city of Boston. The houses of the wealthy were entered and robbed of
their valuable contents. Packages of money were boldly seized within the
very enclosures of the bank, the thief escaping through some passageway
or by fastening behind him the door through which he escaped; the
satchels of bank messengers, filled with valuable contents, were suddenly
snatched, and the robber eluded pursuit. At night persons were garroted
and robbed on the public street. The police force was small and, although
they exercised unusual diligence, every few days some new and startling
crime, committed with wonderful skill and boldness, was announced. It was
thought that a gang of experienced criminals had made a descent upon the
city so long exempt from crime, and every stranger was under suspicion
and carefully watched.
“One night, not long after his marriage, Mr. Williamson was found on
Charlestown Bridge in a dazed, exhausted condition, and assisted to his
home. When sufficiently recovered he stated that while crossing the
bridge he was suddenly seized from behind, his throat grasped so that he
could not cry out, and his pocketbook, containing a large sum of money,
taken from him. He struggled to free himself from his unknown assailant
until he gasped for breath, and fell exhausted, unconscious.
“On the following day Mr. Williamson offered a liberal reward for the
arrest of the highwayman, but as he had not seen him he could give no
clue to aid in the detection of the criminal. Some of the persons robbed,
however, who had caught a glimpse of the thief, described a dark person
with heavy black hair, wearing blue glass spectacles; and, as it was
believed that he and the assailant of Williamson were one, search was
made for a person answering this description.
“One evening the whole city was startled by the news of a crime just
committed, bolder than any that had preceded it. The store of Davis &
Palmer, jewelers on Washington Street, had been entered between the hours
of seven and eight P. M., and the most valuable part of their stock
taken, the trays containing many valuable watches, diamonds, and jewelry,
having all been emptied. As was customary, the store was closed at seven
o’clock and a night-watchman came on duty within an hour after. On this
evening when the watchman entered he found the cases stripped of their
valuable contents and immediately gave the alarm. The police were sent
for and an investigation began. It was soon discovered that persons near
the store had seen a sleigh drive up, a man alight, unlock and enter the
store. Not long after he came out bringing two heavily laden bags, one
after the other, which he placed in the sleigh and drove away. At the
time no suspicion had been excited, as there was nothing peculiar about
his manner of entering or leaving the store. From his course of action
the thief was evidently well acquainted with the fact that there was a
brief period between the closing of the store and the arrival of the
watchman; and, having at some time, doubtless, obtained an impress of the
key and made a duplicate, the task of entering and robbing the store at a
time when it was least expected was an easy one.
“In those days there was no detective force or special police to
investigate crime and capture the criminals. The attention of the few
policemen employed by the city was given wholly to the preservation of
order, and to preventing a breach of the peace. There was, however,
a force of a few constables who served civil processes and worked as
private detectives for a reward, headed by an old experienced officer,
Captain Darius Clapp; and when it was known that a large reward had been
offered for the discovery and return of the goods irrespective of the
arrest and conviction of the criminal, Clapp devoted himself at once
to that object. As a first step he visited every stage-office, stable,
vessel, and mode of egress from the city, but to no purpose. The owner of
the sleigh was found, but could give no information except that it had
been hired in the afternoon by a dark-haired man wearing colored glasses,
and that late in the evening the team was found without any driver in
Haymarket Square.
“As weeks passed and the mystery seemed no nearer a solution, the strange
robbery became the universal topic of conversation. Every clue and
suspicion was followed up. Strangers were arrested and obliged to prove
their innocence. Everybody became a detective.
“Some weeks after the robbery, a stranger came to the express office
with a trunk which he wished transported to New York. Something in the
manner of the man, an unnatural, half-disguised appearance, excited
the suspicion of the alert, sharp-eyed express agent, who had been
cautioned by Captain Clapp, and while he proceeded to make out the
receipt he secretly sent a messenger to the constable. Upon his arrival
that official instantly began to question the stranger, demanding to
know the contents of the trunk. His inquiries were frankly answered with
proper explanation, and the key produced that the captain might verify
the same by examination. The innocent frankness of the stranger disarmed
the constable, and, half apologizing for not accepting his statements as
sufficient, the captain stooped to unlock the trunk, when suddenly the
stranger leaped by him and out through the door, barring it after him by
thrusting a stout cane through the iron handle. Throwing himself against
the door the captain soon broke the improvised bolt and rushed off in
pursuit, following the fugitive down through Dock Square, Marshall, and
Hanover Streets, into a narrow court leading from the last street, where
the man had disappeared. But though there was no outlet other than that
by which he had entered, a thorough search of this place a few moments
after failed to discover the fugitive, or the way of his escape. After
the houses opening on the court were searched without discovering any
trace of the probable thief, the proprietors of the stores fronting
Hanover Street on each side and having rear entrances, were sent for.
