Abbie turned white with a sort of sick disgust and shame. But she raised
her eyes and met the intense gaze of the tall, dark man that she had seen
before. He stood, his elbow on the high desk and his square, clean-shaven
chin in his hand. He was neatly dressed, with a rose in his button-hole,
and an immaculate pink-and-white silk shirt; but he hardly seemed (to
Abbie) like a man of her own class. Nevertheless, she did not resent
his keen look; on the contrary, she experienced a sudden thrill of
hope—something of the same feeling she had known years and years ago,
when she ran away from her nurse, and a big policeman found her, both her
little slippers lost in the mud of an alley, she wailing and paddling
along in her stocking feet, and carried her home in his arms.
“Yes, Miss Courtlandt”—she winced at the voice of the justice—“it is my
duty under the—hem—unusual circumstances of this case, to ask you if you
are entering into this—hem—solemn contract of matrimony, which is a state
honorable in the sight of God and man, by the authority vested in me by
the State of Illinois—hem—to ask you if you are entering it of your own
free-will and consent—are you, miss?”
Abbie’s sad gray eyes met the magistrate’s look of perplexed inquiry; her
lips trembled.
“Are you, Abbie?” said the clairvoyant, in a gentle tone.
“Yes,” answered Abbie; “of my own free-will and consent.”
“I guess, professor, I must see the lady alone,” said the justice, dryly.
“You caynt believe it is a case of true love laffs at the aristocrats,
can you, squire?” sneered Slater; “but jest as she pleases. Are you
willing to see him, Abbie?”
“Whether Miss Courtlandt is willing or not,” interrupted the tall man, in
a mellow, leisurely voice, “I guess _I_ will have to trouble you for a
small ‘sceance’ in the other room, Marker.”
“And who are you, sir?” said Slater, civilly, but with a truculent look
in his blue eyes.
“This is Mr. Amos Wickliff, of Iowa, special officer,” the justice said,
waving one hand at the man and the other at Abbie.
Wickliff bowed in Abbie’s direction, and saluted the fortune-teller with
a long look in his eyes, saying:
“Wasn’t Bill Marker that I killed out in Arizona your cousin?”
“My name ain’t Marker, and I never had a cousin killed by you or
anybody,” snapped back the fortune-teller, in a bigger and rounder voice
than he had used before.
Wickliff merely narrowed his bright black eyes, opened a door, and
motioned within, saying, “Better.”
The fortune-teller scowled, but he walked through the door, and Wickliff,
following, closed it behind him.
Abbie looked dumbly at the justice. He sighed, rubbed his hands
together, and placed a chair against the wall.
“There’s a speaking-tube hole where we used to have a tube, but I took
it out, ’cause it was too near the type-writer,” said he. “It’s just
above the chair; if you put your ear to that hole I guess it would be the
best thing. You can place every confidence in Mr. Wickliff; the chief of
police here knows him well; he’s a perfect gentleman, and you don’t need
to be afraid of hearing any rough language. No, ma’am.”
Abbie’s head swam; she was glad to sit down. Almost mechanically she laid
her ear to the hole.
The first words audible came from Wickliff. “Certainly I will arrest
you. And I’ll take you to Toronto to-night, and you can settle with the
Canadian authorities about things. Rosenbaum offers a big reward; and
Rosenbaum, I judge, is a good fellow, who will act liberally.”
“I tell you I’m not Marker,” cried Slater, fiercely, “and it wouldn’t
matter a damn if I was! Canada! You caynt run a man in for Canada!”
Wickliff chuckled. “Can’t I?” said he; “that’s where you miss it, Marker.
Now I haven’t any time to fool away; you can take your choice: go off
peacefully—I’ve a hack at the door—and we’ll catch the 5:45 train for
Toronto, and there you shall have all the law and justice you want; or
you can just make one step towards that door, or one sound, and I’ll
slug you over the head, and load you into the carriage neatly done up in
chloroform, and when you wake up you’ll be on the train with a decent
gentleman who doesn’t know anything about international law, but does
know _me_, and wouldn’t turn his head if you hollered bloody murder. See?”
“That won’t go down. You caynt kidnap me that way! I’ll appeal to the
squire. No, no! I _won’t_! Before God, I won’t—I was jest fooling!”
The voice of terror soothed Abbie’s raw nerves like oil on a burn. “He’s
scared now, the coward!” she rejoiced, savagely.
“There’s where we differ, then,” retorted Wickliff; “_I_ wasn’t.”
