THE DETECTIVE'S LAST STRUGGLE.
Perry Jounce uttered a grunt of satisfaction when he saw that the
detective was beyond power to know him for the time.
Jounce had been thoroughly posted by Andrew Barkswell, and knew that in
the disguised man before him the noted detective was presented.
"So," muttered Jounce, as he touched a spring with his foot that sent the
weight back to its place in the ceiling, "I reckon you won't trouble us
gents agin."
Then he went over to the side of the stunned detective, secured his arms
and removed his beard and gray hair. "Thought you was sharp enough to
fool me," chuckled the villain. "I reckin you'll l'arn ef you ever git
yer mind agin, that two kin play at ther game o' twist."
After these movements the tramp left the room. He was gone but a short
time when he returned, accompanied by Billy Bowlegs.
"So you've thumped him?" muttered the saloon proprietor. "How much did
you find?"
"Notting."
"See here, chum, that's too gauzy."
"Didn't ther boss pay yer a good hundred fer this room?" questioned
Jounce, turning upon Bowlegs.
"He hasn't paid it yet. I'm not going to permit any snap games. This
fellow doesn't go out of here till you pay the full price."
"That's ther snap!" returned Jounce. "You jest hang onter ther cuss, will
yer? He ain't no good to me," and then the tramp chuckled audibly.
"But I can make you trouble."
"Kin yer?"
"Yes, I can."
"All right; heave ahead."
The saloon-keeper found that he was dealing with a man who was not to be
frightened or deceived into paying over money unnecessarily.
"Never mind," he said, finally. "It's all right. You wish to dispose of
this fellow effectually?"
"In course."
"I've never permitted bloodshed in my house," proceeded Billy Bowlegs,
"but I'll tell you what we will do. We will drop the fellow down to the
lower room, and leave him until the boss comes; then his fate will be
decided upon."
"That suits me."
Bowlegs touched a spring with his foot, and the chair containing the
stunned detective sank from sight.
The tramp stared at the opening in the floor wonderingly.
"I declare!" he finally exclaimed, "you've got this thing in shape to
work to perfection, pardner."
The saloon-keeper smiled without reply.
"Where's the chap gone ter?"
"He is safe," answered Bowlegs. "I'll excuse you now."
"Wal, I swar, that are's cool."
Nevertheless the tramp departed. At the bar he swallowed a huge glass of
brandy, and then passed upon the street.
From this it will be seen that Billy Bowlegs was in league with the
notorious scoundrel who is known to the reader as Andrew Barkswell.
This, it will be remembered, was on the same night that the robbery was
committed at the Alstine mansion.
When the detective returned to consciousness he found himself in a small,
dark room, with solid walls of masonry about him, a close prisoner.
There was an awful pain in his head, indicating that he had been struck a
severe blow.
He felt over his person, to discover that his weapons had been taken from
him.
Then, with an effort, he came to his feet, and began groping about the
room. Solid walls on every side met his touch.
"Well," he finally muttered, "I have learned one thing at least
to-night--the fools of this world are not all dead. One of them, however,
came pretty close to it."
It seemed an age to the imprisoned detective before the creaking of a
door announced the coming of some one.
The door opened and closed, and a light filled the room, proceeding from
a lantern in the hand of a man. This did not prove a brilliant
illuminator, yet it served to reveal the countenance of the new-comer
fairly well.
"So you are safely caged at last, my dear Keene," said the visitor, in a
sarcastic voice.
"And this is your work, August Bordine, after all the confidence I placed
in you," uttered the detective, in a rebuking voice.
"It was merely a game of wits, Mr. Keene. I was too smart for you, in
spite of the fact that you're reputed to be the sharpest man-tracker in
Gotham. I think it would pay you to hire me for a spell."
"This, then, was a put-up job?"
"That's about the size of it."
"That runaway and injury to yourself that the papers speak about was only
a blind?"
"Only a blind, my dear Keene."
The villain smiled and stroked his mustache complacently. "I don't mind
telling you, seeing you're not likely to give me any further trouble,
that I shall marry the heiress to the Alstine estates and quit the
precarious work that I have all along been following, and hereafter live
a gentleman."
"Indeed!"
The detective could not help admiring the villain's coolness, even while
despising his villainy.
"You congratulate me on my plan?"
"No. You cannot carry it out."
"And why not, pray? You won't be there to interfere, Mr. Keene. I have
provided against such a contingency."
"You have a wife living."
"So you imagine, so _she_ imagines; but it is a mere show. Iris is not my
wife."
"You deceived her with a mock marriage?"
"That is about the size of it."
"What a consummate scoundrel."
"Don't use such pet expressions, my dear Keene, you hurt my feelings, you
really do, I assure you."
"I expect to hurt your neck some time," retorted the detective, curtly.
"Oh, you do? Let me tell you, Mr. Keene, that that time will never come
to you, never."
"It may come sooner than you imagine."
"I'll risk that."
"I would like to ask you a question."
"Go on."
"How about that old lady who occupies your house on ---- street? Is she
your mother?"
"Yes."
"Does she know what a scoundrel she has for a son?"
"She has no knowledge of my private affairs," returned Barkswell, not
seeming to notice the offensive manner of putting the question used by
Keene.