Among these was Mr. Williamson, but as it was ascertained at his
residence that he was absent from the city, entrance was gained to his
store by a side window. Here, however, as in the other stores, no person
or sign of one was found. The burglar, for such an examination of the
trunk at the express office proved him to be, was never captured, nor was
trace of him discovered, although diligent search of that neighborhood
was made by the whole police force.
“Not long after, the city was again startled, this time by the
announcement in the morning papers of the mysterious disappearance
and probable murder of Mr. Williamson. He was known to carry large
sums of money upon his person, and as there was no good explanation of
his absence, it was thought most probable that he had been robbed and
murdered. In fact there were some who reported hearing at night cries for
help in the vicinity of his store, and a hat which had been found one
morning on the street near his store, proved to be one worn by him on the
morning when he last left his home.
“Information was sought by advertisement in the newspapers with promise
of liberal reward, but all investigation proved unavailing.
“After some weeks of vain inquiry and search, the general suspicion that
he had been murdered and his body thrown over the Charlestown Bridge
became a settled conviction; but his faithful, trusting wife refused
to believe him dead, and her father finally proceeded to New York to
see what information, if any, could be gained from those with whom his
son-in-law had had dealings in that city.
“What he ascertained there I do not know, but immediately on his return
he came to my employer for a workman to go to the store and open in
his presence the safe containing the stock stored therein. After some
drilling the bolt was sprung and the door swung open, disclosing a sight
at which I started back affrighted and amazed, and which so horrified the
troubled and anxious father that he fell like a dead man on the floor.
There within the safe lay the dead body of Mr. Williamson, the trusted
and respected jewelry merchant!
“On recovering consciousness, the good deacon, heartbroken, implored me
for his sake and the fair name of his daughter never to make known the
sight then revealed, and to assist him in concealing all evidence which
would tend to disclose it. To both these requests I at once consented,
and that night I helped him to carry out the body privately for burial—no
matter where.
“An examination of the safe disclosed a hardly discernible aperture
drilled through the back near the top, from which, on the inside, hung
a flexible tube by which respiration was made possible for a person
enclosed, and through which noise from without could reach the inmate.
“On the inside of the door a hole had been cut so that the key could be
inserted and the bolt thrown. The handle of this key had broken off,
leaving the key in the lock. There were indications that food and water
had been stored in the safe, but none remained; even the shoes bore
marks of the teeth, as if gnawed for sustenance. A black wig and blue
glass spectacles lay on the floor of the safe. Seeing all this, we soon
conjectured for what purpose this safe was made and used—a temporary
place of quick retreat. We wondered if the key was broken by accident in
the haste to elude that last pursuit, or in attempting to re-open the
door. We thought we knew now, though each was silent, the mystery of the
many recent crimes; but one thing was certain, they ceased and the author
of them was never found or arrested.”
How Small the World.
BY E. H. MAYDE.
I.
_The letter of Mr. Robert Fairfax to the Rev. Arthur Selbourne,
Innasittie, Colorado_:
MANCHESTER, July 24, 1892.
Right you are, Old Hoss, and no mistake. Europe was a great lark—all the
better for having been as unexpected as a wedding fee in advance. I’m
mighty glad I’ve seen it all. I used to be afraid that foreign scenery
would make that of home seem tame in comparison. It has, on the contrary,
been rather enhanced for me, and New England continues to stir my aged
blood as nothing else does.
I stopped over a day in New York, and dined with Ellis, who told me
about poor Jack Simms. Awfully sad case. Of course you know he was eager
for the operation—it really was the last hope—and went into it with
the greatest amount of pluck and nerve. Ellis is interne at St. Luke’s
hospital, and was with Jack all the time, and, up to the last day,
believed he’d pull through: but it was no go. Jack’s life was insured
for ten thousand dollars, and his wife’s uncle had just left her thirty
thousand dollars. So he had the comfort of knowing she was provided for.
