A STARTLING WARNING.
The remainder of that night and for several days thereafter the city was
wild with excitement over the story of the sudden disappearance of the
man for whom five thousand dollars reward was offered.
The policeman was not mortally hurt, but the wound he had received was
destined to lay him up for a long time.
A thorough search of the city failed to discover the assassin. His bold
return had evidently been to see his betrothed, and it was surmised by
many that Rose Alstine could tell, if she would, the exact whereabouts of
the murderer.
Ransom Vane went to see her on the subject, but gained no satisfaction.
Rose solemnly assured him that she had no more knowledge of her lover's
whereabouts than he.
"I do not care to talk on a subject so painful," concluded the girl.
"However painful, you may be compelled to talk," retorted the young man
in a tone of exceeding vexation. "I cannot consider it just for a woman
to screen her lover, when he has several murdered victims to answer for."
"Your insinuations are wholly unjust, Mr. Vane."
"I hope they are. That a girl should defend a lover, even when he has
stained his hands with blood, seems incredible."
"It would seem incredible if such a thing occurred. I have no lover and
consequently cannot come under your condemnation."
"Do you deny that August Bordine is your lover?"
"Certainly I do."
"Then I have been misinformed."
"Doubtless you have. Busybodies are ready to make any assertions, however
false," said Rose calmly.
There certainly was nothing to be gained here, so the eager young man
took his departure.
In the meantime where was August Bordine?
Safe under the care of the eccentric Hiram Shanks, and not once had he
ventured into Grandon. He followed implicitly the instructions of the
peddler, who evinced intelligence beyond his appearance.
When the young man learned that his mother was under arrest, he insisted
on visiting her at once, although he was yet ill in bed, for the fever
clung to him for many days, and weakened his strong frame so that he had
scarcely more strength than a child.
It was at a farm-house that the sick engineer had found shelter, and in
order to effectually disguise him the indefatigable Shanks had shaved his
beard, and cut his hair close, over which he fitted a wig of wool, and
stained his face and arms.
Thus young Bordine represented a sick mulatto to perfection. The farmer
and his wife were in the secret, but being feed heavily by Shanks, they
refused to betray the young man.
Officers had been at the house on several occasions, but the sick farm
hand excited no suspicions, since he in no way resembled the photographs
of the fugitive from justice.
Of course the reader will understand that the man who personated Bordine
in his interview with Rose Alstine was the young man's double, who yet
hovered in the city, and moved about among the people in many disguises.
On the night in question he had boldly thrown off his disguise for the
purpose of appealing to Rose as the fugitive, hoping to excite her
sympathy.
It proved a dear game, and come near landing him in prison. He did not
scruple at shooting the officer who assailed him. Once he could get his
fingers on the Alstine bank account, he would be able to defy the world.
It was a bold and heartless scheme he was working, and hardly promised
success. While the real Bordine was a fugitive from justice, the schemer
felt that he had nothing to fear from him; but how long was this to be?
The young engineer might be captured at any time, when it would be
impossible for him to deceive Rose longer. It was this fear that troubled
Barkswell more than aught else.
He thought sometimes of the grave in the cellar of the lone shanty in the
woods, and remembered the pair of gleaming eyes that peered down upon him
from above. He was in disguise then, however, and even were that murder
discovered, it could not be laid at his door.
On the night in question, Barkswell, after shooting the policeman from
his path, darted swiftly down the street a few rods, then turned into a
dark alley.
Here he resumed the disguise he had discarded, in order to meet Rose.
Passing out at the other end of the alley, he met several members of the
police force who were looking for him.
"I seed a feller makin' tracks toward the river," said the seeming
countryman in answer to a query from a blue-coat.
"He's going to one of the low dives down near the dock," declared the
sergeant of police, and then he quickly hastened on his way.
The man for whom all this excitement was occasioned pursued his way
leisurely to the suburbs of the city, and entered a small house that
stood some rods back from the street.
It was not the cottage that he had occupied at the time Rose Alstine
mistook it for the Bordine residence. Soon after that untoward event, the
scheming Barkswell had changed his residence to a less respectable
neighborhood, against the protest of his wife, who was constantly urging
him to lead a better life.
All this time Barkswell was exceedingly anxious that Iris should leave
him for a better world, where she would be less troublesome.
He entered her presence to-night not in the best of humor.
Iris was reclining in a rocker, looking very pale and ill. She had been
suffering of late even more than usual, and to-night a deathly sickness
seemed stealing through her veins, rendering her weak and helpless.
"You are looking very pale, Iris. What is the trouble?"
"I am feeling very miserable, Andrew."
"You are always talking that way, my dear."
"But I feel that this is something different. I--I am fearful that I
shan't live long."
"Nonsense," with a cheery laugh he knew so well how to assume when the
occasion demanded.
His cheerfulness was contagious, and she smiled faintly.
"If you would only reform--"
"Not a word on that threadbare question, Iris," he interrupted quickly.
"I am tired of it, and you know it. I've something here that'll be good
for your nerves."
He drew a bottle from his pocket and poured a few drops into a glass that
stood near. Then, mixing with water, he offered it to his wife.
She drank it without a word.
"You will soon feel better, dear," he assured her in the kindest tone
imaginable.
"Oh, dear, I hope so."
She closed her eyes, and was soon in a profound sleep. Barkswell sat
watching her, the thin face and hollow eyes, and muttered to himself:
"She suffers, poor girl, but I will be merciful. She shall not suffer
long."
Then he came to his feet and began pacing the room with measured tread in
front of his calmly sleeping wife.
There were many contending emotions in the breast of Andrew Barkswell as
he paced the floor in front of his sleeping wife.
If he ever possessed a spark of human sympathy, the past few weeks of his
life in Grandon had obliterated the feeling.
One more life stood between him and his goal; that life was even now on
the verge of the unknown.
"I might throttle her," he muttered in a half audible tone, as his
glittering eyes peered into the quiet face of the slumberer. "No one
would be the wiser, and then I would be free to pursue my wooing of the
heiress."
He moved a step nearer the sleeping woman. His fingers twitched and
turned about, as though itching diabolical work. His breath came hot and
hard above the false gray beard that adorned his chin.
He lifted his hands, made a forward movement, as if to carry into
execution the dastard work his heart had conjured up. One step, and he
came to a sudden pause.
A strange sound greeted his ears and held his steps. The sound seemed to
proceed from the window.
Glancing toward it, the would-be homicide saw on the pane, written in
letters of blood:
"_Murderer, beware! The hounds of justice are on your trail, and will
strike when you least expect it!_"
Slowly the words faded out, yet Andrew Barkswell stood there, riveted to
the floor, staring as though petrified into a marble image.
"Heavens!"
With this one exclamation Barkswell sprang forward and gazed out into the
night. He thought he saw a form moving away in the gloom. He threw up the
sash and called after the form, but no answer came back, and then he
dropped the sash, waking his wife.
"Delusion!" he muttered under his breath; and yet he trembled and was
very pale.