A policeman, who had charge of the station house during the absence of

his superior officer, here informed Marcus that an old lady and a young

one, an old gen'leman and a lad, had called. The old gen'leman and the

lad would drop round again during the evening. The old lady and the

young one were waiting for him in the captain's room.

He entered the captain's room--his companions staying outside--and saw,

as he expected, his half-sister Philomela, and a young woman dressed in

the height of cheap fashion, who was no other than Mash, the cook.

His sister rose, and extended her hand to him severely, and said, with a

solemn voice:

"Brother Marcus, I am sorry to see you here. I hope you are not guilty

of this crime?"

"Hope?" said Marcus, stung to the quick. "Why not say at once that I am

guilty? It is strange that the only relative I have on earth should be

the first to doubt my innocence."

"Oh, no, Marcus! You do me injustice there. I do not for a moment doubt

your innocence. But you know I always advised you to give up your

moping habits at home, and go into active business, like other men of

your age. If you had been in business now, you wouldn't have had time to

get mixed up in the affairs of this old man Minford and his daughter,

and would have escaped this disgrace. I trust, Marcus," she added,

emphatically, "I trust this will be a lesson to you."

Poor Mash, the cook, had been playing with her bonnet strings, and

trying to check her tears. But the unnatural effort was too much for

her, and she burst out crying.

"Oh, Mr. Wilkeson!" she said, between her sobs, "I--I'm so sorry to see

you here; b-but I--I know yer innocent. Boo-boo-hoo!"

"Thank you, Mash," replied Marcus, quite affected at this sudden

outbreak of sympathy. "_You_ speak like a true woman. But don't cry any

more, my good girl. I shall be released to-morrow." Marcus said this

confidently--though he had not the least idea how his acquittal was to

be obtained.

"Oh! I hope so--I--hope so, Mr. Wilkeson. Boo-boo-hoo--I--I wish I could

g-go to prison in your place. Boo-boo-hoo!"

Mash had derived this preposterous idea of vicarious imprisonment from

the story of "The Buttery and the Boudoir," which was now drawing near

its conclusion, and gradually killing, or marrying off, its heroes

and heroines.

Marcus could not help smiling at the romantic notion. Miss Philomela

laughed sarcastically, and exclaimed:

"You must take pattern from me, girl, and control your feelings. My

brother doesn't want crying women about him at this time."

"Don't be too sure of that, sister. Tears come naturally from a woman.

They are her best evidence of sympathy, and therefore precious to one

who needs it."

Mash, the cook, gave vent to a fresh shower of tears at this encouraging

remark, and made Miss Philomela shrug her shoulders in disgust.

"Oh! _don't_ be silly. Mash!" said Miss Philomela, losing all patience

with the cook.

"I--I--boo-boo-hoo!--can't help it, marm."

"Nonsense!" said the superior female. "As for you, Marcus, you should

not encourage such folly, when you have troubles that demand our sober

and earnest attention. With reference to the past, I might say a great

many things, but I forbear. To be serious, now--for once in your

life--what can I do for you?"

"Will you do what I ask, faithfully?" asked Marcus.

"Yes, faithfully. I promise."

"Then, my sister, be so good as to go home immediately, and send me a

spare shirt and a change of clothes. Mash can bring them. And, lest

another interview should prove too severe a trial for your female

sensibility, I beg that you will not come here again. If I want you very

much, I can send for you."

"You are very unkind--very unkind. But I will not make any remarks. You

know that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to serve my

brother. For, though you have faults--I suppose you will not deny that

you have some little faults--you are still my brother."

Marcus smiled, and thought how foolish it was to quarrel with the

whimsical but not bad-hearted woman. "Well, sister Philomela, you can

see for yourself that I am not ill used here. Comfortable bed, rousing

fire, and warm meals from the restaurant round the corner! The

lieutenant[1] who is in command of this station house turns out to be an

old friend of my boyhood, and treats me more like a guest than a

prisoner. And I must say, that, but for the idea of a prison, I could

live as pleasantly here as at home. Even you can do nothing to lighten

my captivity. But I promise, that _if_ I am held by this coroner's

jury--which, of course, I shall not be--and am sent to the Tombs, then I

will tax your sisterly affection to the utmost."

[Footnote 1: Called sergeant of police under the recent Metropolitan

Act.]

At the mention of that dreadful place, the "Tombs," Mash broke into

sobs again. The touching experiences of Gerald Florville in that house

of despair--as set forth in "The Buttery and the Boudoir"--were

poignantly brought to her mind.

Miss Philomela looked serious as the Tombs loomed up in her mind, and

she would have said something condoling, but for the irritating conduct

of the cook, who annoyed her so much that she decided to leave. She

abruptly shook hands with her half-brother. "It is very easy," said she,

"to point out how certain mistakes might have been avoided. But let the

past go. If you are not acquitted to-morrow, I shall call here again,

notwithstanding you don't seem very desirous to see me. Now, good-by.

Come, hurry up, Mash!"

Marcus shook hands with his half-sister, and also with Mash, who wept

afresh.

In the ante-room, Miss Philomela saw Overtop and Maltboy, upon whom she

bestowed a half smile, and Tiffles, whom she treated to a cordial

grimace, not unmingled with a blush. Tiffles, on his part, was

profoundly polite, and inquired if she were going home. Learning that

she was, he remarked that he had occasion to walk in the same direction,

and accompanied her as she left the station house. Mash followed at a

short distance behind, not because she did not think herself fully as

good as Miss Philomela, but because she wished to indulge unchecked in

the mild luxury of tears.

