DETECTIVE AND WIDOW.
When the Yankee crept in upon his prey he felt sure of securing him.
There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, however.
Our Yankee friend failed to take into consideration the fact that there
was a second person in the room.
The young man stared at the Yankee and his revolver as if more surprised
than frightened.
"What's the matter, old chap?" uttered the man, with a sneer. "This is my
house--"
"You are my prisoner," uttered the Yankee, sternly.
"Who are you?"
"You will learn soon enough, August Bordine."
"That isn't my name."
"You have a dozen. I know you, however, as the forger, Andrew Barkswell."
"Well, I suppose I may's well come."
He was going in without resistance.
The Yankee was keen, but he failed to notice the movement of the woman.
Of a sudden she sprang forward behind the Yankee, and flung her arms
about him, pinioning his arms for an instant. He soon tore loose, but
precious time had been lost.
With a sweep of his hand, the man, whom our Yankee friend had taken for
August Bordine, dashed the lamp to the floor, leaving the room in total
darkness.
"Good-by, Mr. Keene. I hope you'll have better success next time,"
chuckled a voice, and then the outer door slammed, denoting that the
outlaw had passed out into the night.
All this was the work of less than a minute.
The detective, for he it was, wrenched himself from the woman's detaining
arms, and dashed down the hall to the street. Darkness reigned outside,
and it soon became evident that the outlaw had made good his escape.
The baffled detective went back to the house in no enviable mood.
"I'm a little out in my reckoning," he muttered. "That man was certainly
Barkswell, and yet he resembled Bordine. Can it be that the two are
identical? They certainly look enough alike to be twin brothers."
Once more the detective entered the house. Groping along the hall, he
scratched a match, and entering the back room, soon had the lamp burning
once more.
The woman was gone.
"I might have arrested her," muttered the detective, "had I not chased
her husband into the darkness. I am confident that it's the same couple I
saw in the carriage, yet then he was in disguise."
Sile Keene searched the house from top to bottom, but made no important
discoveries. He was prone to believe, however, that Barkswell was the
assassin of poor Victoria Vane.
"Is this man and Bordine identical? That is the question," mused the
detective. "I am inclined to think they are."
Then he left the house and hurried swiftly away.
The city of Grandon was small, and it did not require much time to
traverse its entire length.
In a little time the detective stood before an unpretending dwelling
which had been pointed out to him as the house of the young engineer.
There was a cheerful glow in the windows, although the curtains were
down. Keene had cast aside his Yankee togs, and appeared undisguised.
The bell was answered by the widow Bordine herself, who at once invited
him into her cozy parlor.
No one was here.
The detective glanced keenly around and noted the comfort of the little
house. How could the young man who had built such a snug nest turn his
attention into criminal channels? The widow was but sixty, with a plump
form, pleasant eyes and agreeable manners. Detective Keene was at once
prepossessed in her favor.
Could the son of such a woman be the villain appearances indicated? or
had there been a grand mistake somewhere?
"My name is Keene," said the detective, introducing himself. "I called to
see your son."
"My son is not in."
"When will he return."
"Not until late. His business requires him to keep late hours sometimes."
"Which is unpleasant for you."
"Somewhat, but it won't long be so."
"Indeed?"
"When they are married, he will bring Rose here, and then he'll keep
better hours."
"Rose?"
Detective Keen smiled at the simplicity of the old lady.
"Rose Alstine. They've been keepin' company a long time."
"The young lady is wealthy?"
"How do you know? Have you seen 'em?"
"No, but I've heard of the Alstines," returned Keene.
"Well, I suppose Rose is quite an heiress, especially if the old man's
mine turns out well, he's been buying out in Colorado. He's out there now
looking after it."
"Yes."
"I expect August'll be married as soon's he gets home."
"And that will be when?"
"Can't tell. It may be a month and it may be a year."
"Quite an uncertainty, indeed."
"Yes," heaving a deep sigh, "I'll be proper glad when they are settled."
"I should think so. You have friends in Ridgewood."
"None to speak of."
"The Vanes--"
"Oh, yes, I know. They wan't my friends in petic'lar. Victoria was a
pretty girl, and some folks called her smart, but I never could see it.
Poor thing, it was an awful end she came to at last," and the widow wiped
away a sympathetic tear.
"It was, indeed," agreed the detective. "Your son thought much of the
girl?"
"Of Victoria Vane?"
"Yes."
"Law, no. Didn't I tell you that August was keepin' company with the
Alstine girl?"
"Yes; but young men sometimes have more strings than one, you know."
"But August ain't that kind."
"Artless, old mother!" thought Keene. "She knows nothing of the doings of
this son of her's." Then, thinking of the forger whom he had come so near
capturing that evening, Keene said: "You are from New York, I believe,
Mrs. Bordine?"
"Formerly, yes."
"From the neighborhood of Rochester?"
"Yes."
"Do you know a family by the name of Barkswell?"
"Never heard of 'em."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I'm not given to telling wrong stories, Mr. Keene. Why should I?
Our family was never ashamed of its name--"
"No, certainly not; but I knew the Barkswells, and I thought you might
have forgotten. I am from York State myself."
"Glad to hear it. I think I heard August speak of you. He met you down to
Ridgewood?"
"Yes. I am quite anxious to see your son on important business."
"Come in to-morrow, then. I expect he'll be to home."
The detective rose to go.
It did not seem possible to him then that the villain Barkswell and
Bordine could be one and the same, yet it was nevertheless certain that
there was a strong resemblance between the two men, and Keene was
determined to watch Bordine closely.
Detective Keene hurried away.
Soon he was traversing one of the narrowest streets of the city. Just
ahead of him he saw a man standing so that the light from a saloon window
flared in his face.
Silas Keene halted an instant and gazed fixedly at the man.
It was certainly the same person he had attempted to arrest that
night--either Andrew Barkswell or August Bordine.
The detective suddenly advanced.
The sound of his step caused the young man to turn about.
Both men regarded one another fixedly, a surprised look shooting over the
face of the younger.
"Ah, it is Mr. Keene. Glad to see you, sir. Will you come home with me?"
cried August Bordine, as he grasped the detective warmly by the hand.