, as in obedience

to a movement of Mamma's head he opens the closet-door.

Mamma lays down her still burden, covers it carefully with the ragged

blanket, closes the door of the closet, and then turns to face Papa.

"Yes," she says, in a hoarse whisper; "my part of the business is right

enough. Ye needn't be uneasy about that. I told ye I wouldn't bring her

into the house while Franz was here; and as for my being followed, I

ain't afraid; I've doubled on my track too often. If any one started to

follow me, they're watching the wrong door this minute. How long has

Franz been away?"

"Not half an hour."

"How's _she_ been behaving?"

"Quiet; very quiet."

Mamma seats herself, removes her hideous bonnet, and draws a heavy

breath.

"Well, I've done my part," she says grimly. "Now, let Franzy do his'n."

She goes to a shelf, takes therefrom a bottle of ink and a rusty pen.

"I wish,"--she begins, then pauses and slowly draws a folded paper from

her pocket; "I wish we could git this signed _first_."

Papa coughs slightly, and turns an anxious look toward the door.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be safe," he says. Then he starts and turns

toward the closet. "You're sure she won't wake up?" he whispers.

Mamma turns upon him angrily.

"D'ye s'pose I'd run any risk now?" she hisses. "She's got a powerful

dose of Nance's quietin' stuff. Don't you be afeared about _her_. All we

want is to git this business over, and that little paper signed."

"I'm dreadful uneasy," sighs Papa. "I wish I was sure how this thing

would come out."

"Wall, I kin tell ye. When the gal gits hold of her little one, she'll

turn her back on us all. Married or not, she'll never own Franzy. And I

don't s'pose the boy'll care much; it's the money he's after. She'll

give him _that_ fast enough, and he'll always know where to look for

more. As for us, this marrying makes us safe. She'd die before she'd

have it known, and she can't make us any trouble without its coming out.

She'll be glad to take her young un, and let us alone. Don't you see

that even after she's got the young un, we shall have her in a tighter

grip than ever, once she's married to Franzy? As fer the paper she's to

sign, it won't hold good in law, but it will hold with _her_. And she

won't go to a lawyer with it; be sure of that."

"Hark!" ejaculates Papa.

And in another instant, there is a stumbling step outside, and a heavy

thump upon the door.

"It's Franz," whispers Mamma. And she hastens to admit her Prodigal.

As he enters, Mamma's sharp eye notes his flushed face and exaggerated

swagger, and she greets him with an indignant sniff.

"Couldn't ye keep sober jist once?" she grumbles, as he pauses before

her. "Where's the Preach?"

"Oh, I'm sober enough," grins Franz. "And the Preach is coming. He's

bringin' a witness."

Papa and Mamma exchange swift glances. Franz, sober, is not the most

agreeable and dutiful of sons; Franz, in liquor, is liable to sudden

violent outbreaks, if not delicately handled.

Papa makes a signal which Mamma interprets: "Don't irritate him." And

the two continue to eye him anxiously as he crosses the room and

attempts to open the door of the inner apartment.

"Locked!" he mutters, and turns toward Mamma. "Out with your key, old

un," he says quite amiably; "the Preach 'ull be here in five minutes,

and what ye've got to say, all round, had better be said afore he comes.

Open this."

"The boy's right enough," mutters Papa. "Open the door, old woman."

Silently Mamma obeys, and Franz is the first to enter the room. He goes

straight over to the table where Leslie sits, scarcely stirring at their

entrance, and he looks down at her intently.

"See here, Leschen," he says, "don't think that this lockin' ye in is my

doin's, or that it's goin' to be continued. It's the old woman as is

takin' such precious care of ye."

Mamma is at his elbow, glancing sharply at him, while she places upon

the table pen, ink, and a folded paper.

"We've kept our word, gal," she says harshly, "and we know that after

to-day ye may take some queer fancies. Now, this paper is ter signify

that we have acted fairly by ye, and ter bind ye not ter make us any

trouble hereafter."

Leslie's eyes rove slowly from one to the other. She feels that the end

has come, and with the last remnant of her courage she keeps back the

despairing cry that rises to her lips.

As she gazes, Franz Francoise makes a sudden movement as if to snatch up

the paper, then as suddenly withdraws his hand.

"Wot's in that paper?" he asks, turning to Mamma.

"Ye know well enough," retorts the old woman tartly. "We've promised her

the gal, and she's promised not to inform agin us. We're goin' to stick

to our bargain, and we want her to stick to hers."

And she pushes the pen and ink toward Leslie. But the latter does not

heed the motion.

"Oh," she cries, half rising and clasping her hands in intense appeal,

"is it true? Is she indeed so near me? Shall I have her back?"

"Yes, yes." Mamma grows impatient, "Sign this and then--"

Franz leans forward and puts one finger upon the folded paper.

"Once agin," says he sharply, "what's that?"

"It's a simple little paper, Franzy," breaks in Papa reassuringly, "jest

to 'stablish our innocence, in case your new wife should happen to

forgit her promise. It's nothing that'll affect you."

"Umph," grunts Franz, eyeing the pair suspiciously, "that's it, is it."

Then, turning to Leslie: "Read that paper, gal."

But Papa puts out his hand.

"It's only a little form, my dear boy."

"Wal," with growing aggressiveness, "let her read the little form."

"It's only a waste o' time," breaks in Mamma impatiently, "an' the

sooner it's signed, the sooner she'll--"

"Only a waste of time." The words awaken Leslie's almost benumbed

senses. Time; that is just what this discussion is gaining for her, for

Stanhope! Since their entrance, she has not opened her lips; now she

interrupts Mamma's discourse.

"Let me read the paper," she says.

By a quick movement, Papa extracts the paper from beneath the finger of

his Prodigal, and holding it tightly, steps back from the table.

"It's wasting time," he says, "an' it's only a little form."