Then Leslie draws herself up to her fullest height, and stepping back

from the table says:

"I will sign no paper that I have not read."

With a sudden movement Franz springs upon Papa, wrests the paper from

his grasp, and passes it over Mamma's shoulder to Leslie. Then he turns

fiercely upon the pair.

"If ye could read, Franz Francoise," shrieks Mamma, in a burst of

incautious rage, "ye'd never a-done that thing!"

"Kerrect!" retorts Franz, with a malicious grin, "I'd a-read it myself.

Not bein' able to do that, I'd sooner take her word fer it than your'n."

Again Papa comes forward and lays a hand upon the arm of his son.

"Franzy," he says deprecatingly, "ye don't know what ye are doin'."

"Don't I?" sneers Franz. "Wal I'm goin' ter find out shortly."

A sudden exclamation from Leslie causes him to turn quickly. She is

gazing at the paper with a bewildered face.

"What is it?" he asked peremptorily.

"This paper," exclaims Leslie, "would bind me to make over one third of

any property I am or may become possessed of to those two and--"

"What!" Again Franz makes a movement as if about to seize the paper,

then, dropping his hand, he repeats: "To those two?" pointing to Papa

and Mamma; "and don't it make no mention o' _me_?"

"Now Franz--" remonstrates Mamma.

"You shut up! Say, gal, does that document leave _me_ out?"

Leslie's eyes scan the page. "It does not name you," she falters.

"Oh, it don't! Wal," stepping to her side and taking the paper from her,

"wal, then, we won't sign it."

As he crumples it in his hand, Leslie moves toward Mamma Francoise,

seeming in one moment to have mastered all her fears.

"This paper," she says, turning her clear eyes upon Mamma, "confirms

what I have suspected, ever since you proposed this marriage with your

son, as the price of little Daisy's deliverance. You know the secret of

my birth and believe me to be an heiress. You stole little Daisy to

compel me to _this_,"--pointing at the paper in the hand of Franz--"and

since your son has returned, you would strengthen your own position

while you enrich him. It was a clever plot, but overdone. Give me the

pen, give me the paper. Rather than leave little Daisy longer at your

mercy, I would resign to you an hundred fortunes were they mine."

She moves toward the table, but Franz is before her.

"Oh, no!" he says, quietly; "I guess not! I don't seem to cut much of a

figure in that little transaction on paper, but I'm blessed if I don't

hold my own in this business. Ye can't sign that paper; not yet."

Leslie turns from him and again addresses Mamma.

"Listen to me," she says. "I know your scheme now, and I know how to

deal with you. I never meant to marry this man. I never will. You want

money; give me back little Daisy, and I will sign this paper, or any

other you may frame. And I will swear never to complain against you,

never to molest you, never to reveal the secret of these awful weeks.

There let it end: I will _never_ marry your son!"

With a sudden motion, Mamma turns upon Franz, and attempts to snatch the

paper from his hand.

"Give me that paper, boy!" she fairly hisses.

But he repulses her savagely, and thrusts the paper into his breast.

"Take care, old woman!" he exclaims hotly. "I ain't your son for

nothing; what do ye take me for?"

His words are interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

"Do ye hear that?" he hisses. "Now, that parson's coming in to finish

this marryin' business, or I'm goin' right out of here, and the gal

along with me, if I have to cut my way straight through ye! The gal can

sign the paper if she likes, but she'll sign it Leschen Francoise, or

she'll never sign it at all!"

And before they can guess his intentions, he has caught Leslie up and

fairly carried her to the outer room. In a flutter of fear and rage,

Mamma follows, and Papa hovers in the open doorway.

"Franz Francoise!" shrieks Mamma, the tiger now fairly awake in her

eyes.

[Illustration: "Give me that paper, boy!" she fairly hisses.--page

406.]

But he pays no heed to her rage. He releases his hold upon Leslie, and

flings open the door.

"I don't know as we will have any funeral, after all," he says

cheerfully, to the two who enter. "There's a kind of a hitch in the

arrangements."

The new-comers, the foremost in the garb of a Priest, and the other

evidently a very humble citizen, stop near the open door and glance

curiously around. And then a third citizen appears, and fairly fills up

the doorway.

Even as they enter, Mamma, stealing close to Leslie, whispers in her

ear:

"If ye ever want to see yer gal agin, _marry him_."

Leslie Warburton looks into the wolfish face beside her; looks across at

Franz, and then at the three new-comers. What stolid faces! She sees no

hope there. And then, as Mamma's words repeat themselves in her ear, she

leans against the rickety closet-door and utters a despairing moan.

"Quick!" whispers Mamma, "it's yer last chance!"

CHAPTER LVI.

AT THE RIGHT TIME.

"Ye see," explains Franz, glancing toward Leslie, "the lady's kind o'

hesitatin'. We'll give her a minute or two ter make up her mind." And he

goes over and takes his stand beside her.

In the moment of silence that follows, Leslie can hear her heart beat,

then--

What is it that breaks that strange stillness, that startles so

differently every occupant of that dingy room?

Only a voice, sweet, clear, pitiful; a child's voice, uplifted in

prayer:

"_Dear God, please take care of a little girl whose Mamma has gone to

Heaven--_"

The rest is drowned in the shriek which bursts from Leslie's lips; in

the sudden bound made by Mamma; and the quick counter movement of Franz.

Then Leslie's hands are beating wildly against the closet-door. Mamma,

forcibly hurled back by Franz, is sprawling upon the floor, and the

escaped convict is pressing against the rickety timbers.

As they yield to his onslaught, he stoops down, catches up the little

crouching figure within, and turns to Leslie, who receives it with

outstretched arms.

"Oh, Daisy! _Daisy!_ DAISY!"

Sobbing wildly, she is down upon her knees, the little one tightly

clasped to her bosom.

"Oh, Daisy, my darling!"

"Git out!" commands Franz, as Mamma, scrambling up, approaches with

glaring eyes. "Stand back, old un. This is a new deal."

And he places himself as a barricade before Leslie and the child, waving

back the infuriated old woman with a gesture of menace.

And then heavy feet come trampling across the threshold. Men in police

uniform fill up the doorway, and the foremost of them says, as he

approaches the Prodigal:

"Franz Francoise, I arrest you in the name of the law!"

The priest and his two witnesses start perceptibly, and turn their

faces toward Franz. Papa and Mamma slink back toward the inner room.

Leslie lifts her head and looks wonderingly at the new-comers.

Only Franz remains undisturbed. With a swift movement, he whisks out a

pair of revolvers and presents them, muzzle foremost, to the speaker.

"Not just yet!" he says coolly; "I ain't quite ready. Ye've interrupted

me, and ye'll have to wait."

One of his hands is slightly uplifted and, for just an instant, his head

turns toward the inner room.

The two witnesses, making way for the police, lounge nearer to Papa and

Mamma.

"You had better not resist, Franz Francoise," says the leader once more.

"You can't escape us now."

"No; I s'pose not," assents Franz. "Oh, I know I'm cornered, but wait."

He moves aside and looks down upon Leslie.

"This lady," he says quietly, "and her little gal, are here by accident,

and they ain't to be mixed up in this business o' mine. Look here, Mr.

Preach--"

The Priest comes forward, and glances at him inquiringly.

"Ye can't afford to lose yer time altogether, I s'pose, and I'll give ye

a new contract. Ye see this lady and the little gal are being scared by

these cops. I want you to take 'em away. The lady'll tell ye where to

go, and don't ye leave 'em till ye've seen 'em safe home."

Without a word of comment, the Priest moves toward Leslie.

At the same instant, and with a howl of rage, Mamma rushes forward.

"Stop her!" says Franz; and one of the two witnesses lays a strong hand

upon Mamma's shoulder.

[Illustration: "Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"--page 410.]

Then the Prodigal turns to Leslie, who, with the child in her arms, has

risen to her feet.

"Go," he says gently; "you are free and safe. Go at once. That old woman

will harm you if she can."

With a start and a sudden bounding of her pulses, Leslie looks into the

face of the Prodigal, only an instant, for he turns it away. And all

bewildered, pallid and trembling, she yields to the gentle force by

which the Priest compels her to move, mechanically, almost blindly, from

the room.

The officers step back to let her pass. And as she reaches the outer

air, she has a shadowy vision of Franz Francoise, with pistols in hand,

standing at bay; of Mamma struggling in the grasp of the humble citizen,

and uttering yells of impotent rage.

She feels the cool air upon her brow, and clasps the child closer in her

arms, believing herself to be moving in a dream. Then the voice of the

Priest assures her.

"Give me the child, Mrs. Warburton," he says respectfully, "and lean on

my arm. We have a carriage near."

When Leslie had disappeared beyond the doorway, Franz Francoise throws

down his pistols.

"Now then, boys," he says quietly, "you can come and take me."

With a yell of rage, Mamma hurls herself upon her captor.

"Let me go!" she shrieks. "Ah, ye brute, let me get at him! Let me kill

the sneakin' coward! Ah," kicking viciously, and gnashing her teeth as

she struggles to reach the Prodigal, "that I should have to own such a

chicken-hearted son!"

The leader of the officers, handcuffs in hand, has approached Franz, and

the others are closing about him.

As Mamma utters her fierce anathema, he turns upon her suddenly, making

at the same time a swift gesture of impatience.

"Gray," he says sternly, "bring out that old man."

It is not the voice of Franz Francoise; it is not his manner. And as the

man addressed as Gray lays a hand upon Papa Francoise, the old woman

catches her breath with a hissing sound, and stares blankly.

Struggling and whimpering, Papa is dragged from the inner room, and when

he stands before the group, the Prodigal says:

"Now, Harvey, make the proper use of your handcuffs. Put them on this

precious pair."

"What!"

The leader of the arresting party starts forward, and stares at the

speaker, who makes a sudden movement and then faces the officers,

holding in his hand a carroty wig and moustache!

Papa's face is ashen. Mamma writhes and gurgles, staring wildly at this

sudden transformation. The officers instinctively group themselves

together, and the handcuffs fall from the leader's grasp, clanking

dolefully as they strike the bare floor.

"_Stanhope!_" gasps the officer, starting forward, and then drawing

back.