It’s a lucky thing, for she has weak lungs or something of that sort. It
strikes me that women as a race are pretty delicate in spite of their
modern fad for athletics.
I saw Adams and Lennox Vandewater in Boston. Van looks rather peaked.
Adams says he’s just made his annual proposal to the girl he’s been in
love with for six years (nobody knows who she is) and she has rejected
him again. Van never recuperates in less than three months, so Adams has
consented to go across with him, and they’re going to bike about England
during August and September. Adams’s legs must be a better match for his
head than they were in college.
I’ve run down here for a week with my mother and sister who are at the
Masconomo. Have strolled along the shore this afternoon, and wish you
were here to enjoy this comfortable ledge of rock and the strong salt
air, and to talk over old times. I put a writing pad in my pocket, and
the faithful fountain permits one side of a conversation at least.
I’m confoundedly sleepy, however,—don’t grin like a dog when you read
that,—and think I’ll stretch out and take a snooze, in the hope of
imparting a little brilliancy to my style.
_Evening._ My dear fellow, I am madly in love. Fact, and you may as well
take it seriously. I went to sleep, as I intended to, and dreamed I
was discussing methods of executing criminals with your wife, when, in
reply to some remark of mine, she said, “I always use a kitchen knife.”
Then some one laughed and I woke up. Then a Voice—such a _delicious_
voice—said, “Don’t grin like a dog,” and I thought I must be dreaming,
for it was all mixed up with you, and you know I had just written those
very words. Then the Voice went on, “Billy said it was inane, but I
didn’t care, for the result was just as good as his.” Then followed a
most amusing talk, which must have lasted fifteen minutes. You need
not put on a look of professional disapproval at my eavesdropping. I
pledge you my word, I hadn’t the faintest idea I was doing it until
it was too late. You see, I was half asleep and half awake at first,
and when I discovered that I was all awake I hadn’t the nerve to get
up and apologize for being there, and walk away. It would have been
as embarrassing for her as for me. Besides, though she was talking
confidentially to some woman friend, she hadn’t said a word which there
was the slightest objection to my hearing, so I thought best to lie
still. I was completely hidden by the ledge, though she couldn’t have
been six feet distant. It was immensely amusing. The Voice was relating
her experiences in keeping house for some one she called Billy on “the
ranch”—location unknown. For a long time I thought “Billy” was her
husband, and it seemed to me he ought to be a happy man, for she called
him a saint (not the canonized kind: she meant a brick), and she said
Billy called her a better cook than his mother. But it turned out that
Billy is her brother. He’s married now, and she apparently dotes on the
‘twins.’ Once they—_i.e._, the Voice and Billy—had a Mr. Adams to dine
with them, and as he was from Boston I think it may be our Adams, and,
perhaps, through him I can get a clue to her identity. You think this
is all nonsense, but I assure you I’m in dead earnest. She’s the most
interesting girl I’ve ever seen—or ever haven’t seen—for I know little
enough about her appearance. I looked over the ledge after they’d gone
away (they couldn’t see me) and saw them walking off towards the road,
and she wears tan shoes and a blue dress. I’m going forth to hunt those
articles to-morrow. Why shouldn’t I be the happy man I supposed Billy to
be?
I pity Van more than I did when I began this letter.
If Adams’s reply is favorable, and I find her and she’ll have me, I’ll
send for you to come on and tie the knot. You may impart this information
to your wife (I know you can’t keep it to yourself), for she once told
me that she took comfort in the most incipient stages of love-making,
because there was always the possibility of a fee ahead. My best regards
to that mercenary woman.
Yours,
BOB.
P. S. What do you suppose she uses a kitchen knife for? It must be
something unusual.
II.
_The letter of Mr. Winthrop Adams to Mr. Robert Fairfax,
Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts._
BOSTON, July 27, 1892.
_Dear Fax_:—Sorry enough to hear of your accident. A sprained ankle is no
joke. Thought you were the most surefooted of men.
I append the memorandum you ask for of all the Williams of my
acquaintance. Are you writing a paper on The Influence of Christian Names
on Christian Character? And, if so, why in thunder don’t you begin at the
other end of the alphabet?
