STARTLING NEWS FROM BALTIMORE.
Chick, in the rôle of a street laborer, had accompanied Nick Carter
to the house on L Street. From a monster elm he had seen Mrs. Mannion
emerge from the back door of Craven's house with a small bundle under
her arm, which, he rightly judged, contained eatables. Looking neither
to right nor left, she hurried to the first corner, turned south,
and almost flew along the sidewalk. Chick followed, using all the
precautions of an expert shadower. Going through lanes and private
grounds, she at last reached the river shore.
Chick, by a detour and making lightning time, arrived at a point near
the water several hundred yards in advance of his beautiful quarry.
Looking up-and down-stream without showing himself to the woman, he
saw that there was but one boat between her and the first bridge, and
that was not far beyond the point where he stood, and within a short
distance of the river approaches to the navy-yard.
Intuitively Chick knew that Mannion's wife was looking for a boat, and
this one he had no sooner discovered than he made a run for it, using
the bushes along the shore as a screen for his body.
Reaching it, he saw it was a punt, and that it was half-filled with
water. With an old tin can found on the shore he was busily engaged in
bailing out the punt, when Mrs. Mannion, flushed and anxious-eyed, came
up to him. Chick did not turn his head at her approach, though out of
the corner of his eye he saw her coming.
She stopped and spoke.
"Is this your punt?"
"Sure, miss," was the response, in a rough voice, but with a kindly
intonation.
"I wish to get across the river. I live beyond the point, and some one
has stolen my own boat. Can I engage you to paddle me over? I will pay
you half a dollar."
"That's like finding money, miss," said Chick, looking into her face
with a broad smile. "But, as I need some coin of the realm, I'll close
with your offer, and thank you kindly for making it. Get right in, and
away we'll go."
Nick's assistant was no novice at boat-work. He was as much at home on
the water as on land. Swiftly and dexterously he paddled across the
Potomac's east branch, landing, as directed by his fair employer, a
quarter of a mile below the point in the direction of Uniontown.
On the way Chick asked a question:
"What kind of a boat is the stolen one?"
"Something odd for these parts. It's a batteau which my father brought
from Vermont."
"Isn't that it over there?" pointing to a flat, sharpnosed,
square-sterned boat on the shore toward which they were proceeding.
She looked, and, without showing any surprise, said: "Yes, that is the
one."
And now Chick was convinced that Mannion had used the batteau, and that
his wife was on the way to find him.
When she found herself on the other side Nellie Mannion paid the
counterfeit boatman, and then turned and went rapidly up the bank.
Chick saw her disappear among the trees, and cautiously followed her.
For half an hour he was able to keep her in sight. Then, all at once,
she disappeared in the thickly wooded grounds of an old residence long
deserted. The gate was gone, the fence was broken in many places, the
grass grew thick in the walks, and there was neglect everywhere.
Chick was hurrying through the wild tangle of weeds and bushes in
the garden near the house, when a scream, fraught with direst agony,
reached his ears. It came from a spot near at hand, not many yards
away, and in a moment he stood by the mouth of an old well and by the
side of Nellie Mannion, who, on her knees and sobbing as if her heart
would break, was gazing down into the black depths of the hole.
"What is it?" Chick asked, in real concern.
Mrs. Mannion looked up, partially checked her sobbing, and said, in a
despairing voice:
"He's down there."
"Who is he, and how did he get there?"
Chick had not explained his presence in the grounds, nor had the woman
expressed any surprise at his coming. It now occurred to the young
detective, while Mrs. Mannion hesitated in her answer, that he might as
well try to square himself.
"I live near here," he said unblushingly, "and I was going past the
place when I heard your scream."
She seemed to pay no attention to this explanation, but said, with a
renewal of her agitation: "He's down there, and he may be dead. Can you
not get him out?"
"How do you know any one is down in the well?" the detective asked, as
a dim suspicion crossed his mind.
"I heard his groans as I came toward the well," she replied, with every
appearance of earnestness and sincerity; "and the groans stopped just
before you came up."
Chick was but half-satisfied with this statement. Kneeling down, he
looked and listened intently. There was not a sound from below. He
struck a match and was in the act of using the light thus afforded to
ascertain what, if anything, the well contained, when a shove given
with all the force Nellie Mannion was capable of exerting--and she was
anything but a weak woman--tumbled the brave detective into the well.
There was a heavy thud, one groan, and then silence.
On her feet, her heart beating like a trip-hammer and her face, lighted
up but a moment before with murderous fire, now pale with the first
touches of remorse, Nellie Mannion listened for a few moments; then,
taking up her bundle from the ground, hastened, with shaking limbs,
from the scene of her crime.
Nick Carter waited until midnight for the return of his assistant.
Then, in no equable frame of mind, he sought his couch.
The morning came, and no Chick. Noon arrived, and still Chick had not
made his appearance. During the forenoon Patsy had been on a hunt for
the missing detective, and Nick had made a search on his own account,
beginning with Craven's house. There he learned, somewhat to his alarm,
that Mrs. Mannion had been away since the preceding afternoon. Her
father showed anxiety, though it was his opinion that his daughter had
gone to join her husband, of whose hiding-place she must be cognizant.