And the two aids instinctively echo the word:

"Stanhope!"

"Stanhope!"

Then the man who has so long masqueraded as Franz Francoise flings aside

the carroty wig and fixes a stern eye upon Mamma Francoise.

"Woman," he says slowly; "let me set your mind at rest. You need never

again call me your son. Franz Francoise is dead, and before he died he

told me his story, and yours, as he knew it. If for weeks I have lived

among you in his likeness, you know now why it was necessary. Oh, you

are a clever pair! Almost too clever, but you are outwitted. Harvey,"

turning once more to the officer, "you shall not go back without a

prisoner; you shall have two. Put your bracelets on this rascally pair;

and see them safely in separate cells. Holt and Drake will go with you."

The two humble citizens glance up, and confirm by a look their leader's

assurance.

"Drake! Holt!" The man addressed as Harvey utters the names

mechanically. Drake and Holt are two efficient detectives, and Harvey

knows them as such. "Mr. Stanhope, I--I cannot understand."

"And I cannot explain now." He is actively assisting Drake to put the

manacles on Mamma's wrists. "Old woman, it will be policy for you to

keep quiet; or do you want me to gag you?"

Then turning:

"One thing, Harvey; you were sent here by Van Vernet. I know that much.

Now, tell me why did not Van make this attempt himself? Don't hesitate.

Van has well-nigh led you and these fellows into a scrape; he has

certainly made trouble for himself. Where is he now?"

A moment Harvey hesitates. Then he says:

"I don't know where he is, but he has gone to make another arrest."

"Another! who?"

"A sailor; the fellow who killed the Jew, Siebel."

Richard Stanhope swings himself around and points to Papa Francoise, as

with the finger of fate.

[Illustration: "_Stanhope!_" gasps the officer, starting forward.--page

413.]

"The man who killed the Jew, Siebel, is _there_!" he says sternly.

Then snatching up the wig, he readjusts it upon his head, saying, as he

does it:

"Drake, Holt, look after these people; and Harvey, you may do well to

ignore Vernet's instructions for the present. He has done mischief

enough already. I must prevent this last blunder."

The carroty moustache has once more resumed its place. "Holt, you

understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

As the detective is once more transformed into Franz Francoise, Mamma

becomes fairly livid. She makes a final frantic effort to free herself

and howls out:

"Let me go; what have I done? for what am I arrested? Let me go, you

impostor!"

"You will learn in good time, woman," retorts Stanhope. "You may have to

answer to several small charges: blackmail, abduction, theft, murder."

He goes to the door; then turns and looks back at the handcuffed pair:

"Holt," he says impressively, "watch that woman closely, and search them

both at the Jail. You will find upon the woman a belt, which you will

take charge of until I come."

Mamma Francoise yells with rage. She writhes, she curses; her fear and

fury are horrible to behold. As Richard Stanhope crosses the threshold,

her curses are shrieked after him, and her captors shudder as they

listen.

Papa is abject enough. He has been shivering, quaking, cowardly, from

the first; but Stanhope's last words have crushed him utterly. His

knees refuse to support him, his eyes stare glassily, his jaw drops

weakly.

And as they bear them away, the one helpless from fear, the other

resisting with tiger-like fierceness, a distant clock strikes one, two,

three!

CHAPTER LVII.

WHAT HAPPENED AT WARBURTON PLACE.

There is unusual stir and life in the Warburton Mansion, for Alan

Warburton has returned, as suddenly and strangely as he went away.

He has made Mrs. French and Winnie such explanations as he could, and

has promised them one more full and complete when he shall be able,

himself, to understand, in all its details, the mystery which surrounds

him.

After listening to the little that Alan has to tell--of course that part

of his story which concerns Leslie is entirely ignored, as being

another's secret rather than his--Mrs. French and Winnie are more than

ever mystified, and they hold a long consultation in their private

sitting-room.

Acting upon Alan's suggestion--he refuses to issue an order--Mrs. French

has bidden the servants throw open the closed drawing-rooms, and give to

the house a more cheerful aspect.

Wonderingly, the servants go about their task, and at noon all is done.

Warburton Place stands open to the sunlight, a cheerful, tasteful,

luxurious home once more.

"I don't see what it's all about," Winnie French says petulantly. "One

would think Alan were giving himself an ovation."

They lunched together, Alan, Mrs. French and Winnie. It was a silent

meal, and very unsatisfactory to Alan. When they rose from the table,

Mrs. French desired a few words with him, and Winnie favored him with a

chilling salute and withdrew.

When she had gone, Mrs. French came straight to the point. She was a

serious, practical woman, and she wasted no words.

They had discussed the situation, her daughter and herself, and they had

decided. Winnie was feeling more and more the embarrassment of their

present position. They had complied with the wishes expressed in

Leslie's farewell note, as well as by himself and Mr. Follingsbee. But

this strangeness and air of mystery by which they were surrounded was

wearing upon Winnie. She went out so seldom, and she grieved and pined

for Leslie and the little one so constantly, that Mrs. French had

decided to send her away.

She had talked of this before, but Winnie had been reluctant to go.

To-day, however, she had admitted that she wished to go; that she needed

and must have the change.

It was not their intention to withdraw their confidence from Leslie, or

from him, or to desert their friends. Mrs. French would stay at her

post, but Winnie, for a time at least, should go away. Her relatives in

the country were anxious to receive her, and Winnie was ready and

impatient to set out.

And what could Alan say? While his heart rebelled against this decision,

his reason endorsed it, and his pride held all protestation in check.

He offered a few courteous commonplaces in a constrained and embarrassed

manner.

He was aware that their unhappy complications must place himself and his

sister-in-law in an unfavorable light. He realized that they had already

overtaxed the friendship and endurance of Mrs. French and her daughter.

In his present situation, he dared not remonstrate against this

decision; he was already too deeply their debtor. He should regret the

departure of Miss French, and he should be deeply grateful to Mrs.

French for the sacrifice she must make in remaining.

All the same, he felt an inward pang as he left Mrs. French, and went

slowly down to the drawing-room. Winnie had gone in that direction, and

he was now in search of her, for, in spite of her scorn and his own

pride, he felt that he must speak with her once more before she went

away. She had decided to go this day, the day of his home-coming. That

meant simply that she was leaving because of him.

Winnie was seated in a cavernous chair, looking extremely comfortable,

and, apparently, occupied with a late magazine. She glanced up as Alan

entered, then hastily resumed her reading.

Seeing her so deeply absorbed, he crossed the room, and looked out upon

the street for a moment, then slowly turned his back upon the window and

began a steady march up and down the drawing-room, keeping to the end

farthest from that occupied by Winnie, and casting upon her, when his

march brought her within view, long, earnest glances.

That she was wilfully feigning unconsciousness of his presence, he felt

assured. That she should finally recognize that presence, he was

obstinately determined.

But Winnie is not as composed as she seems, and his steady march up and

down becomes very irritating. Lowering her book suddenly, she turns

sharply in her chair.

"Mr. Warburton, allow me to mention that your boots creak," she says

tartly.

"I beg your pardon, Winnie."

"No, you do not! I can't see why you must needs choose this room for

your tramping, when all the house is quite at your disposal."

Alan stops and stands directly before her.

"I came, Winnie, because you were here," he says gently.

"Well," taking up her book and turning her shoulder towards him, "if you

can't make yourself less disagreeable, I shall leave, presently, because

_you_ are here."

Paying no heed to her petulant words, he draws forward a chair and seats

himself before her.

"Winnie," he says gravely, "what is this that I hear from your mother:

you wish to leave Warburton Place?"

"I intend to leave Warburton Place."

"Why, Winnie?"

"Pray don't make my name the introduction or climax to all your

sentences, Mr. Warburton; I quite comprehend that you are addressing me.

Why do I leave Warburton Place? Because I have staid long enough. I have

staid on, for Leslie's sake, until I'm discouraged with waiting." There

is a flush upon her cheeks and a hysterical quiver in her voice. "I have

remained because it was _her_ home, and at _her_ request. Now that her

absence makes you master here, I will stay no longer. It was you who

drove her away with your base, false suspicions. I will never forgive

you; I will never--"

There is a sound behind her. She has risen to her feet, and she sees

that Alan is not heeding her words; his eyes are turned toward the

door; they light up strangely, and as he springs forward, Winnie hastily

turns.

Standing in the doorway, pale and careworn but slightly smiling, is

Leslie Warburton, and she holds little Daisy tightly clasped in her

arms; Daisy Warburton surely, though so pallid, and clad in rags!

As Alan springs forward, she holds out the child.

"Alan, I have kept my word," she says gently, wearily; "I have brought

back little Daisy."

It is the end of her wonderful endurance. As Alan snatches the child to

his breast, she sinks forward and again, as on that last day of her

presence here, she lies senseless at his feet.

But now his looks are not cold; he does not call a servant; but turning

swiftly he puts the child in Winnie's arms, and kneels beside Leslie.

As he kneels, he notes the presence of a man in sombre attire, and

behind him, the peering face of a servant.

"Call Mrs. French," he says, chafing the lifeless hands. "Bring

restoratives--quick!"

And he lifts her tenderly, and carries her to a divan.

Then for a time all is confusion. There is talking, laughing, crying;

Mrs. French is here, and Millie, and presently every other servant of

the household.

For a moment, Winnie seems about to drop her clinging burden. Then

suddenly her face lights up; she clasps Daisy closer, and drawing near,

she watches those who minister to the unconscious one.

Leslie revives slowly and looks about her, making a weak effort to rise.

"Be quiet," says the stranger in the priestly garments, who has "kept

his head" while all the others seem dazed; "be quiet, madam. Let me

explain to your friends."

As he speaks, Alan stoops over Winnie, and kisses the little one

tenderly, but he does not offer to take her from Winnie's clasp. He

turns instead and bends over Leslie.

"Obey him, Leslie," he says softly. "We will tell you how glad we are by

and by."

She looks wonderingly into his face, then closes her eyes wearily.

"He can tell you," she whispers; "I--I cannot."

And then there is silence, while Alan, in compliance with a hint from

the seeming Priest, motions the servants out of the room, all but

Millie. Daisy has seized her hand and clings to it obstinately.