Van and I sail on the second. He’s dumpier than ever before. What a girl
she must be to refuse a million, and Van thrown in!
Yours,
WINTHROP ADAMS.
_Memorandum._ (Ages only approximate.) William A. Curtis, fifty, lawyer,
widower, New York; Wm. B. Slater, twenty-six, physician, bachelor, Iowa;
Wm. Thorndike, thirty, merchant, ?, Charleston, S. C.; Wm. Martin, forty,
teamster, married, Boston; Wm. Berkeley Vandewater (our Van’s father);
Wm. (generally called Billy) Posey, (colored), seventy-five, janitor,
Boston; Wm. Winthrop Adams, my three-months’-old nephew, still unmarried,
Boston.
I don’t recall any other Williams whom I have met within the last two
years.
III.
_The telegram of the Rev. Arthur Selbourne to Mr. Robert Fairfax,
Manchester-by-the-Sea, Mass._
INNASITTIE, COL., August 2, 1892.
Probably uses it instead of a fork.
A. SELBOURNE.
Collect.
IV.
_The letter of Miss Polly Forsythe to Mrs. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie,
Col._
PRIDE’S CROSSING, July 24, 1892.
_My dearest Lucie_:—I have the most delightful and most disgusting things
to tell you. First to the first. Of course you know all about poor Nannie
Simms’s trouble and about her husband’s death a month ago, at St. Luke’s
Hospital. Perhaps you do not know, however, the only gleam of comfort in
the whole sad affair—that she has a very comfortable fortune. Old Mr.
Dupuy left her thirty thousand dollars, and when poor Jack died it was
found that his life was insured for ten thousand dollars. It is _so_
fortunate, for she is all alone in the world, and not a bit strong. Of
course she’s perfectly heartbroken, but she’s just as brave and sweet
as you might know she would be. She says she can never be sufficiently
thankful for this year they’ve had together. You know at one time there
was talk of postponing the marriage for a year, and when Jack was taken
ill he reminded her of that. She sent for me immediately, and Carrie was
quite well, so I came right on. I really think it’s better now that she
and Billy and the babies should be by themselves. They have a very good
servant, and a nice motherly woman for a nurse. But this is a digression.
Jack’s family dote on Nannie, and they all want her to go and live with
them, but she says she couldn’t bear it just yet, and so she has asked
me to be her companion for a year, until she feels able to decide on her
future.
Dr. Ellis, an awfully nice young surgeon, and a college classmate of
Jack’s, has been just as kind as he could be to Nannie. He says she
mustn’t stay North this winter, but we haven’t yet decided where we are
going; perhaps to Florida, and perhaps abroad. We came down here a week
ago, and it is perfectly enchanting, but we are going away to-morrow on
account of the horridest thing that happened this afternoon. Now, Lucie,
before you read another line you must _promise_ not to breathe a word of
this to Arthur. Well, this afternoon Nannie and I walked down to the West
Manchester rocks. We sat with our backs against a nice ledge and looked
off over the quiet sea and talked for hours. When we got up to go I had
an experience before which Robinson Crusoe’s footprint on the sand sinks
into nothingness. Right on the other side of the ledge against which we
had been leaning I saw, not a footprint, but a foot. Two feet, in fact,
and attached to them two legs. All, evidently, the property of _a man_. I
felt as if every drop of blood in my body flew into my face, but I never
said a word to Nannie until we got back to the road. Then she looked
around, very carefully, of course, and there was that disgusting creature
looking over the ledge at us. Did you ever know _anything_ so horrid?
If I’d only his legs to judge by—that was all of him I saw, because the
rest of him was hidden by a rock—I should have thought him a gentleman,
for he wore fine russet shoes and blue trousers. I never want to see that
combination again as long as I live. But no gentleman _could_ have done
so rude a thing as to listen to a long conversation like ours. I dare say
you will think this is funny, but I’m sure you won’t laugh when you hear
the rest of the story.
What made it so _perfectly dreadful_ was that Lennox has proposed to me
again—for the sixth time, my dear,—and I was telling Nannie all about it.
