MARION SAVES A VICTIM FROM POTTER’S FIELD.
Dr. Reginald Brookes had given his last order for the night, and as he
left the Prison Hospital he bent his steps almost involuntarily toward
the warden’s office. Some way or other the vitriol patient’s case had
interested him greatly, and he was anxious to know if any word had
been received from the New York police about her. A large envelope was
handed to him in the office, and almost identical with his breaking the
seal he asked the warden a question.
“Any further information about Mary Jones, Mr. Warner?”
The warden turned to his desk and began looking over his letters, and
just then Dr. Brookes gave a stifled cry of astonishment. He had drawn
a neatly folded paper from the envelope in his hand, and in an instant
he saw that it was his friend Greenaway’s life insurance policy.
“What has happened?” He asked the question mentally, and just then the
warden turned to him.
“Known for a time as May Osgood,” he said briefly. “Was an actress, but
had no particular reputation.”
Dr. Brookes dropped the envelope and stared a minute.
“My God!” he said, sharply. “Can that be possible! Why, one of my
dearest chums is in love with that woman!”
“Well, she couldn’t have been much,” said the warden, bluntly. “A
‘drunk and disorderly’ and not a friend to bury her!”
“I’ll bury her myself if this turns out to be true! I’ll wire Greenaway
to-night,” said the doctor, promptly.
“Can’t identify her now, her face is a sight,” said the warden again.
“That acid ate clear through to the bone; she must have been deluged
with it.”
“Nevertheless, I shall send for him,” said the physician slowly, and in
a very few minutes he had sent the message.
After he had left the building the warden received a communication. It
was from the Chief of Police, giving some further information about the
woman.
“Hem! Looks as if she did have friends after all,” he growled crossly,
then he, too, wrote a message and had it wired to the city.
At ten o’clock the next morning two more deaths had been reported, and
as sometimes happen, a blunder resulted.
At eleven o’clock there were two pine coffins lying out on the very
edge of the upper dock, both bearing tags and stenciled numbers.
At that hour Marion Marlowe was standing with the Superintendent of
Nurses, listening to some instructions of a private nature.
“I would go myself if I had time,” the superintendent was saying, “for
I would like to see Dr. Miller and tell him about it, but you can be
spared and I can’t, Miss Marlowe, and I’ll consider it a favor if you
will do my errand.”
“I am only too glad to be of service to you, madam,” was Marion’s
answer, “and I shall enjoy the sail up the river, too, as I have never
been farther than Blackwell’s Island.”
“Well, Dr. Miller is at the Homeopathic Hospital on Ward’s Island,” was
the reply, “and you have only to tell him exactly what I have told you.”
Marion Marlowe turned away with a respectful bow, then something
occurred to her and she looked back anxiously.
“Oh, by the way, will there be a boat this morning, madam?”
The superintendent thought a moment—she had almost forgotten that.
“You will have to go up on the ‘dead boat,’ the _Fidelity_,” she said,
decidedly. “Tell the captain I sent you and it will be all right. That
is due at half-past eleven. You don’t mind, do you, Miss Marlowe?”
Marion did not even shiver at this ghastly suggestion. She was fast
growing acclimated to these daily horrors.
“I guess it won’t hurt me,” she said with a smile. “I can stay on deck,
where I will not see the coffins.”
When the _Fidelity_ stopped, Marion hurried aboard. She had seen the
two pine boxes and wished to avoid them.
“Bring on those silent passengers!” bawled the captain, jovially, and
as the coffins were tossed aboard Marion gazed out over the water.
“Who’ve we got this time?” asked one of the convict sailors after they
had started. “We’ve all got to make this trip some day, boys, and I’m
cur’us to know what kind of comp’ny we’ll be keepin’ up yender!”
He made a motion of his head up the river as he spoke, and Marion
sighed as she thought of these strong men looking forward to lying in
the pauper graveyard.
“Number 1,197 is Sarah Jenks,” read another convict, “and 1,198 is
Mrs. Mary Ray, both _en route_ via the _Fidelity_ for the trenches up
yonder!”
As the convict stopped speaking he turned around quickly, for every man
on the lower deck seemed to be staring at something.
Right behind him stood Marion Marlowe, her cheeks as white as death,
while her beautiful eyes seemed glazed with horror.
“Quick! Let me see that tag!” she whispered sharply. “Oh, I am almost
sure you must be mistaken!”
In less than a second there was a guard beside her, but his presence
was unnecessary, for not one of the convicts would have harmed her.
“It is Mary Ray, all right,” said the guard, showing her the tag. “Do
you know her, miss? Has somebody blundered?”
“Somebody has blundered, terribly!” said Marion, more calmly. “That
coffin must not be taken to Hart’s Island, men. Why, I know her
husband, and such a thing would kill him!”
“It’s a wonder she’s where she is if he thought so much of her,”
muttered one of the convicts.
“You don’t understand,” said Marion, sadly. “It is just as the guard
said—somebody has blundered.”
The captain was consulted, but he was an obstinate man.
“Can’t do it, nurse! I’ve got orders and I have to obey them! It’s
government biz. You can’t monkey with the government.”
“It shall never be buried in Potter’s Field,” said Marion, pointing to
the coffin, “for I will not leave the boat until I have your promise,
captain! You must not refuse me! The thing would be too awful!”
“I’ll put back, then,” said the captain, after a moment’s thought. “It
won’t take a half hour, and I guess it won’t matter.”
As they neared the dock they could see a group of people waiting for
them, among them was Dr. Brookes, waving and shouting frantically.
“You see they want us to come back!” cried Marion, triumphantly. “I
told you it was a blunder, and they have discovered it!”
Then the brave, beautiful girl turned suddenly paler than ever before,
for there on the dock, with his head bent in grief, stood her friend,
Archie Ray, this dead woman’s husband.