"Let her stay," whispers Winnie. And of course Millie stays.

When they have filed out, Alan moves forward, his hand extended to close

the door, and then he stops short, his attitude unchanged, and listens.

There are voices outside, and approaching feet. He hears the

remonstrance of a servant, and an impatient tone of command. And then a

man strides into their presence, closely followed by two officers.

It is Van Vernet, his eyes flashing, his face triumphant; Van Vernet in

_propia personne_, and wearing the dress of a gentleman.

He pauses before Alan, and delivers a mocking salute.

"Alan Warburton, you are my prisoner!"

With a cry of alarm, Leslie lifts herself from the couch. _She_ knows

what these words mean.

Alan starts as he hears this cry, and moving a pace nearer Vernet, says,

in a low tone:

"I will go with you, sir; but withdraw yourself and men from this room;

I--"

[Illustration: "Alan, I have kept my word; I have brought back little

Daisy."--page 421.]

Something touches his arm.

He turns to see Winnie close beside him, her face flushing and paling,

her breath coming in quick gasps.

"Alan," she whispers, "what does he mean?"

Alan takes her quivering hand in his, and tenderly seeks to draw her

back.

"He means what he says, Winnie. He is an officer of the law."

"A prisoner! _you!_ Oh, Alan, why, why?"

The tone of anguish, and the look in Alan's eyes, reveal to Vernet the

situation. This is the woman beloved by Alan Warburton; now his triumph

over the haughty aristocrat will be sweet indeed. Now he can strike

through her. Stepping forward, he lays a hand upon Alan's arm.

"Mr. Warburton," he says sternly, "I must do my duty. Bob, bring the

handcuffs."

As the officer thus addressed moves forward, Winnie French utters a cry

of anguish, and flings herself before Alan.

"You shall not!" she cries wildly. "You dare not! What has he done?"

Vernet looks straight at his prisoner, and smiles triumphantly.

"Mr. Warburton is accused of murder," he says impressively.

"Murder!" Winnie turns and looks up into Alan's face. "Alan, oh, Alan,

it is not true?"

"I am accused of murder, Winnie, but it is _not_ true."

"Oh, Alan! Alan! Alan!" She flings her arms about him clinging with

passionate despair, sobbing and moaning pitifully.

And Alan clasps her close and a glad light leaps into his eyes. For one

moment he remembers nothing, save that, after all her assumed coldness,

Winnie French loves him.

Still folding her in his arms, he half leads, half carries her to the

divan where Leslie sits trembling and wringing her hands.

"Winnie, darling," he whispers, "do you really care?"

Then as Mrs. French extends her arms, he withdrew his clasp and turns

once more toward Vernet.

"End this scene at once," he says haughtily. "I ask nothing at your

hands, Van Vernet. Secure me at once; I am dangerous to you."

He extends his hands, and casts upon Vernet a look full of contempt. It

causes the latter to feel that, somehow, his triumph is not quite

complete after all. But he will not lose one single privilege, not abate

one jot of his power. He takes the manacles from the hands of his

assistant, and steps forward. No one else shall adjust them upon these

white, slender wrists.

At that instant, as Leslie rises to her feet, uttering a cry of terror,

there is a sudden commotion at the door; one of the officers is flung

out of the way, and a strong hand strikes the handcuffs from Vernet's

grasp.

He utters an imprecation and turning swiftly is face to face with Franz

Francoise!

"You!" he exclaims hoarsely. "How came you here? Boys--"

The two officers move forward. But the seeming Priest, who has stood in

the back ground a silent spectator, now steps before them.

"Hold on!" he says; "don't burn your fingers, boys."

"Answer me," vociferates Vernet; "who brought you here, fellow? What--"

"Oh, it ain't the first time I've slipped through your fingers, Van

Vernet," the new-comer says mockingly.

Then seeing the terror in Leslie's eyes, he snatches the wig and

moustache from his head and face, and turns toward Alan.

"Mr. Warburton," he says courteously, "I see that I am here in time. I

trust that you have suffered nothing at the hands of my colleague, save

his impertinence. Van, your game is ended. You've played it like a man,

but you were in the wrong and you have failed. Thank your stars that

your final blunder has been nipped in the bud. Alan Warburton is an

innocent man. The murderer, if you choose to call him such, is safely

lodged in jail by now."

But Van Vernet says never a word. He only gazes at the transformed

ex-convict as if fascinated.

Another gaze is riveted upon him also. Leslie Warburton leans forward,

her lips parted, her face eager; she seems listening rather than seeing.

Slowly a look of relieved intelligence creeps into her face, and swiftly

the red blood suffuses cheek and brow. Then she comes forward, her hands

extended.

"Mr. Stanhope, is it--was it _you_?"

"It is and was myself, Mrs. Warburton. There is no other Franz Francoise

in existence. The part I assumed was a hideous one, but it was

necessary."

"Stanhope!" At the name, Alan Warburton starts forward. "Are you Richard

Stanhope?"

[Illustration: "Vernet utters an imprecation, and turning swiftly, is

face to face with Franz Francoise!"--page 425.]

"I am." And then, as he catches the reflection of his half disguised

self in a mirror, he gives vent to a short laugh. "We form quite a

contrast, my friend Vernet and I," he says with a downward glance at his

uncouth garments. "Mr. Warburton, we--for your brother's wife has done

more than I--have brought back your little one. And I have managed to

keep you out of the clutches of this mistaken Expert, or at least to

prevent his 'grip' from doing you any serious damage. Of course you are

anxious to hear all about it, but I am waited for at head-quarters; my

story, to make it comprehensible, must needs be a long one, and I have

asked Mr. Follingsbee to meet me there. He can soon put you in

possession of the facts. Now a word of suggestion: This lady," glancing

towards Leslie, "has been very ill; she is still weak. She has fought a

brave fight, and but for her your little girl might still be missing.

She needs rest. Do not press her to tell her story now. When you have

heard my report from Mr. Follingsbee, you will comprehend everything."

Leslie sinks back upon the divan, for she is indeed weak. Her face

flushes and pales, her hands tremble, and her eyes follow the movements

of the detective with strange fixedness. Then she catches little Daisy

in her arms, and holding her thus, looks again at their rescuer.

Meantime, Van Vernet has seemed like a man dazed; has stood gazing from

one to the other, listening, wondering, gnawing his thin under lip. But

now he turns slowly and makes a signal to his two assistants, who, like

himself, have been stunned into automatons by the sudden change of

events.

"Stop, Vernet!" says Stanhope, noting the sign. "Just one word with you:

Our difference, not to call it by a harsher name, our active difference

began in this house, when, on the night of a certain masquerade, you

contrived to delay me here while you stepped into my shoes. I discovered

your scheme that night, and since then I have not scrupled to thwart you

in every way; how, and by what means, it will give me pleasure to

explain later. For the present, here, where our feud began, let it end.

I shall give a full history of our exploits, yours and mine, to our

Chief, to Mr. Follingsbee, and of course to these now present. This much

is in justice to myself, and to you. I think that I have influence

enough at head-quarters to keep the story from going further, and--don't

fancy me too magnanimous--I shall do this for the sake of Mrs.

Warburton, and of Mr. Alan Warburton, whom you have persecuted so

persistently and mistakenly. As you have not succeeded in dragging their

names into a public scandal, I shall withhold yours from public

derision; and believe me when I say that our feud ends here. In the

beginning, you took up the cudgel against me, to decide which is the

better man. Put on the defensive, I have done my level best, and stand

ready to be judged by my works. For the rest; I am saying too much here.

I do not wish nor intend to humiliate you unnecessarily. If you will

wait for me outside, I can suggest something which you may profit by, if

you choose."

There is nothing that Van Vernet can say in reply. He is conquered, and

he knows it well. No scornful retort rises to his tongue, and there is

little of his accustomed haughty grace in his step, as he turns silently

and leaves the room, followed by his overawed, astounded and silent

assistants.

At least he has the merit of knowing when he is defeated, and he accepts

the inevitable in sullen silence.

Then Richard Stanhope turns again to Leslie.

"Madam," he says, with hesitating deference, "I have kept my word as

best I could, and I leave you in the hands of your friends. Forgive me

for any rudeness of mine, for any unpleasant moments I may have caused

you, while I was playing the part of Franz Francoise. We could have won

our battle in no other way. To-morrow, I will place in your hands,

through Mr. Follingsbee, some papers which will, I believe, prove most

valuable. I trust that you will never again have need of the aid of a

detective. Still, should you ever require a service which I can render,

I am always at your command."

With a hasty movement, as if in defiance of that which sought to hold

her back, Leslie rises and extends both her hands.

"I cannot thank you," she says earnestly; "words are too weak. But no

man will ever stand above you in my esteem. In time of trouble or

danger, I could turn to you with fullest trust, not as a detective only,

but as a friend, as a man; the truest of men, the bravest of the brave!"

Something in her voice vibrated pitifully, then choked her utterance.

She trembled violently, and all the life went out of her face.

As she sank back, Stanhope gently released her hands, and stepping aside

to make way for Mrs. French and Winnie, said in a low tone to Alan:

"She has been terribly tried; do not let her talk until she is stronger.

She needs a physician's care."

"She shall have it," returned Alan, moving with Stanhope toward the

door. "Mr. Stanhope, I--I know, through Mr. Follingsbee, of the interest

you have taken in my welfare, but I realize to-day, as I could not

before, how much your protection has been worth. I see what would have

been the result of my remaining here. Vernet would have dragged me

before the public, as a felon. But you are eager to go. I will not

attempt to express my gratitude now; I expect and intend to see you

again, here and elsewhere."

He extended his hand and clasped that of Stanhope with a hearty

pressure.

And then, with a sign to the sham Priest who had been his silent

abettor, Stanhope hurried from the room and from the house.

Vernet was standing alone on the pavement. His two assistants, having

been dismissed, were already some distance away.

"I have waited," he said, turning his face at Stanhope's approach, but

without changing his position of body, "because I would not gratify you

by running away. Have you anything further to add to your triumph?"

For a moment Stanhope's eyes seemed piercing him through and through.

Then he smiled.