“That’s all right. Only one thing: will you jest let me marry my
sweetheart before I go, and I’ll go with you like a holy lamb; I will,
by—”
“No swearing, Marker. That lady don’t want to marry you, and she ain’t
going to—”
“_Ask_ her,” pleaded Slater, desperately. “I’ll leave it with her. If she
don’t say she loves me and wants to marry me, I’ll go all right.”
Abbie’s pulses stood still.
“Been trying the hypnotic dodge again, have you?” said Wickliff,
contemptuously. “Well, it won’t work this time. I’ve got too big a curl
on you.”
[Illustration: “‘HE’S SCARED NOW, THE COWARD’”]
There was a pause the length of a heart-beat, and then the hated tones,
shrill with fear: “I _wasn’t_ going to the window! I wasn’t going to
speak—”
“See here,” the officer’s iron-cold accents interrupted, “let us
understand each other. Rosenbaum hates you, and good reason, too; _he’d_
much rather have you dead than alive; and you ought to know that _I_
wouldn’t mind killing you any more than I mind killing a rat. Give me a
good excuse—pull that pop you have in your inside pocket just a little
bit—and you’re a stiff one, sure! See?”
Again the pause, then a sullen voice: “Yes, damn you! I see. Say, won’t
you let me say good-bye to my girl?”
Abbie clinched her finger-nails into her hands during the pause that
followed. Wickliff’s reply was a surprise; he said, musingly, “Got any
money out of her, I wonder?”
“I swear to God not a red cent!” cried the conjurer, vehemently.
“Oh, you _are_ a scoundrel, and no mistake,” laughed Wickliff. “That
settles it; you _have_! Well, I’ll call her—Oh, Miss Courtlandt!”—he
elevated his soft tones to a roaring bellow—“please excuse my calling
you, and step out here! Or we’ll go in there.”
“If it’s anything private, you’ll excuse me,” interposed a mild voice at
her elbow; and when she turned her head, behold a view of the skirts of
the minister of justice as he slammed a door behind him!
A second later, Wickliff entered, propelling Slater by the shoulder.
“Ah! Squire stepped out a moment, has he?” said the officer, blandly.
“Well, that makes it awkward, but I may as well tell you, madam, with
deep regret, that this man here is a professional swindler, who is most
likely a bigamist as well, and he has done enough mischief for a dozen,
in his life. I’m taking him to Canada now for a particularly bad case
of hypnotic influence and swindling, etc. Has he got any money out of
you?” As he spoke he fixed his eyes on her. “Don’t be afraid if he has
hypnotized you; he won’t try those games before me. Kindly turn your back
on the lady, Johnny.” (As he spoke he wheeled the fortune-teller round
with no gentle hand.) “He has? How much?”
It was strange that she should no longer feel afraid of the man; but
his face, as he cowered under the heavy grasp of the officer, braced
her courage. “He has five hundred dollars I gave him this morning,” she
cried; “but he may keep it if he will only let me go. I don’t want to
marry him!”
“Of course you don’t, a lady like you! He’s done the same game with nice
ladies before. Keep your head square, Johnny, or I’ll give your neck a
twist! And as to the money, you’ll march out with me to the other room,
and you’ll fish it out, and the lady will kindly allow you fifty dollars
of it for your tobacco while you’re in jail in Canada. That’s enough,
Miss Courtlandt—more would be wasted—and if he doesn’t be quick and
civil, I’ll act as his valet.”
The fortune-teller wheeled half round in an excess of passion, his
fingers crooked on their way to his hip pocket; then his eye ran to the
officer, who had simply doubled his fist and was looking at the other
man’s neck. Instinctively Slater ducked his head; his hand dropped.
“No, no, please,” Miss Courtlandt pleaded; “_let_ him keep it, if he will
only go away.”
“Beg pardon, miss,” returned the inflexible Wickliff, “you’re only
encouraging him in bad ways. Step, Johnny.”
“If you’ll let me have that five hundred,” cried Slater, “I’ll promise
to go with you, though you know I have the legal right to stay.”
“You’ll go with me as far as you have to, and no farther, promise or no
promise,” said Wickliff, equably. “You’re a liar from Wayback! And I’m
letting you keep that revolver a little while so you may give me a chance
to kill you. Step, now!”
Slater ground his teeth, but he walked out of the room.
“At least, give him a hundred dollars!” begged Miss Courtlandt as the
door closed. In a moment it opened again, and the two re-entered.