At noon Patsy reported the presence of two boats on the Uniontown side
of the Anacosta, and the tracks of a man and a woman on the shore and
bank. He had followed the tracks until they were lost in the grass.
In the afternoon Nick and Patsy made an attempt to pursue the clue
which Patsy had discovered. The grounds of the deserted house attracted
the great detective's attention, and he was proceeding in the direction
of the well, when he came face to face with Nellie Mannion.
"Are you Nick Carter?" she asked eagerly.
Under other circumstances, the identity might have been denied. Nick
now saw fit to give an affirmative answer.
"Then you will find your friend a few paces beyond."
Turning, she walked to the mouth of the well. Beside it lay Chick, with
a broken leg, and a face covered with blood.
"He's not dead; he's not badly hurt," explained the woman quickly. "His
skull is not injured. Bruises and cuts have caused the blood."
"She's right, all right," spoke Chick faintly; "but I'll feel better if
some one will wash my face and put my leg straight."
The great detective bent over his disabled and suffering assistant,
pressed his hand affectionately, and breathed consoling words into his
ear. Then he lifted the body in his strong arms and started for the
river. "Patsy," he said, "try to induce Mrs. Mannion to accompany us."
"I will go without compulsion," she said meekly. "I have done all the
evil that I intend to do."
Nick frowned. Perhaps she had done all that was necessary. In crossing
the river Nick and Chick used the batteau. Patsy and Mrs. Mannion took
the punt.
Chick was taken to Craven's house, and a surgeon was telephoned for. An
hour after the surgeon's arrival Chick was resting quietly, with his
limb set and the wounds on his face and head washed and dressed.
"He will be all right in a few weeks," said the surgeon. "Nursing is
all he requires."
In the evening Nellie Mannion, composed and quiet, sat before Nick
Carter as a person might sit before a prosecuting attorney.
"I have nothing to conceal," she said, "except the place where my
husband is hidden. You will never find it, and you will never see him
again."
Her tone was so positive that Nick felt a cold chill run down his
spine; but he quickly recovered his spirits, and met her look with a
smile of disbelief.
"I am sorry I threw your friend down the well," she continued, "but I
had to do it. I suspected him on the boat, and the scream was given
to test that suspicion. If he were a detective, he would follow me,
and my scream would bring him to my side. It did. The well offered the
only opportunity to rid myself of his pursuit. Rather would I myself
have died than have permitted him to follow me to my husband's place of
concealment."
Her face flushed, and Nick could not but admire as well as pity her.
"You came back to rescue him," he said, "and that action must go to
your credit."
"I did not desire his death," she replied; "and when I had accomplished
the purpose for which I had set out, I returned with a rope and
assisted him in getting out."
"You say that your husband is beyond my reach. Do you mean by that that
he will never return to Washington?"
"That is what I mean, Mr. Carter. I will say, however, that it was not
his intention to leave these parts, until I told him yesterday what I
heard you say to father. If I had not come to him with the news you
were kind enough"--here she smiled--"to furnish me, he would have made
his appearance in town within a week."
"If he was not afraid of arrest, why did he run away?" queried the
detective.
"On account of a temporary scare. After considering the matter, he
concluded that you had no hold on him that would stand in court, and he
would have chanced arrest, if I had not given him to understand that
you knew more about him than he had given you credit for knowing."
Nick scanned her face, lovely in its heightened color, saw undying
resolve in her eyes, and sighed.
"And you--you have done all that for a red-handed murderer," he said,
with severity.
"He is my husband," she said simply, her eyes meeting his without a
quiver.
"Arguments, then, would be thrown away."
"Entirely so. You look at the case from one side, I from the other. You
do not know all the facts."
"And you are in possession of them, eh? Would it be presumption to ask
you to give your side, or rather your husband's side, of the story?"
"No, it would not be presumption, but I cannot give you any
information. My story, or his, you would laugh at, so what is the use
of telling it?"
Nick made up his mind that Mannion had, in vulgar parlance, given her
a "fill," and that she, in her love and faith, had swallowed what
had been given her as gospel truth. Therefore, he did not pursue the
subject.
For several weeks after the rescue of Chick, Nick Carter used every
means within his power to discover the hiding-place of Arthur Mannion,
but without avail. Nellie Mannion never left her father's house during
all that time, except to visit a neighbor, or make necessary purchases
at near-by stores. Court action on the will had been indefinitely
postponed, Nick believing that at some time, near or far, the will
would furnish the clue that would unearth the murderer.
Chick made rapid recovery, and in less than a month was on the street.
Nick was then in New York, having been called to his home by business
demanding his attention. One afternoon, about two months after the
escape of Mannion, as he sat in his office a telegraph boy handed him
this message from Washington:
"See afternoon papers to-day. Despatch just come Baltimore saying
Mannion dead in hospital.
"CHICK."