"When our Chief told me, Van," he said slowly, "that you had determined

to try your strength against mine, I felt hurt, but not angry. That was

a disappointment; it was the game you played at the masquerade which has

cost you this present humiliation. But for that night, I swear to you, I

should never have interfered, never laid a straw in your way. Let us

move on, Van, and talk as we go."

He made a signal to the disguised officer standing near him, and that

individual, accepting his dismissal by a quick nod, moved down the

street with an alacrity quite unbecoming to his clerical garb.

Then Stanhope and Vernet, Victor and Vanquished, turned their steps in

the opposite direction.

For some moments Vernet paced on in silence, savagely gnawing at his

under lip. Then professional curiosity broke through his chagrin.

"I should like to know how you did it," he said, his face flushing.

Stanhope shrugged his shoulders and favored his interlocutor with an

uncouth grimace.

"Easy 'nuff," he said; "Hoop la!"

Vernet started and stared. "Silly Charlie!" he ejaculated.

"That's the ticket; how did I do the _role_?"

Vernet ground his teeth, and pondered over this startling bit of

intelligence. At last:

"I understand why the Raid failed," he said, "but I don't comprehend--"

"Let me clear it up," broke in Stanhope. "You see, I had often explored

those alleys, disguised as Silly Charlie; the character was one that

admitted me everywhere. Before going to the masquerade, I had prepared

for the night's work by putting my toilet articles in a carriage, and

stationing it near the festive mansion. This I did to insure myself

against possible delay, my programme being to drive to the agency, start

my men, and then go on ahead of them, assuming my disguise as I went,

for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds for the last time, before

leading the men into the alleys. You delayed me a little, and I had to

deal with your 'Chinaman' in such a way as to leave in his mind a very

unfavorable opinion of 'Hail Columbia.' But I was there ahead of you

after all; for particulars--ahem! consult your memory."

His eyes twinkled merrily at the recollection of Vernet in the cellar

trap, and he suppressed a laugh with difficulty.

Again Vernet reddened and bit his under lip.

"Oh, you have outwitted me," he said bitterly, "but you will never be

able to prove it was not Warburton who personated the Sailor that

night."

"I won't try, for it was Warburton. I shall not explain his presence

there, however; it was a mistake on his part, but he meant well. It was

not he who did the killing."

"You are bent on clearing Warburton, but how will you prove his

innocence?"

"By a witness who saw Papa Francoise strike the blow."

"Who?"

"A girl known as Rag-picker Nance. She was in the custody of the

Francoises when I made my appearance among them, in the character of

Franz. They were afraid of her and kept her drugged and drunk

constantly. They wanted to be rid of her, and I took her off their hands

one dark night--the same night, by the by, that came so near being your

last, in that burning tenement. Heavens! but that old woman is a

tigress! In spite of me, she managed to fire the building. It came near

being the end of you."

Vernet turned and eyed him sharply.

"Was it you," he asked, "who brought me out?"

Stanhope blushed, and then laughed carelessly to conceal his

embarrassment.

"Well, yes," he admitted; "I'm sorry to say that it was. It was a great

piece of impertinence on my part; but, you see, I had the advantage over

the others of knowing that you were up there."

Vernet wore the look of a man who sees what he cannot comprehend.

"You're a riddle to me," he said. "You upset a man's plans and boast of

it openly. You do him a monstrous favor, you save his life, and admit it

with the sheepishness of a chicken-thief."

"Well, you see, I feel sheepish," confessed Stanhope flippantly. "I

blush for so such Sunday-school sentiment. This habit of putting in my

oar to interfere with the designs of Providence, is a weakness in a man

of my cloth. Don't give me away, Van; _I'll_ never tell of it."

Light as were the words, Vernet well understood their meaning. The

episode of the blazing tenement--his burnt-cork essay, with its

ludicrous beginning and its almost tragical end--was to be kept a secret

between them. When he could, in justice to others, Stanhope would spare

his defeated rival.

Vernet's is not the only mind that would find it difficult to comprehend

this generous nature, turning, for the sake of a less fortunate

companion, his own brave deeds into a jest.

For some moments they walked on in silence. Then Vernet said:

"Of course, I see that there is a mystery between Alan Warburton and

these Francoises, and that you intend to keep the mystery from

publicity. But I don't see how you can prosecute this case without

bringing Warburton into court."

"What case?"

"Papa Francoise, for the murder of the Jew."

"Say, the killing of the Jew; it was only manslaughter. We shall not

press that case."

"What!"

"There is an older charge against Papa Francoise, and a weightier one."

"What is that?"

"It's the end of your search and mine, Van. When I arrested Papa

Francoise to-day, I arrested _the murderer of Arthur Pearson_!"

"What!"

Van Vernet stopped short and faced his companion, his face growing ashen

white.

[Illustration: "When I arrested Papa Francoise to-day, I arrested _the

murderer of Arthur Pearson_!"--page 434.]

"It's true, Van. In trying to relieve the sufferings of a dying man, I

stumbled upon the clue I might have sought after, and failed to find,

for an hundred years."

They had halted at a street corner, and Van Vernet wheeled sharply about

and made a step forward.

"Vernet, where are you going?"

"Nowhere; never mind me; we part here."

"Not yet, Van, I want to say--"

"Not now," broke in Vernet huskily. "You--have said enough--for once."

And he strode hurriedly down the side street.

"Poor Van," soliloquized Stanhope, as he gazed after the retreating

figure. "Poor fellow; defeat and loss of fortune are too much for him."

And he turned and went thoughtfully on toward his own abode.

CHAPTER LVIII.

HOW STANHOPE CAME BACK.

Again we are in the office of the Chief of the detectives; in his

private office, where he sits alone, looking bored and uncomfortable.

"Everybody late," he mutters, "and I hoped Follingsbee would come

first."

He consults his watch, and finds that it is four o'clock. Four o'clock,

and his interviews with the lawyer, the Australian, and the Englishman,

yet to come.

Ten minutes more of waiting. Then the boy enters to announce Messrs.

Parks and Ainsworth.

The Chief rises to receive them, and accepts their excuses in silence.

"We drove about the city," says Walter Parks, "to pass away a portion of

the time. An accident to our vehicle detained us."

Then the two men sit down and look expectantly at the Chief.

"Mr. Ainsworth," he says gravely, "I have news for you of Thomas Uliman

and his wife; bad news, I regret to say."

"Bad news!" The Australian's face pales as he speaks. "Tell it at once,

sir."

"Thomas Uliman and his wife are both dead."

The Australian bows his head upon his hand and remains silent.

"I can furnish you with dates and addresses that will enable you to make

personal investigation. In fact, I am every moment expecting a visit

from the gentleman who was Mr. Uliman's legal adviser."

"Ah," sighs the Australian, "he may tell me where to find my little

daughter."

"I have also," resumes the Chief, "a brief report from Mr. Vernet."

At these words Walter Parks leans forward.

"May we hear it?" he asks anxiously.

"Mr. Follingsbee, sir," says the office-boy at the door, in obedience to

orders. And then Mr. Follingsbee enters.

"I think," says the Chief, after performing the ceremony of

introduction, "I think that we may waive all other business until Mr.

Ainsworth's anxiety has been, in a measure, relieved."

"By all means," acquiesced Walter Parks, suppressing his own feelings

and withdrawing his chair a little into the background.

Then John Ainsworth turns to the lawyer an anxious face.

"I am told that you knew Thomas Uliman and his wife," he begins

abruptly.

"The late Thomas Uliman," corrects the lawyer; "yes, sir."

"How long have they been dead?"

"More than three years. They died in the same year."

"Allow me"--the Chief interrupts. "This gentleman, Mr. Follingsbee, is

the only brother of the late Mrs. Uliman. He has just been informed of

her death."

"Indeed!" Mr. Follingsbee rises and extends his hand. "I have heard her

speak of her brother John," he says. "She grew to believe that you were

dead."

"And my daughter, my little girl--did _she_ think that, too?"

"Your daughter?" Mr. Follingsbee turns an inquiring look upon the Chief.

"Pardon me, I--I don't understand."

"My child--I sent my child to her aunt--twenty years ago."

Again Mr. Follingsbee looks from one face to the other inquiringly, and

an expression of apprehension crosses the face of the Chief.

"Mr. Ainsworth's daughter was less than three years old when she was

sent to Mr. Uliman's care. In searching out the history of this family,

I learn that they left an adopted daughter," the Chief explained.

Mr. Follingsbee coughs nervously.

"They left such a daughter," he says, hesitatingly, "but--she _was_ an

adopted daughter--the child of unknown parents."

Slowly John Ainsworth rises to his feet, his eyes turning appealingly

from one to the other.

"My God!" he exclaims hoarsely, "where then is my child?"

In silence the three who sympathize with this father, look at one

another helplessly. And as they sit thus silent, from the outer office

comes the sound of a clear, ringing, buoyant laugh.

Instantly the Chief starts forward, but the door flies open in his face,

and Richard Stanhope stands upon the threshold.

"Stanhope!" exclaims the Chief; "why, Dick!"

"It's me," says Stanhope, seizing the proffered hand and giving it a

hearty pressure. "Oh, and here's Mr. Follingsbee. Glad you are here,

sir."

As he grasps the hand of the lawyer he notes, with a start of surprise

the presence of Walter Parks.

"Mr. Parks!" he exclaims, "this is better than I hoped for."

And then his eyes rest upon John Ainsworth's disturbed countenance.

"Mr. Stanhope," the Chief says gravely, "this is Mr. Ainsworth, late of

Australia. He is interested in your search almost equally with Mr.

Parks."

The detective starts, and scans the face of the Australian with strange

eagerness. Evidently his impressions are satisfactory for his face

lights up as he asks:

"Not--not Mr. John Ainsworth, once the friend of Arthur Pearson?"

"The same," replies Walter Parks, for John Ainsworth seems unable to

speak.

"Then," and he extends his hand to Mr. Ainsworth, "this is indeed a

most opportune meeting. My lack of knowledge concerning you, sir, was my

one anxiety this morning."

The four office-chairs being occupied, Stanhope perches himself upon the

corner of the desk, saying, as the Chief makes a movement toward the

bell:

"Don't ring, sir; I'm quite at home here."