Slater’s wrists were in handcuffs; nevertheless, he had reassumed a
trifle of his old jaunty bearing, and he bowed politely to Abbie,
proffering her a roll of bills. “There are four hundred there, Miss
Courtlandt,” said he. “I am much obliged to you for your generosity, and
I assure you I will never bother you again.” He made a motion that she
knew, with his shackled hands. “You are quite free from me,” said he;
“and, after all, you will consider that it was only the money you lost
from me. I always treated you with respect, and to-day was the only day
I ever made bold to speak of you or to you by your given name. Good-bye,
Miss Courtlandt; you’re a real lady, and I’ll tell you now it was all a
fake about the spirits. I guess there are real spirits and real mediums,
but they didn’t any of ’em ever fool with _me_. Good-afternoon, ma’am.”
[Illustration: “‘I’LL ACT AS HIS VALET’”]
Abigail took the notes mechanically; he had turned and was at the door
before she spoke. “God forgive you!” said she. “Good-bye.”
“That was a decent speech, Marker,” said Wickliff, “and you’ll see I’ll
treat you decent on the way. Good-morning, Miss Courtlandt. I needn’t
say, I guess, that no one will know anything of this little matter from
the squire or me, not even the squire’s wife. _I_ ’ain’t got one. I wish
you good-morning, ma’am. No, ma’am”—as she made a hurried motion of
the money towards him—“I shall get a large reward; don’t think of it,
ma’am. But if you felt like doing the civil thing to the squire, a box
of cigars is what any gentleman is proud to receive from a lady, and I
should recommend leaving the brand to the best cigar-store you know.
Good-morning, ma’am.”
Barely were the footsteps out of the hall when the worthy justice, very
red and dusty, bounced out of the closet. “Excuse me,” gasped he, “but I
couldn’t stand it a minute longer! Sit down, Miss Courtlandt; and don’t,
please, think of fainting, miss, for I’m nearly smothered myself!” He
bustled to the water-cooler, and proffered water, dripping over a tin
cup on to Abbie’s hands and gown; and he explained, with that air of
intimate friendliness which is a part of the American’s mental furniture,
“I thought it better to let Wickliff _persuade him_ by himself. He is a
remarkable man, Amos Wickliff; I don’t suppose there’s a special officer
west of the Mississippi is his equal for arresting bad cases. And do
you know, ma’am, he never was after this Marker. Just come here on a
friendly visit to the chief of police. All he knew of Marker was from the
newspapers; he had been reading the letter of the man Marker swindled
in Canada, and his offer of a reward for him. Marker’s picture was in
it, and a description of his hair and all his looks, and Wickliff just
picked him out from that. I call that pretty smart, picking up a man
from his picture in a newspaper. Why, I”—he assumed a modest expression,
but glowed with pride—“_I_ have had my picture in the paper, and my wife
didn’t know it. Yes, ma’am, Wickliff is at the head of the profession,
and no mistake! Didn’t have a sign of a warrant. Just jumped on the job;
telegraphed for a warrant to meet him at Toronto.”
“But will he take him safely to Canada?” stammered Miss Abigail.
“Not a doubt of it,” said the justice. And it may be mentioned here that
his prediction came true. Wickliff sent a telegram the next day to the
chief of police, announcing his safe arrival.
Miss Courtlandt went to Chicago by the evening train. She is a happier
woman, and her family often say, “How nice Abbie is growing!” She has
never seen the justice since; but when his daughter was married the whole
connection marvelled and admired over a trunk of silver that came to the
bride—“From one to whom her father was kind.”
The only comment that the justice made was to his wife: “Yes, my dear,
you’re right; it _is_ a woman, a lady; but if you knew all about it, how
I never saw her but the once, and all, you wouldn’t mind Bessie’s taking
it. She was a nice lady, and I’m glad to have obliged her. But it really
ought to go to another man.”
