THE HOUSE IN TWENTY-NINTH STREET.
The house in Twenty-ninth Street was a solid and substantial one which
could only be occupied by a man of wealth. It was handsomely furnished,
and all the appointments were such as to confirm the impression that its
occupant was, to say the least, in easy circumstances financially. But
it happens oftentimes that outward impressions are very far from
correct. It was a fact that Paul Morton, who had lived here for ten
years, was on the verge of ruin, and knew very well that unless some
help should come he would be compelled to leave his fine residence and
sink into poverty and obscurity.
He was a downtown merchant, but lured by the hope of large gains, had
indulged in outside speculations which had sapped the springs of his
prosperity and brought him face to face with ruin.
Just at this juncture, on reaching home one day, jaded and anxious, he
found that a guest had arrived whom they had not seen for years. Ralph
Raymond was his cousin, and of about the same age as himself. As boys
they had been sworn friends and comrades, and each had promised the
other that if he died first without family ties, he would leave to the
survivor his entire property, whatever it might amount to.
When they became young men, Paul Morton remained in New York, but Ralph
went, after a few years, to China, where he had spent his subsequent
life with brief intervals, as a successful merchant. Paul Morton heard
from time to time of his success, and that he had accumulated a fortune,
and the thought occurred to him, for earlier generous feelings had been
swallowed up in the greed of gain, "If he only dies first, I shall be
greatly the gainer."
When he met his friend, he found him greatly changed. He was thin,
sallow, and to outward appearance hadn't long to live.
"You find me greatly changed, Paul, do you not?" said Ralph Raymond.
"Yes, you are changed, of course, for I have not seen you for twenty
years," was the reply.
"But I am looking very ill, am I not?"
"You are not looking well; but perhaps it is the change of climate."
"It is something more than that," said Ralph, shaking his head. "Old
friend, I feel that I have not many months to live. I have within my
frame the seeds of a fatal disease, which I cannot much longer stave
off. I feel its insidious approaches, and I know that my weakened vital
powers cannot much longer resist them. I have one favor to ask."
"What is it?"
"May I spend the short remainder of my life in your house? I shrink from
going among strangers. It will be a great relief to me if I can feel
that I am in the house of my old friend when the solemn messenger
arrives."
"Surely," said Paul Morton, "I hope you are mistaken in your gloomy
prognostications; but, however that may be, you shall be welcome here so
long as it pleases you to stay."
"Thank you; I was sure you would consent. As to my being mistaken, that
is hardly possible. This time next year I shall not be numbered among
the living."
Looking at his thin face and attenuated frame, Paul Morton felt that his
words were probably correct, and his heart glowed with exultation as he
felt that Ralph Raymond was without family ties, and that at his death,
which would soon happen, in all probability his large fortune, one
hundred thousand dollars at least, would become his. This would relieve
him of all his embarrassments, give him a firm financial standing.
Shortly after Ralph Raymond was confined to his bed by sickness. The
physician who was called spoke ambiguously. He might die suddenly, or he
might linger for a year. Days and weeks passed, and still he remained in
about the same condition, so that the last seemed likely to be the
correct prediction.
In the meanwhile, Paul Morton's affairs had become more and more
embarrassed. He had plunged into speculations from which he did not see
the way out. He perceived his mistake, but too late. Nothing was left
but for him to float with the tide, and be borne where it might carry
him.
He did not doubt that at the death of his guest, his large property
would be his. Indeed, a casual remark of Ralph Raymond's had confirmed
him in the impression. As time wore on, and his pecuniary difficulties
increased, he began to long for his friend's death.
"A few months more or less of life would be of little importance to
him," he thought, "while to me it is of incalculable importance to come
into his estate as soon as possible."
The more he thought of it the more frequently the suggestion was forced
upon him that his friend's early death was most desirable. At length, as
he was in a book store on Nassau Street one day, he picked up an old
medical work, in which there was one division which treated of poisons.
One was mentioned, of a subtle character, whose agency was difficult of
detection. It did not accomplish its purpose at once, but required some
days.
Paul Morton bought this book, and when he reached home he locked it up
securely in a drawer accessible only to himself.
We have now brought up the story to the point where the first chapter
commences.
The poison which he sought in the small shop on the Bowery was the same
whose effects he had seen described in the volume he had purchased in
Nassau Street. He had an object in going to an obscure shop, as he would
be less likely to be known, and such a purchase would be very apt to
attract notice. But it was only by chance that he succeeded. In most
shops of such humble pretensions such an article would not be found,
but it so happened that some had been ordered by a chemist a year
before, and the druggist, thinking it possible he might have a call for
it, had ordered some to keep in his stock.
When Paul Morton reached home, he went up to his friend's chamber.
Ralph Raymond was lying stretched out upon the bed, looking quite sick;
but not so sick as at times during his illness.
"How do you feel, Ralph?" said his false friend, bending over him.
"I am feeling more comfortable to-day, Paul," he said.
"Perhaps you will recover yet."
"No, I have no expectation of that; but I may be spared longer than I
supposed possible."
"I certainly hope so," said Paul Morton; but there was a false ring in
his voice, though the sick man, who had no doubt of his sincere
friendship, was far enough from detecting this.
"I know you do," said Ralph.
"What medicines are you taking now?" inquired Paul Morton.
"There is a bottle of cordial; I take a wineglass of it once an hour."
Paul Morton took up the bottle and gazed at it thoughtfully.
"Is your nurse attentive?" he asked.
"Yes, I have no fault to find with her."
"Where is she now?"
"She just went down to prepare my dinner."
"When did you take your cordial last?"
"About an hour since."
"Then it is time to take it again."
"Yes, I suppose so; but I presume a few minutes later will make no
difference."
"It is better to be regular about it. As the nurse is away I will give
it to you."
"Thank you."
"I must go to the window, to see how much to pour out. How much do you
usually take?"
"A wine-glass two-thirds full."
Paul Morton took the bottle and the glass to the window. As he stood
there he was out of the observation of the patient. He poured out the
required quantity of the cordial into the glass; but after doing so, he
slyly added a small quantity of powder from a paper which he drew from
his vest pocket. He put the paper back, and reappeared at the bedside
holding the glass in his hand.
"I think I have poured out the right quantity," he said; but his voice
was constrained, and there was a pallor about his face.
The sick man noticed nothing of this. He took the cup and drained it of
its contents, as a matter of course.
"Thank you, Paul," he said.
Paul Morton could not find anything to say in reply to the thanks which
fell upon his soul like a mockery.
He took the glass from the trembling hand of the sick man, and looked
into it to see if in the depths there might be any tell-tale trace of
the powder which he had dropped into it; but he could see nothing.
"Well, I must leave you for a time. Perhaps you can sleep," he said.
"Perhaps so; I will try," was the answer.
Paul Morton left the sick chamber, and shut himself up in his own room.
He wanted to screen himself from the sight of all, for he knew that he
had taken the fatal step, and that already, in deed, as well as in
heart, he was a murderer!