And he looks "quite at home;" as cool, careless, and inconsequent as on

the day when, in that same room, he had accepted with reluctance his

commission for the masquerade.

He had, on leaving Vernet, taken time to wash the stains and pencilings

from his face, and to don an easy-fitting business-suit. Stanhope is

himself again: a frank, cheery, confidence-inspiring presence.

"It seems to me," he says, gazing from one to the other, "that there

must be a special Providence in this meeting together, at the right

time, of the very men I most wish to see. Of course, your presence is

not mysterious," nodding toward his Chief, "and Mr. Follingsbee--"

"Is here at my request," interposed the Chief.

"Is he?" queries Stanhope. "I thought he was here at mine."

"I believe," says the lawyer, smiling slightly, "that your invitation

did come first, Mr. Stanhope."

"I had a reason for desiring Mr. Follingsbee to be present at this

interview," explains Stanhope. "And as I don't want to be unnecessarily

dramatic, nor to prolong painful anxiety, let me leave my explanations

to the last. Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson's

murderer."

"Oh!"

[Illustration: "Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson's

murderer!"--page 440.]

Walter Parks springs up with a hoarse cry. John Ainsworth leans back in

his chair, pale and panting. The Chief clutches at Stanhope's knee in

excited eagerness, and waits breathlessly for his next words.

Only Mr. Follingsbee, who has never heard of Arthur Pearson, remains

unmoved.

"Are you sure?" articulates the excited Englishman. "Where is he? Who is

he?"

"He is in a good, strong cell by this time, in the city jail."

"Oh!" gasps John Ainsworth.

"And his name is Franz Krutzer, although for many years he has been

known as Papa Francoise."

"Good heavens!" cries Walter Parks. "Franz Krutzer! why, Stanhope--why,

Ainsworth, it was that man's wife who had the care of your little girl!"

"Precisely," confirms Stanhope.

John Ainsworth leans forward and extends two trembling hands.

"You know," he whispers, "what do you know of my child?"

And then as Stanhope hesitates, he cries piteously: "Oh, tell me, is she

alive?"

"I have not a doubt of it," says Stanhope, smiling. "She was alive half

an hour ago."

"And safe and well?"

"And safe and well."

"Thank God! Oh, thank God!"

A moment he bows his head upon his hands, then lifts it and exclaims

eagerly:

"Half an hour, you said; then--she must be near?"

"Yes; she is very near."

"Take me to her--tell me where to find her--at once."

"Mr. Ainsworth--" Stanhope drops from the desk and extends his hand to

the anxious father--"your daughter is near and safe, but she has lately

passed through a terrible ordeal. She is exhausted in body and mind.

More excitement just now might do her serious harm. I beg you to be

patient. When you have heard what I am about to tell these gentlemen and

yourself, you will feel assured that you have a daughter to be proud

of."

With a sign of assent, the Australian sinks back upon his chair, making

a visible effort to control his impatience. And Stanhope resumes his

perch upon the desk.

"I must begin," he said, "with Mr. Follingsbee; and I must recall some

things that may seem out of place or unnecessary. It was nearly six

weeks ago," addressing himself to his Chief, "that you gave me a

commission from Mr. Follingsbee."

The Chief nodded; and the lawyer stared as if wondering why that

business need be recalled.

"I was to attend a masquerade," resumes Stanhope, "and to meet there the

lady who desired my services. I was to be escorted by Mr. Follingsbee,

and I decided to wear, for the sake of convenience, a dress I bought in

Europe, and which I had there worn at a masquerade that I attended in

company with Van Vernet. After accepting this commission, and receiving

my instructions, I put on a rough disguise, and went to a certain

locality which we had selected as the place for a Raid that would move

the following night. I was to leave the ball at a very early hour, in

order to conduct this Raid. And to make sure that none of my birds

should slip through my fingers, I went, as I have said, on the night

before, to reconnoitre the grounds. In a sort of Thieves' Tavern, where

the worst of criminals assembled, I found a young fellow, evidently an

escaped convict, in a hot fight with some of the roughs. I brought him

out of the place, and as he seemed dying, I took him to a hospital, and

left him in the care of the Sisters. The next day I prepared for the

Raid, and the Masquerade."

He pauses for a moment, and then resumes his history, telling first, how

in company with Mr. Follingsbee, he had entered the Warburton Mansion;

had been presented to Leslie and learned from her lips that she had a

secret to keep; how Van Vernet had discovered his presence there, and

the means the latter had taken to detain him, and to secure the

leadership of the Raid.

Through the scenes of that night he led his amazed listeners; telling of

Leslie's advent among the Francoise gang; of Alan's pursuit; the killing

of Siebel; and the manner in which he had outwitted Vernet. Then on

through the days that followed; relating how, disguised as Franz

Francoise, he had appeared before the two old plotters; been accepted by

them as the real Franz, and so dwelt among them.

"It was an odd part to play, and oddly suggested," he said. "It was just

after Vernet's discovery of Alan Warburton's picture, when I was at a

loss how to make my next move, that I went to visit my wounded

ex-convict--the one, you will remember, whom I rescued from the Thieves'

Tavern. I found him very low; indeed dying. He was in a stupor when I

came, but soon passed into delirium, and his ravings attracted my

attention, for he repeated over and over again the name of Krutzer,

Franz Krutzer. Now, I had obtained from Mr. Parks here, a list of the

names of all who composed that wagon-train, and I remembered the name of

Franz Krutzer. And as he raved on, I gathered material enough to arouse

my suspicions. He talked of a child whom they wished to keep; of money

hoarded and strangely gotten; of beatings because of his eavesdropping.

One moment he defied them in wild, boyish bravado, and babbled gleefully

of what he had overheard. The next, he writhed in imaginary torture

under the lash, vowing that he did not listen; that he would never tell.

Then he was frightened by an approaching thunder-storm; he was crouching

beneath his blankets, and crying out: 'Oh, don't make me go out--don't;

I'm afraid. I won't! I won't!' Then he seemed to have returned from

somewhere. 'Let me in!' he cried. 'I'm wet and cold; let me in, quick!

Yes, he's there; up by the big rock. He's fast asleep and I didn't wake

him.' Then, 'where is dad going?' he said. 'Oh, I don't, I don't; I

didn't have the hammer.' Then, after more random talk: 'I won't tell;

don't beat me. I'll never tell that I saw him there asleep. Oh, maybe he

was dead then!'

"I had not intended to remain, but I did. I never left him until his

ravings ceased; until the end came. In his last moments, consciousness

returned. For a time he was strong, as the dying sometimes are. He was

very grateful to me because I had not taken him back to the prison to

die, and he willingly answered a few questions concerning himself and

his parents. I had entered him at the hospital under a false name, and

under that name he was buried.

"Immediately after his death, I came and announced my readiness to

devote myself exclusively to the Arthur Pearson case. And as soon as he

was buried, I notified the prison-officials of his death, and asked them

to keep my information a secret for a time. I then made minute inquiries

into the character and history of Franz Francoise, and learned enough

from the penitentiary-officials, and from his imprisoned comrades--some

of them, not knowing of his death, were very anxious to have him

recaptured--to enable me to personate him as I did.

"When I presented myself to the Francoises, it was with the double

purpose of solving the Pearson mystery and finding Daisy Warburton, for

I agreed with Mrs. Warburton in thinking that they had stolen the child.

I could not then foresee the complications which would arise, nor did I

dream of the formidable and fox-like enemy I was to encounter in Mamma

Francoise. It had been my intentions to draw them into my net by letting

them see that I knew, or remembered, too much about that Marais des

Cygnes affair. But a few days of the old woman's society convinced me

that this would be a false move, and so I never once alluded to the days

so far gone by. But the girl, Nance, was there, and although they would

have concealed it if they could, they were obliged to tell me what I

guessed before, that she was dangerous to them. Then I grew

blood-thirsty, and professed a dislike for the girl. She was an

encumbrance, and I offered to remove her. I took her away one night, and

they imagined her at the bottom of the river, when in reality she was in

the hands of merciful women, who brought back her senses, and who still

have charge of her, until such time as I may want her to testify against

Papa. My investigation was progressing slowly, when Mrs. Warburton

appeared among us one night, and announced her purpose to remain until

they gave back little Daisy. I had not planned for this; and during the

night I thought the matter out and resolved in some way to make myself

known to her, and to persuade her to return home and leave the rest to

me. But in the morning she was in a raving delirium."

He paused for a moment and then resumed, drawing a graphic picture of

Leslie's life among the Francoises; telling how Mamma had suddenly

conceived her famous scheme of marrying Leslie to her son; of Leslie's

illness, and how he had contrived to make Dr. Bayless--who was really a

good physician, albeit he had been implicated in some very crooked

business--useful, and his abettor; giving a full account of all that had

transpired.

"Mrs. Warburton's condition," he concluded, "was such that I dared not

confide in her, as I had intended. She was too ill and weak to exercise

self-control, and we had too much at stake to run any risk. Indeed, I

had begun to realize what an enemy we had to deal with, and to fear that

we could only succeed by playing our desperate game to the end. In fact,

there seemed no alternative. From the moment of Mrs. Warburton's coming

among us, Mamma's watch was lynx-like. I could not have removed the lady

or interposed to save her one moment's uneasiness, without being myself

betrayed. And then our situation would have been worse than ever; Mamma

would have revenged herself upon us through the little girl. At every

point, that vile old woman was a match for me. When she proposed the

marriage, I pretended to withhold my consent until she should tell

everything concerning the lady's prospective fortune. For two long weeks

I enacted the part of a blustering, drunken ruffian; cursing,

quarrelling, threatening; before I extorted the truth from her. Some

papers, that had accidentally fallen into her hands, had informed her

that Mrs. Warburton--or the child, Leschen, she called her--was the

daughter of one John Ainsworth. These same papers--they were those

confided to her by Arthur Pearson--gave a specific account of the

fortune John Ainsworth possessed at the time he left the mines."

Again he paused, and the Australian lifted his head, speaking quickly.

"I comprehend," he said; "I sent such memoranda in a letter to my

sister, and also told her of investments I proposed to make in

Australia. I wanted her to understand my business affairs for little

Lea's sake."