Of course, Lennox Vandewater’s name is as well known here as Jay Gould’s
or George Washington’s, and you know how perfectly horrid men are, and
how they always think girls boast of their offers. And you know, too,
Lucie, that you and Nannie are the only living souls that know about that
affair, and that Lennox told Nannie himself. And you, dear thing, never
would have known it at all if you hadn’t overheard his first proposal,
and that ridiculous declaration that he was going to repeat it annually
until I accepted him or married some one else. Dear me! I never imagined
then he’d keep his word. I do really think the constancy of man is awful.
Of course, now you’ll want to hear how it happened, and I suppose you
might as well know. Lennox had something to do with the company in which
Jack’s life was insured, and he came to see Nannie several times on
business. Of course he saw me, but somehow his manner was different, and
I really thought he meant to be just nice and friendly. Once or twice
I saw him alone, but he never even _looked_ at me in a way to make me
suspicious, and always before that when we’ve been alone together—well it
has been
“The embrace of pining eyes,”
all the time. The last afternoon he called—with some papers and things
for Nannie—she was in bed with a headache. He explained the business
matters to me, and then we actually _talked politics_—not a word of
anything else, I assure you—for half an hour. Then he told me he was
going to Boston that night by the Fall River Line, and bade me good-by.
But just as he reached the door he turned around as if he’d forgotten
something, shut the door, put his back against it, and said, “Polly, will
you be my wife?”
I was utterly taken aback. “Lennox,” I said, “how long do you mean to
keep up this absurd performance?”
“It isn’t a complimentary way of alluding to my offers of marriage,” he
replied calmly, “but I intend to repeat them until you are engaged.”
“Then,” I said desperately, “I will be engaged to the very next man that
offers himself to me.”
“How good of you,” said he, “to afford me such unexpected encouragement.
I will be that happy man, Polly.” And with that he dropped on his knees
and said, “Polly, _will_ you be my wife?”
Now, Lucie, of course, this was perfectly ridiculous, and who could
imagine Lennox Vandewater behaving so? I don’t know what made me do what
I did, except that I had been under a severe strain with Nannie, and was
rather unstrung, but instead of laughing I burst into a fit of hysterical
crying. Lennox came to his senses—and his feet—immediately. When I got
myself pulled together again I thought we might as well “have it out”
then and there, and I prayed that I might say the right thing. I told
him how much I admired him, and valued his friendship, and that I had
really, honestly tried to love him, but I couldn’t—in that way. I told
him about the imaginary scenes I had gone through with him, in which he
announced his proposed departure to South Africa as a missionary (only
I really think Lennox isn’t an ideal missionary), and that I had always
gone through the parting without a pang. I told him I longed to hear of
his marriage; and I was going on to use further arguments to convince him
that I didn’t love him, but at this point he said, “Well, I guess you
needn’t rub it in any more, Polly,” and I looked up and saw that his face
was quite white. I can’t tell you the rest, but—I don’t think Lennox will
propose to me again, though we—well, we “parted friends.”
Now, my dear Lucie, THAT was the tale I told to those russet shoes....
Was ever anything so—oh, words fail!
And Nannie, you know, has always believed I some day would marry Lennox,
so it was about as hard to convince _her_ that I couldn’t love him as it
had been to convince him. Luckily, it didn’t take six years in her case;
though, if it had, those russet shoes would have starved to death instead
of living to tell the tale. That would have been some comfort. After all
this conversation Nannie was so “low in her mind” about my affairs that
I put forth my best efforts at entertaining her, and actually made her
laugh telling her about Billy’s and my experiences on the ranch. And then
the whole day was spoiled by this awful discovery. I’m sure I know now
exactly how a woman feels when she finds the long-looked-for man under
the bed. This, my dear, is the end of the tale of woe. And quite time,
too. It will make a hole in my salary to pay the postage.
I’ll send you a postal when we are settled in some secluded spot where
shoes and trousers are unknown—and the wearers of those articles.
Meantime, I am thinking more about myself than ever before in my life.
Every morning when I unfold the paper I expect to see in enormous
headlines:
DISCOVERY OF L—N—X V—D—R’S
BEST GIRL,
or
DID P—Y F—S—E
REFUSE HIM SIX TIMES OR SEVEN?
Good-by, you dear, sweet, patient, long-suffering woman. Arthur little
imagines how much I’ve contributed towards making you a model wife.
Your dejected
POLLY.
V.
_That part of Miss Forsythe’s conversation overheard by Mr. Robert
Fairfax._