THE NEXT ROOM
THE NEXT ROOM
It was as much the mystery as the horror that made the case of Margaret
Clark (commonly known as Old Twentypercent) of such burning interest to
the six daily journals of the town. I have been told that the feet of
tireless young reporters wore a separate path up the bluff to the site
of old Margaret’s abode; but this I question, because there were already
two paths made for them by the feet of old Margaret’s customers—the
winding path up the grassy slope, and the steps hewn out of the sheer
yellow bluff-side, sliced down to make a backing for the street. These
are the facts that, whichever the path taken, they were able to glean:
Miss Margaret lived on the bluff in the western part of town. The street
below crosses at right angles the street running to the river, which
is of the kind the French term an “impasse.” It is a street of varied
fortunes, beginning humbly in a wide and treeless plain, where jimson,
dock, and mustard weed have their will with the grass, passing a number
of houses, each in its own tiny yard, creeping up the hill and the social
scale at the same time, until it is bordered by velvety boulevards and
terraces and lawns that glow in the evening light, and pretty houses
often painted; then dropping again to a lonely gully, with the flaming
kilns of the brick-yard on one side, and the huge dark bulk of the
brewery on the other, reaching at last the bustle and roar of the busiest
street in town. The great arc-light swung a dazzling white porcupine
above the brewery vats every night (when the moon did not shine), and
hung level with the crest of the opposite bluff. By day or night one
could see the trim old-fashioned garden and the close-cropped lawn and
the tall bur-oaks that shaded the two-story brown cottage in which for
fifteen years Margaret Clark had lived. Here she was living at the time
of these events, with no protector except her bull-dog, the Colonel (who,
to be sure, understood his business, and I cannot deny him a personal
pronoun), and no companion except Esquire Clark, her cat. She did not
keep fowls—judging it right and necessary to slay them on occasion, but
never having the heart to kill anything for which she had cared and
which she had taught to know her. Therefore she bought her eggs and her
“frying chickens” of George Washington, a worthy colored man who lived
below the hill, and who kept Margaret’s garden in order. Although he had
worked for her (satisfactory service given for satisfactory wage) during
all these fifteen years, he knew as little about her, he declared, as the
first week he came. Nor did the wizened little Irishwoman who climbed the
clay stairway three times a week to wash and scrub know any more. But she
stoutly maintained “the old lady was a rale lady, and the saints would
be good to her.” One reporter, more curious, discovered that Margaret
several times had helped this woman over a rough pass.
The only other person (outside of her customers) who kept so much as a
speaking acquaintance with Margaret was the sheriff, Amos Wickliff. And
what he knew of her he was able to keep even from the press. As for the
customers, her malicious nickname explains her business. Margaret was an
irregular money-lender. She loaned money for short periods on personal
security or otherwise. It should speak well for her shrewdness that she
rarely made a bad debt. Yet she was not unpopular; on the contrary,
she had the name of giving the poor a long day, and, for one of her
trade, was esteemed lenient. Shortly after her accident, also (she had
the ill-hap to fall down her cellar-way, injuring her spine), she had
remitted a number of debts to her poorest debtors.
The accident occurred of a Wednesday morning; Wednesday afternoon
her nephew called on her, having, he said, but just discovered her
whereabouts. The reporters discovered that this nephew, Archibald Cary
Allerton by name, was not an invited and far from a welcome guest,
although he gave out that his mother and he were his aunt’s sole living
kindred. She would not speak to him when he visited her, turning her head
to the wall, moaning and muttering, so that it was but kindness to leave
her. The nurse (Mrs. Raker, the jailer’s wife, had come up from the jail)
said that he seemed distressed. He called again during the evening, after
Wickliff, who spent most of the evening with her alone, was gone, but he
had no better success; she would not or could not speak to him. Thursday
morning she saw Amos Wickliff. She seemed brighter, and gave Amos, in the
presence of the nurse, the notes and mortgages that she desired released.
Thursday evening, about eight o’clock, Amos returned to report how he
had done his commissions. He found the house flaming from roof-tree to
sills! There was no question of his saving the sick woman. Even as he
panted up the hill-side the roof fell in with a crash. Amos screamed to
the crowd: “Where is she? Did you save her?” And the Irish char-woman’s
wail answered him: “I wint in—I wint in whin it was all afire, and the
fire jumped at me, so I run; me eyebrows is gone, and I didn’t see a
sign of her!” Then Amos betook himself to Mrs. Raker, whom he found only
after much searching; nor did her story reassure him. She was violently
agitated between pity and shock, but, as usual, she kept her head on
her shoulders and her wits on duty. She was not in the house when the
catastrophe had happened. Allerton had come to see his aunt. He told the
nurse that she might go to her sister, her sister’s child being ill, and
that he would stay with his aunt. Wickliff was expected every moment. And
the patient had added her word, “Do go, Mrs. Raker; it’s only a step; and
take a jar of my plum jelly to Sammy to take his medicine in!” So Mrs.
Raker went. She saw the fire first, and that not half an hour from the
time she left the house. She saw it flickering in the lower windows. It
was she sent her brother-in-law to give the alarm, while she ran swiftly
to the house. The whole lower story was ablaze when she got up the hill.