"And through these documents," resumed Stanhope, "the shrewd old woman

traced your Australian career, and knew that your fortune, in the twenty

years of your exile, had swollen immensely. When she saw the

advertisement of your lawyer, she took alarm. She must act promptly or,

perhaps, lose her game. So she stole the little girl, hoping to use her

as a means by which to compel Mrs. Warburton to yield up a large slice

of her prospective wealth. And had her first plan been carried out, she

would not have hesitated to find means to remove from her path the

greatest obstacle to her ambition--yourself, Mr. Ainsworth."

"I see," said the Australian gravely. "Yes, it is quite probable."

"The unexpected coming of myself, as Franz Francoise, and of Mrs.

Warburton so soon after, caused them, or rather Mamma, to reconstruct

her plan, as I have told you. And she reached the height and depth of

her cunning by effectually concealing, from first to last, the

hiding-place of the little girl. Nothing could wring this secret from

her; on that subject she was absolutely dangerous. She never visited the

child, so nothing was learned by shadowing her. Indeed, when she brought

the child to the house to-day, she eluded the two men whom I had set to

watch her, and did it so cleverly that they could not even guess, after

her first feint, which way she went. And I was playing my last card

without knowing that the child was in the house, when her pitiful

prayer betrayed her presence.

"Until then I had not intended to reveal myself; the men were to arrest

Papa Francoise, and to try and make terms through him for the ransom of

the child. One of my men was disguised as a Priest, and of course we had

arranged to make Papa's arrest cut short the wedding ceremony. Holt,

Beale and the others have aided me wonderfully, though they do not yet

know what it was all about."

"They shall be generously rewarded," breaks in Walter Parks; "every man

of them who has in any way assisted you."

Let the reader imagine all that followed: the praises showered upon

Stanhope; the congratulations of each to all; the eager questions of

Walter Parks; the desire of John Ainsworth to hear of his daughter's

courage and devotion over and again; the general jubilation of the

Chief.

CHAPTER LIX.

AND LAST.

"But," queried Walter Parks, when question and comment had been

exhausted, "are you sure that we have, even now, evidence enough to

convict Krutzer, or Francoise, as you call him?"

"He has called himself Francoise from the day he and his worthy wife

left the wagon-train," rejoined Stanhope. "He has never been Krutzer

since. As for proof, we shall not lack that; but I think the old

villain, if he lives to come to trial, will plead guilty. His wife

possesses all the courage; he is cunning enough, but cowardly. He will

not be allowed to see or consult with her; and free from her influence,

he can be made to confess. Besides, the old woman has been wearing about

her person a belt, which, if I am not mistaken, is the one stolen from

the body of Arthur Pearson. It is of peculiar workmanship, and evidently

very old. It contains papers and money."

"If it is Pearson's belt," interposed Walter Parks, "I can identify it,

and so could some others of the party if--"

"Was a certain Joe Blakesley a member of your band?" asked the Chief

quickly.

"Yes."

"And could he identify this belt?"

"He could."

"Then Vernet has done something; he has found this Blakesley."

"Where?" asked the Englishman, eagerly.

"In California."

"Good!" cried Stanhope; "Van shall have the full benefit of his

discovery."

And in the final summing-up, he did have the benefit, not only of this,

his one useful exploit, but of all Stanhope's magnanimity. Through his

intercession, Vernet was retained in the service he had abused; but he

was never again admitted to the full confidence of his Chief, nor

trusted with unlimited power, as of old. The question of supremacy was

decided, and to all who knew the true inwardness of their drawn battle

Richard Stanhope was "the Star of the force."

In regard to Papa Francoise, as we will still call him, Stanhope had

judged aright.

He was possessed of wondrous cunning, and all his instincts were evil,

but he lacked the one element that, sometimes, makes a successful

villain: he was an utter coward. Deprived of the stimulus of the old

woman's fierce temper and piercing tongue, he cowered in his cell, and

fell an easy victim to his inquisitors. He was wild with terror when

confronted by the girl Nance, risen, as it seemed to him, from the grave

to denounce him. And when, after Nance had withdrawn, he faced Stanhope

and his Chief, Walter Parks and John Ainsworth, he was as wax in their

hands.

Up to that moment the name of Arthur Pearson, and that long-ago tragedy

of the prairies, had not been mentioned, and Papa believed that the

killing of Siebel, with, perhaps, the stealing of little Daisy, were, in

the eyes of the law, his only crimes. But when Walter Parks stood forth

and pierced him through and through with his searching eyes, Papa

recognized him at once, and fairly shrieked with fear.

And when he learned from Richard Stanhope, how Franz Francoise met his

death, and that it was his son's dying words which condemned him, he

threw himself before his accusers in a paroxysm of abject terror, and

confessed himself the murderer they already knew him to be.

But Mamma was made of other timber. When consigned to her cell, she was

silent and sullen until, in compliance with Stanhope's instructions,

they attempted to take from her the belt she wore. Then her rage was

terrible, and her resistance damaging to the countenances and garments

of those who sought to control her.

She received Richard Stanhope with such a burst of fury, that restraint

became necessary; and even when she sat bound and helpless before her

accusers, her struggles were furious, and her imprecations, shrieked

out between frothing lips, were horrible to hear.

When she saw Walter Parks, she seemed to guess why he was there. And

when she knew all: that Franz Francoise was surely dead, and how he

died; that Papa had confessed everything; that John Ainsworth had come

back to claim his daughter, and lavish upon her his love and

fortune--her ravings broke out afresh. She was frightful to see, and

dangerous to all who ventured to approach. So they treated her as a mad

woman, and for many days Mamma hurled unheard imprecations at her

cowardly spouse, and cursed Richard Stanhope, arrayed in a

strait-jacket.

But she was non-committal, baffling, from first to last. She would admit

nothing, explain nothing, confess nothing. She defied them all.

* * * * *

On the following morning, at the Warburton Mansion, a happy group

assembled to hear, from Mr. Follingsbee, all that was not already known

to them of Stanhope's story.

How it was told, let the reader, who knows all, and knows Mr.

Follingsbee, imagine.

Leslie was there, fair and pale, robed once more in the soft, rich

garments that so well became her. Alan was there, handsome and humble.

He had made, so far as he could in words, manly amends to Leslie, and

she had forgiven him freely at last. Winnie too, was there, obstinately

avoiding Alan's glance, and keeping close to Leslie. Mrs. French was

there, smiling and motherly. And little Daisy was there, the centre of

their loving glances.

In her childish way, the little one had told all that she could of her

captivity.

She had gone to sleep upon the balcony of her Papa's house and in the

arms of "Mother Goose." She had awakened in a big, dark room, whose

windows were tightly shuttered, and where she could see nothing but a

tiny bit of sky. A negress, who frightened her very much, had brought

her food, and sat in the room sometimes. She had been lonely, terrified,

desolate.

The little that she could tell threw no light upon the mystery of her

hiding-place, but it was all that they ever knew.

"I used to pray and pray," said Daisy, "but God didn't seem to hear me

at all. And when I woke in that little room that smelled so bad--it was

worse than the other--I just felt I must _make_ God hear, so I prayed,

oh, so loud, and then the door broke in, and that nice, funny man picked

me up, and there was Mamma; and only think! God might have let me out

long before if I had only prayed loud enough."

When Leslie learned her own story, and was brought face to face with her

father, her cup of joy was full indeed. She was at anchor at last, with

some one to love her beyond all others; with some one to love and to

render happy.

"Oh," she said, "to know that my dear adopted parents were after all my

own kindred; my uncle and my aunt! What caprice of their evil natures

prompted those wretches to do me this one kindness?"

"They knew where to find the Ulimans," said her father, "and knew that

they were wealthy. It was the easiest way to dispose of you."

"I suppose so," she assented, sighing as she thought of those dear ones

dead; smiling again as she looked in the face of her new-found father.

In the present confidence, the happiness and peace, that surrounded

her, Winnie French could not continue her perverse _role_, nor, indeed,

was Alan the man to permit it. She had let him see into her heart, in

that moment when he had seemed in such deadly peril, and he smiled down

her pretty after-defiance.

"You shall not recant," he said laughingly; "for your own sake, I dare

not allow it. A young woman who so rashly espouses the cause of a swain,

simply because he has the prospect of a pair of handcuffs staring him in

the face, is unreliable, sadly out of balance. She needs a guardian and

I--"

"Need an occupation," retorted Winnie, maliciously. "Don't doom yourself

to gray hairs, sir; repent."

"It's too late," he declared; and they ceased to argue the question.

* * * * *

They would have _feted_ Stanhope and made much of him at Warburton

Place, for Alan did not hesitate to pronounce such a man the peer of

any. But the young detective was perversely shy.

He came one day, and received Leslie's thanks and praises, blushing

furiously the while, and conducting himself in anything but a courageous

manner. Once he accepted Alan's invitation to a dinner, in which the

Follingsbees, Mr. Parks and Mr. Ainsworth participated. But he took no

further advantages of their cordially-extended hospitality, and he went

about his duties, not quite the same Dick Stanhope as of yore.

On her part, Leslie was very reticent when Stanhope and his exploits

were the subject of discussion, although, when she spoke of him, it was

always as the best and bravest of men.

"Parks talks of returning to England," said her father one day at

luncheon, "and he wants Stanhope to go with him."

"Will he go?" asked Alan, in a tone of interest.

"I hope not; at least not until I have time to bring him to his senses."

"Why, Papa!" ejaculates Leslie.

"Has our Mr. Stanhope lost his senses, uncle?" queries little Daisy

anxiously.

"You shall judge, my dear. He has refused, with unyielding firmness, to

accept from me anything in token of my gratitude for the magnificent

service he has rendered us."

"And," added Alan, "he has refused my overtures with equal

stubbornness."

"But he has accepted the splendid reward promise by Mr. Parks, has he

not?" queries Mrs. French.

"That, of course; he was bound to do that," said Mr. Ainsworth,

discontentedly. "And in some way I must make him accept something from

me. Leslie, my dear, can't you manage him?"