"And Iris is not your wife?"
"That's what I said."
"And Miss Alstine knows nothing of this, of your plans, your scheming to
win a fortune through her?"
"Certainly not. I haven't been fool enough to give myself away."
The detective remained silent for a moment. Then he looked sharply into
the face of Barkswell and said:
"I am puzzled to know why you saved me from the tramp last night, and
took me to your home and nursed me so tenderly. Since you are so anxious
to have me out of your way, why did you not leave me to die on the vacant
lot, or give the finishing stroke there. It would have been the wisest
plan, it seems to me, for such a reckless villain as you are, to pursue."
A low laugh fell from the lips of Barkswell.
"You do not understand me yet, Mr. Keene. Truth to tell I am one of the
most tender-hearted creatures in the world. I haven't the heart to strike
a man when he's down. I sympathized with you, and what is more, I wished
to blind your eyes to my true intentions. You had put the bracelets on me
and proclaimed that you were going to lead me to prison. I wanted to
prove to you that you had made a mistake."
This to the detective seemed a lame explanation. He felt certain that the
villain before him had not stated the case as it actually was.
"It seems I made no mistake after all," uttered Keene. "You are the right
person, and I never ought have permitted you to go free an hour after I
made the discovery of your villainy."
"What discovery do you refer to?"
"The murder of Victoria Vane."
"Then you still hold to the opinion that I committed that deed?"
"Certainly I do."
"Well, see here, Mr. Keene, I have you completely in my power, and do not
intend that you shall ever again see the light of day. Under such
circumstances I have no reason for uttering a falsehood. I solemnly
assure you that I did not harm that poor girl. I am as innocent of that
as you are. I did flirt with her a little I admit, but there was nothing
serious took place, I would be willing to swear to this."
Of course the detective did not believe a word of this, although
Barkswell uttered it in a solemn and apparently sincere manner.
"I believe you will yet swing for that murder," was Keene's sharp reply.
That Barkswell was the forger who was wanted in New York the detective
was assured. He judged this from a photograph that he had in his
possession the subject of which, however, had a full beard, and this had
prevented Keene's recognizing the likeness when he was first introduced
to Barkswell, alias Bordine, by young Ransom Vane.
It will be seen that the detective still believed that the young engineer
and Barkswell were one and the same, which goes to prove that the two men
resembled each other as twin brothers might. It was this resemblance that
was to produce no end of trouble to all concerned in our story, which, by
the way, has more of truth in it than most of the fictions of the present
day.
"Well, you and I cannot agree if we talk all night," said the man with
the lantern, "so I suppose this interview may as well come to an end at
once."
From the tone of the man's voice, Keene judged that he meant to
perpetrate a murder. With hands and limbs free, though weak from the blow
he had received on the head, Silas Keene was not the man to give up life
without a struggle.
The moment the last word fell from the lips of Barkswell Keene darted
forward, full at the throat of the villain before him.
"Thunderation!"
With this exclamation Barkswell dropped his lantern and clinched with the
detective.
Both went to the floor in a terrible struggle for the mastery.
Weakened though he was, the detective proved no mean adversary, and he
might have conquered had not a third party appeared upon the scene, who
at once went to the assistance of Barkswell, and by beating Keene over
the head with the butt of a revolver he succeeded in quieting him so that
he could be secured.
Keene, nearly senseless, was rolled upon the damp floor, upon his face,
and his hands secured with a cord at his back.
"There, I reckon he won't give no more trouble," said a voice that the
detective recognized as that of Perry Jounce, the tramp.
"Confound his picture," grated Barkswell. "I believe the scamp would have
been too much for me if you hadn't come just as you did."
"Even the service of a brother-in-law hain't allus to be despised; eh,
Andrew?"
"No. You did me a good turn just now, and I'll not forget it."
Detective Keene heard these remarks, and tried to profit by them.
"This man is fooling you, Mr. Jounce," cried Keene, faintly.
"Shut up."
This from Barkswell.
"I tell you that this man is fooling you. He is not--"
A blow on the head from the fist of Barkswell effectually silenced the
tongue of the helpless detective. His senses reeled, and for a few
minutes he was oblivious of his surroundings.
"What was the feller tryin' to git through him, Andy?"
"Nobody knows. Bear a hand and we'll put him where the hogs won't bite
him."
Both men laid hold of the bound detective and dragged him to one side of
the room.
The lantern, that had been overturned in the struggle, still burned,
giving a faint light. Jounce hung it on a pin in the wall, and then
turned to his companion, who had lifted a small trap door not far from
the center of the room.
A gust of damp air, full of a moldy smell, came up.
"What's that?" questioned Jounce.
"An old well. They say it's forty feet down to the mud and water. It
hasn't been used in years."
"What'll you do--?"
"Drop our friend into it. Nobody'll ever be the wiser."
"Good heavens, what a doom!"
Even the tramp shuddered at the thought of consigning a human being to
that awful tomb. Nevertheless he assisted Barkswell to lift Keene and
bear him to the mouth of the well.
An instant later and Detective Keene shot from sight. A hollow cry came
up, then solemn silence, as Barkswell closed the trap and turned away.