To enter was impossible. But Mrs. O’Shea, the char-woman, and she did
find a ladder, and put it against the wall and the window of Miss Clark’s
chamber, which window was wide open, and Mrs. Baker held the ladder
while Mrs. O’Shea, who was of an agile and slimmer build, clambered up
the rounds to look through the smoke, already mixed with flame. And the
room was empty. Amos at once had the neighborhood searched, hoping that
Allerton had conveyed his aunt to a place of safety. There was no trace
of either aunt or nephew. But Amos found a boy who confessed (after some
pressure) that he had been in Miss Margaret’s yard, in the vineyard
facing her room. He had been startled by a kind of rattling noise and a
scream. Involuntarily he cowered behind the vines and peered through at
the house. The windows of Miss Clark’s room were closed, or maybe one was
open very slightly; but suddenly this window was pushed up and Allerton
leaned out. He knew it was Allerton by the square shoulders. He did not
say anything, only turned his head, looking every way. The boy thought it
time to run. He was clear of the yard and beginning to descend the bluff,
when he looked back and saw Allerton running very swiftly through the
circle of light cast by the electric lamp. All the reporters examined the
lad, but he never altered his tale. “Mr. Allerton looked frightened—he
looked awful frightened,” he said.
Amos was on the point of sending to the police, when Allerton himself
appeared. The incredible story which he told only thickened the
suspicions beginning to gather about him.
He said that he had found his aunt disinclined to talk. She told him to
go into the other room, for she wished to go to sleep; and although he
had matters of serious import to discuss with her, he could not force
his presence on a lady, and he obeyed her. He went into the adjoining
room, and there he sat in a chair before the door. The door was the sole
means of exit from the bedchamber. The two rooms opened into each other
by the door; and the second room, in which Allerton sat, had a door
into a small hall, from which the staircase led down-stairs. Allerton
was ready to swear to his story, which was that he had sat in the chair
before the door until he heard a singular muffled scream from the other
room. Instantly he sprang up, opened the door, and ran into the other
room. The bed was opposite the door. To his terror and amazement, the
bed was empty, the room was empty. He ran frantically round the room,
and then flung up the window, looking out; but there was nothing to
be seen. Moreover, the room was twenty feet from the ground, nor was
there so much as a vine or a lightning-rod to help a climber. It was
past believing that a decrepit old woman, who could not turn in bed
alone, should have climbed out of a window and dropped twenty feet to
the ground. Besides, there was the boy watching that side of the house
all the time. He had seen nothing. But where was Margaret Clark? The
chief of police took the responsibility of arresting Allerton. Perhaps
he was swayed to this decisive step by the boy’s testimony being in a
measure corroborated by a woman of unimpeachable character living in
the neighborhood, who had heard screams, as of something in mortal pain
or fear, at about the time mentioned by the boy. She looked up to the
house and was half minded to climb the steps; but the sounds ceased, the
peaceful lights in the house on the hill were not disturbed, and, chiding
her own ears, she passed on.
The fire broke out a little later, hardly a quarter of an hour after
Allerton went away. This was established by the fact that the boy, who
ran at the top of his speed, had barely reached home before he heard the
alarm-bells. The flames seemed to envelop the whole structure in a flash,
which was not so much a matter of marvel as other things, since the
house was of wood, and dry as tinder from a long drought.
It was possible that Allerton was lying, and that while he and the boy
were gone the old woman had discovered the fire and painfully crawled
down-stairs and out of the burning house; but, in that case, where was
she? How could a feeble old woman thus vanish off the face of the earth?
The next day the police explored the ruins. They half expected to find
the bones of the unfortunate creature. They did not find a shred of
anything that resembled bones. If Allerton had murdered his aunt, he
had so contrived his crime as to destroy every vestige of the body;
and granting him a motive to do such an atrocious deed, why should so
venturesome and ingenious a murderer jeopard everything by a wild fairy
tale? The reporters found themselves before a blank wall.
“Maybe it _ain’t_ a fairy tale,” Amos Wickliff suggested one day, two
days after the mystery. He was giving “the boys” a kind word on the
court-house steps.
“It’s to be hoped it is a true story,” said the youngest and naturally
most hardened reporter, “since then he’ll die with a better conscience!”
“They never can convict him on the evidence,” interrupted another man.
“I don’t see how they can even hold him.”
“That’s why folks are mad,” said the youngest reporter, with a pitying
smile.
“There’s something in the talk, then?” said Amos, shifting his cigar to
the other side of his mouth.
“_Are_ they going to lynch that feller?” asked another reporter.
“Say so,” the first young man remarked, placidly; “a lot of the old
lady’s chums are howling about stringing him up. They’ve the notion that
she was burned alive, and they’re hot over it.”