"I fear not, Papa." And Leslie blushed as she caught Winnie's laughing

eye fixed upon her. "I don't think Mr. Stanhope is a man to be managed."

"Nonsense, Leslie," cries Winnie. "He's afraid of a woman; he blushes

when you speak to him."

"Did he blush," queried Leslie maliciously, "when you embraced him that

night of the masquerade?"

In the midst of their laughter, Winnie was mute.

* * * * *

One day, some weeks after the _denouement_, Stanhope, sauntering down a

quiet street, met Van Vernet.

"Stop, Van," he said, as the other was about to pass; "don't go by me

in this unfriendly fashion, if only for appearance's sake. How do you

get on?"

"As usual," replied Vernet indifferently, and looking Stanhope steadily

in the face. "And you? somehow you look too sober for a man who holds

all the winning-cards."

"I don't hold all the winning-cards, Van. Indeed, I'm inclined to think

that I've lost more than I've won."

Vernet continued to regard him steadily and after a moment of silence,

he said quietly:

"Look here, Dick, I'm not prepared to say that I quite forgive you for

outwitting me--I don't forgive myself for being beaten--but one good

turn deserves another, and you did me a very good turn at the end.

You've won a great game, but I'm afraid you are going to close it with a

blunder."

"A blunder, Van?"

"Yes, a blunder. You have devoted yourself, heart and soul, to a pretty

woman, and you are just the man to fall in love with her."

"Take care, Van."

"Oh, I know what I am saying. On the day of our meeting at Warburton

Place--the last meeting, I mean, when you figured as Franz Francoise--I

saw what you missed. You may think that I was hardly in a state of mind

for taking observations, but, in truth, my senses were never more

intensely alert than while I stood there dumbly realizing the overthrow

of all my plans. And I saw love, unmistakable love, shining upon you

from a woman's eyes."

"Van, you are mad!"

"Not at all. It's a natural termination to such an affair. Why, man, you

are deservedly a hero in her eyes. Don't be overmodest, Dick. If you

care for this woman, you can win her."

He turned with these words, passed his amazed listener, and walked on.

And Stanhope resumed his saunter, looking like a man in a dream.

That evening he made his first voluntary call at Warburton place.

* * * * *

Alan and Winnie, two months later, were married, and Stanhope was among

the wedding-guests.

"Warburton Place will have a new mistress, Mr. Stanhope," Leslie said to

him. "I am going to abdicate in Winnie's favor."

"Entirely, Mrs. Warburton?"

"Entirely; I have fought it out, and I have conquered, after a hard

struggle. Alan and Winnie, when they return, will reign here. Papa and I

are already preparing our new home. We shall not be far away, and we

will divide Daisy between us."

Later in the evening, Mrs. Follingsbee captured him and inquired:

"Have you heard Leslie's last bit of Quixotism?"

"No, madam."

"She has made this house over to Winnie as a bridal gift. And every

dollar of her husband's legacy she has set aside for Daisy Warburton."

"I'm glad of it," blurted out Stanhope; and then he colored hotly and

bit his lips.

When Alan and his fair little bride were installed as master and

mistress of Warburton Place, Leslie and her father received their

friends in a new home. It was not so large as the mansion Leslie had

"abdicated;" not so grand and stately; but it was elegant, dainty,

homelike.

"It suits me better," said Leslie to Stanhope. "The other was too grand.

Winnie can throw upon her mother the burden of its stateliness, and Mrs.

French will make a charming dowager. I am going to leave my past behind

in the old home; and begin a new life in this."

"Are you going to leave me behind, with the rest of your past?" he

asked.

"No," she said smilingly, "you have not lost your value; and if I should

turn you out, fresh troubles would arise. I should have to contend with

Daisy, and Papa too."

And indeed Daisy had given him a prominent place in her affections.

"Some of my friends," he said after a pause, "are advising me to abandon

the Agency, and embark in some quieter enterprise."

"Do you mean that they wish you to give up your profession? to cease to

be a detective?"

"Yes."

"And what did you answer?"

"I am seeking advice; give it me."

"Any man may be a tradesman," she said slowly. "Nine tenths of mankind

can be or are doctors, lawyers, clergymen. The men who possess the

skill, the sagacity, and the courage to do what you have done, what you

can do again, are very few. To restore lost little ones; to reunite

families; to bring criminals to justice, and to defeat injustice,--what

occupation can be nobler! If I were such a detective as you, I would

never cease to exercise my best gifts."

"I never will," he said, taking her hand in his.

* * * * *

Months passed on; winter went and summer came. Walter Parks lingered

in America, his society dearly valued by John Ainsworth and Mr.

Follingsbee, his presence always a welcome one in Leslie's dainty

parlors, and at Warburton Place. Winnie, who had been a saucy sweetheart

and piquant bride, had become a sweetly winsome wife. John Ainsworth was

renewing his youth; and Leslie, having passed the period of her

widowhood, once more opened her doors to society.

[Illustration: "A man of your calling should have guessed that long

ago!"--page 461.]

Richard Stanhope had become a frequent and welcome guest at Leslie's

home, and all his visits little Daisy appropriated at once to herself.

Indeed she and Stanhope stood upon a wondrously confidential footing.

"Next month comes Mamma's birthday," said Daisy to him one day, when she

sat upon his knee in Leslie's pretty flower-decked room. "We're going to

have a festival, and give her lots of presents. Are you going to give

her a present, Mr. Stanhope?"

"I don't know," he said, looking over at Leslie; "your Mamma is such a

very particular lady, Daisy, that she might be too proud to accept my

offering."

"Why," cried the child, "that's just what Uncle Ainsworth says about

you: that you are too proud to take a gift from him, and it vexes him,

too."

"Daisy, Daisy!" cried Leslie, holding up a warning finger.

"Your uncle is a very unreasonable man, Daisy," laughed Stanhope. "Now

tell me, do you think I had better offer your Mamma a birthday present?"

"Why"--and Daisy opened wide her blue eyes--"Uncle Alan says that

everybody who loves Mamma will remember her birthday. Don't you love my

Mamma?"

"Yes," said Stanhope slowly, and fixing his eyes upon Leslie's face, "I

love her very much."

Leslie's cheeks were suffused with blushes, and she sat quite silent,

with downcast eyes.

"Daisy," said Stanhope, putting the child down quickly, "go to your

uncle Ainsworth, and tell him that I have changed my mind; that I want

the best part of his fortune. Run, dear."

And as the child flew from the room, he rose and stood before Leslie.

"If your father yields to my demand," he said softly, "what will be your

verdict?"

A moment of stillness. Then she lifts her brown eyes to his, a smile

breaking through her blushes.

"A man of your calling," she said, "should have guessed that long ago!"

* * * * *

Papa Francoise never came to trial. His terror overcame his reason, and

in his insanity he did what he never would have found the courage to do

had he retained his senses. He hanged himself in his prison cell.

But Mamma lived on. Through her trial she raved and cursed; and she went

to a life-long imprisonment raving and cursing still. Her viciousness

increased with her length of days. She was the black sheep of the

prison. Nothing could break her temper or curb her tongue. She was

feared and hated even there. Hard labor, solitary confinement, severe

punishment, all failed, and she was at last confined in a solitary cell,

to rave out her life there and fret the walls with her impotent rage.

Millie, the faithful incompetent, remained in Leslie's service until she

went to a home of her own, bestowed upon her by a good-looking and

industrious young mechanic.

Nance, the one-time drunkard, became the object of Leslie's pitying

care, and did not relapse into her former poverty and evil habits.

The Follingsbees, the Warburtons--all these who had been drawn together

by trials and afflictions--remained an unbroken coterie of friends, who

never ceased to chant Stanhope's praises.

And little Daisy passed the years of her childhood in the firm belief

that,

"God will do anything you want him to, if you only pray loud enough."

THE END.

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=CONTENTS.=--The Lovers' Meeting. The Serpent In Eden. A Sudden

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Nurse Hagar is "Out of Sorts." Madeline Defies her Enemies. "_You

are her Murderer!_" The Railway Station at Night. A Disappointed

Schemer Rejoiced. Madeline's Flight. The Night Journey to New

York. A Friendly Warning Unheeded. "Take it; _in the Name of your

Mother I ask it_!" Alone in the Great City. A Shrewd Scheme. An

Ever-Present Face. Olive Gerard's Warning. The Cruel Awakening.

The Bird in a Golden Cage. The Luxurious Apartments of Lucian

Davlin, the Man of Luck. A Dissatisfied Servant. The Man of Luck

Defied. A Well-Aimed Pistol Shot. "Little Demon, I will kill you

before I will lose you now!" Doctor Vaughn Summoned. A Charming

Widow at Bellair. "The Danger is Past!" Gone! "When Next we Meet

I Shall Have Other Weapons!" Bonnie, Bewitching Claire. A

Tell-tale Photograph. "Cruel, Crafty, Treacherous." Madeline and

Olive in Conference. "Kitty, the Dancer, will Die!" The Story of

an Old Crime Retold. "Percy! Percy! Percy!" A Message from the

Dead. "May God's Curse fall on all who Drove her to her Doom!"

Miss Arthur's French Maid. Cora Growing Weary of Dissembling.

Celine Leroque Overhears an Important Conversation. Mr. Percy

startled. Cora Shares this Feeling. Percy Turns the Tables. "And

yet you are on the Earth!" Celine Manages to Play the Spy to some

Purpose. Cora and Celine Measure Swords. Cora's Cunning Plot.

"Celine looked Cautiously about her." An Intercepted Telegram.

Face to Face. A Midnight Appointment. "I am Afraid for you; but

give It up now? never!" An Irate Spinster. Celine's Highly

Probable Story. Gathering Clues. A Hurried Visit. The Hand of

Friendship Wields the Surgeon's Knife. Claire Keith Placed Face

to Face with Trouble. A Dual Renunciation. An Astonishing

Disclosure. "I am not Worthy of him, and _she_ is!" Struggling

Against Fate. "Ah, how Dared I think to Become one of you?" A

Fiery Fair Champion. Hagar and Cora have a Meeting. Cora gets a

Glimmer of a False Light. "To be, to do, to Suffer." A Troubled

Spinster. An Aggravating French Maid. "Won't there be a Row in

the Castle!" Setting some Snares. Cora and Celine form an

Alliance. A Veritable Ghost Awakens Consternation in the

Household. "If ever you want to make him feel what it is to

Suffer, Hagar will help you!" Doctor Vaughn Visits Bellair. Not a

Bad Day's Work. Henry Reveals his Master's Secrets. Claire Turns

Circe. A Mysterious Tenant. Celine Hurries Matters a Trifle. The

Curtain Rises on the Mimic Stage. Celine Discharged by the

Spinster, takes Service with Cora. The Sudden Illness. The

Learned "Doctor from Europe." "I am Sorry, very Sorry." The Plot

Thickens. A Midnight Conflagration. The Mysterious House in

Flames, and its Mysterious Tenant takes Refuge with Claire. The

Story of a Wrecked Life. "Well, it is a Strange Business, and a

Difficult." Letters from the Seat of War. Mr. Percy Shakes

Himself. A Fair Invalid. "Two Handsomer Scoundrels Never Stood at

Bay!" A Silken Belt Worth a King's Ransom. A Successful Burglary.

Cross Purposes. A Slight Complication. A new Detective on the

Scene. Clarence Vaughn seeks to Cultivate him. Bidding High for

First-Class Detective Service. "Thou shalt not Serve two Masters"

set at naught. Mr. Lord's Letter. Premonitions of a Storm.

"The--fellow is Dead!" A Thunderbolt. "I have come back to my

own!" A Fair, but Strong. Hand. Cora Restive under Orders.

"You--you are----?" "Celine Leroque, Madam." A Madman. A Bogus

Doctor Uncomfortable. "Don't you try that, sir!" Lucian Davlin's

"Points" are False Beacons. Cora's Humiliation. An Arrival of

Sharp-Eyed Well-Borers. Rather Strange Maid Servants. The Cords

are Tightening and the Victims Writhe. A Veritable Sphynx.

Sleeping with Eyes Open. A Savage Toothache. A Judicious Use of

Chloroform. A Bold Break for Freedom. An Omnipresent Well-Borer.

"No Nonsense, Mind; I'm not a Flat." "For God's sake, _what_ are

you?" "A Witch!" The Doctor's Wooing. Mrs. Ralston Overhears

Something. A Fresh Complication. "He is very Handsome; so are

Tigers!" An Astounding Revelation. Mrs. Ralston's Story. "No,"

gasped Olive, "I--I--." A Movement In Force. Cora stirs up the

Animals. A Wedding Indefinitely Postponed for Cause. Nipped in

the Bud. Ready for Action. "Be at the Cottage to-night." A Plea

for Forgiveness. Sharpening the Sword of Fate. The Weight of a

Woman's Hand. "Officers, take him; he has been my Prisoner long

enough!" "Man, you have been a Dupe, a Fool!" Cora's Confession.

"The Pistol is Aimed at Madeline's Heart!" "It Is a Death Wound!"

"The Goddess you Worship has Deserted you!" The Death-bed of a

Hypocrite. "And then comes Rest!" The World is Clothed in a New

White Garment.

"God's greatness shines around our incompleteness,

Round our restlessness His rest!"

A SLAVER'S ADVENTURES

ON SEA AND LAND.

[Illustration: "We saw many species of wild animals." Page 89.]

By WM. H. THOMES,

Author of "THE GOLD HUNTERS' ADVENTURES IN AUSTRALIA," "THE

BUSHRANGERS," "RUNNING THE BLOCKADE," etc., etc.

ILLUSTRATED WITH FORTY ELEGANT ENGRAVINGS.

SOLD ON ALL RAILWAY TRAINS AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

as I turned, I managed to keep my eyes on the shelf overhead, so that I

could note all the movements that took place. I was repaid for my

trouble, for as I fell back and pressed my hand on my side, as though

fatally wounded, I had the satisfaction of hearing a triumphant laugh

issue from the thicket overhead; and the next instant the repulsive

features of Moloch were thrust through the branches of the trees, and he

seemed to enjoy the appearance which I presented.

"Bah! you fools!" cried the rascal, in a mocking tone, "do yer think

that yer can take me? I vos too quick for yer. Had yer come an hour

sooner, yer might have caught me nappin'. But now I jist spits at yer.

Ah, fools, I has the voman, and I means to keep her."

I seldom miss with a revolver, especially when the object at which I aim

is within reasonable distance; but I must confess that I was nervous and

full of revengeful feelings, or perhaps I was too hasty; for I suddenly

raised my pistol and fired at the fiend who was grinning at me from amid

the branches of the balsam trees. I missed the scoundrel, and yet I

would have given a thousand dollars to have sent a bullet crushing

through his brain, and killed him on the spot.

"Ho, ho! yer didn't come it," laughed the fiend. "Vait a minute and I'll

make yer see somethin' that'll open yer eyes."

He disappeared, and while he was gone I changed position, so that he

could not single me out for another shot, in case he desired to test his

old horse-pistols.

"You ain't hit, is you?" whispered Hackett and Hopeful in anxious tones.

"No," I answered.

Before they could congratulate me, Moloch, the devil, appeared, bearing

in his arms the almost lifeless form of poor, dear Amelia Copey, whose

dress was torn and soiled, and whose hair was hanging down in tangled

masses, neglected and uncared for.

"Look!" yelled the fiend, in a triumphant tone; "'ere's the girl vot I

loves, and she vill love me afore long, or I'll know the reason vy."

As he spoke he held the fair form in such a manner that

THE BUSHRANGERS.

_A Yankee's Adventures During His Second Visit to Australia._

BY WM. H. THOMES,

_Author of_ "_The Gold Hunters in Australia_," "_The

Bushrangers_," "_Running the Blockade_," _etc., etc._

[Illustration: Moloch appeared, bearing the almost lifeless form.

"Look," yelled the fiend, in a triumphant tone.]

sides would be equally well guarded, then glanced over the excited

crowd, in hopes that Dan would array himself on our side--but that

enterprising gentleman had suddenly disappeared, and left us to our

fate.

"Stand back," shouted the inspector; "it will be the worse for you.

There's many of you present who know me, and know that I have a large

force of policemen on hand. If you strike a blow, not one of you shall

escape justice.

"Unbar the door as quickly as possible," whispered the inspector, after

getting through with his threatening speech.

I lifted the heavy gum wood bar from its place, and then raised the

latch, expecting that it would yield, but to my surprise it did not--it

was locked, and the key in the pocket of the doorkeeper, who had made

his escape from the room in company with Dan.

I almost uttered a groan of agony when I made the discovery, and to add

to the perplexity of our situation, the ruffians must have understood

our case, and known that the key was never left in the lock, for they

uttered a discordant and ironical hoot, and then a shout of sardonic

laughter.

"For Heaven's sake, don't be all night in getting that door open," cried

Fred, nervously, and I will confess that I also partook of the same

complaint.

"Now for a rush--cut them to pieces," exclaimed many voices; but I

observed that the cries came from those who were farthest from us, and

out of the reach of our pistols, which we were forced to display, in

hope of keeping the robbers at a respectful distance.

"Is the door unbarred?" asked Mr. Brown, turning half round, and

exposing his side to the knives of the crowd, and quick as thought, a

man sprang forward to begin the work of bloodshed; but sudden as were

his movements, they were anticipated, for I raised the heavy bar, which

I had not relinquished, and let it fall upon his head with crushing

force.

The poor devil fell at our feet without uttering a groan, although many

spasmodic twitchings of his nerves showed that he was not killed

outright. His long knife narrowly missed the side of the inspector, and

for the first attempt at our annihilation, it was not to be despised.

The wretches uttered yells of rage when they saw their comrade fall, but

none seemed inclined to assume the leadership and begin the attack in

earnest.

Not one of their motions escaped us, and as long as they were disposed

to brandish their knives at a distance, we did not choose to carry

matters to extremities; but change of tactics was suddenly resorted to

on the part of our opponents, that placed us in no little peril.

All the tumblers, bottles, and decanters of the bar were taken

possession of by the savage scoundrels, and the first intimation that we

had of the fact was the crushing of a bottle (empty, of course--they

were not the sort of men to throw away liquor of any kind) against the

door just above our heads.

The fragments were showered upon our faces and shoulders, before we had

time to consider on the matter another bottle flew past my head, and hit

our prisoner upon one of his shoulders, injuring

THE GOLD HUNTERS' ADVENTURES;

OR, WILD LIFE IN AUSTRALIA.

=By WM. H. THOMES=, author of "The Bushrangers," "The Gold

Hunters in Europe," "A Whaleman's Adventures," "Life in the East

Indies," "Adventures on a Slaver," "Running the Blockade," etc.,

etc.

[Illustration: "Now for a rush.--Cut them to pieces!"]

A FASCINATING STORY OF ADVENTURE.

A Whaleman's Adventures

_AT SEA, IN THE SANDWICH ISLANDS AND CALIFORNIA._

[Illustration]

BY WM. H. THOMES,

Author of "THE GOLD HUNTERS' ADVENTURES IN AUSTRALIA," "THE

BUSHRANGERS," "RUNNING THE BLOCKADE," etc., etc.

Illustrated with Thirty-Six Fine Engravings.

SOLD ON ALL RAILWAY TRAINS AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

RUNNING THE BLOCKADE;

OR, U. S. SECRET SERVICE ADVENTURES.

_By WM. H. THOMES, Author of_ "_The Gold Hunters' Adventures in

Australia_," "_The Bushrangers_," "_Running the Blockade_,"

_etc., etc._

ELEGANTLY AND PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED.

[Illustration: "For de Lord's sake, don't do dat. Dis nig is almost cut

to pieces now. Him legs is one mass of rings."]

The Gold Hunters in Europe

--OR--

THE DEAD ALIVE.

[Illustration: "Do you give yourselves in custody?"]

By WM. H. THOMES,

Author of "THE GOLD HUNTERS' ADVENTURES IN AUSTRALIA," "THE

BUSHRANGERS," "RUNNING THE BLOCKADE," etc., etc.

Illustrated with FORTY Fine Engravings

SOLD ON ALL RAILWAY TRAINS AND BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.