A new visitor was now announced. He was a curly-headed, neatly dressed

boy of nineteen years. His face was one that is handsomer in promise

than in fact. Marcus recognized him as the boy Bog, whom he had not seen

for several weeks. The boy had developed a remarkable talent for making

money honestly. For two months he had attended a night school, and was

fast correcting his awkward English, and attaining to other knowledge.

Prosperity and schooling together had given him quite a polish. The

rough boy was coming to be a presentable youth.

He advanced timidly toward Marcus, who shook hands with him. He sat down

before the fire, and commenced fumbling his cap in the old way. "With

the exception of that trick, and his shyness, there was little of the

original boy Bog about him,

"Mr. Wilkeson," said he, giving his cap a twirl, "I am very sorry to see

you here; because, I may say, I _know_ you are innocent."

The positive manner in which the boy asserted this, charmed Marcus, "I

thank you, my dear Bog," said he; "but how do you know it? For, though I

am innocent, I may have some trouble in proving it."

The boy drew a small folded note from his pocket. "I'll explain, sir,"

said he.

Marcus here called in his counsel, Messrs. Overtop and Maltboy, and his

good friend the lieutenant of police, who had just arrived in the outer

room, in order that they might hear the explanation.

The boy was embarrassed by his audience; but the anxious look of Marcus,

and a few kind words from the lieutenant of police, reassured him. Bog

then proceeded to tell what he knew of the strange young man's

acquaintance with Miss Patty Minford--which was very easily told, since

it did not amount to much--and concluded by opening the letter given to

him by the young man for delivery to Miss Minford, and handed it

to Marcus.

Marcus glanced at the writing, expecting that it would resemble that of

the first anonymous letter addressed to Mr. Minford, which he drew from

his pocket for comparison. But the writing was totally different in

inclination, thickness of the downward stroke, and all other respects.

He read it aloud, his counsel and the lieutenant of police listening

attentively.

"I don't know much about the case yet," said the lieutenant, "but,

jumping at a conclusion, I should say that this sneaking chap was

jealous of your intimacy with the Minford family; that he wrote the

anonymous letters to the old man, in a different hand, and that he

either committed the murder, or knows something about it. His motive for

annoying Miss Minford I can understand--for this city is full of just

such well dressed scoundrels; but the motive of the murder I can't

comprehend. But mark me--- this fellow has some knowledge of it; and we

must hunt him up. And, first, let us compare the letters."

Marcus handed the two letters to the lieutenant, who, with Overtop and

Maltboy, gave them a close examination. One was written on faint blue

paper in a buff envelope; the other on white paper in a white envelope.

Every curve, cross, and dot was minutely compared; but not the faintest

resemblance between the two letters could be discovered. "No more like

than chalk and cheese," said the lieutenant. "My theory is knocked on

the head."

"Let me examine the envelopes again," said Overtop. They had inspected

them less carefully than the contents.

As soon as Overtop had placed the two envelopes side by side, his eyes

lighted up with the pleasure of a great discovery. "What fools we are!"

he exclaimed. "There it is! Don't you see? Don't you see? A regular

Hogarthian line of beauty under the name on each."

All stared at the envelopes, and at once recognized the similarity

between the graceful curved lines. They looked somewhat like the letter

S laid on its side; and more like the arm of a rocking chair.

Marcus had a sudden inward vision of the writer. One of those

convictions which defy all logical analysis flashed upon his mind.

"Do you know where this strange young man lives, Bog?" asked Marcus.

"No, sir. I follered--I should say followed--him two or three times,

because I thought he wasn't acting just right toward Miss Minford (here

Bog blushed). He always went into drinking houses and billiard saloons,

and once into a place where they say the worst kind o' gambling is

allers--I mean always--going on. But he knew me by sight, and I was

afraid he would ask me about that letter which I didn't deliver for

him. So I had to follow him a good piece behind; and sometimes I lost

track of him. Then, again, he would keep a tramping round from one

drinking place to another--but never getting drunk that I could

see--till twelve or one o'clock at night. By that time I felt I ought to

go home, and so I never tracked him to his lodgings, if he has any. But

it's my belief he travels in the night, and sleeps in the daytime, like

the cats."

"Good, so far," said Marcus. "You have already given us a general

description of this fellow's dress and appearance. Now, tell me whether

his face is pale, his mustache small and curved up in points, his eyes

light gray, and never looking straight at you; his nose small, thin, and

sharp; and, now I think of it, has he not got a small scar on one of

his cheeks?"

"Why, Mr. Wilkeson," exclaimed the boy Bog, "that's the very chap!"

"Who is he?" asked the lieutenant of police, "that I may have him

arrested at once."

"He is the son--"

CHAPTER V.

THE SORROW OF WHITE HAIRS.

At that moment the door opened, and the venerable form of Myndert Van

Quintem appeared before them. Marcus cast a hasty glance, importing

silence, at his companions, and rose to receive his old friend.

Mr. Van Quintem's face expressed the tenderest compassion. He clasped

Marcus's hand, and said:

"My young friend, it deeply grieves me to see you here; for I feel--I

may say I know morally--that you are innocent of any part in

this murder."

"Thank you for your confidence," said Marcus. "I hope, when Miss Minford

and certain other witnesses are examined to-morrow, to prove my

innocence conclusively."

"So you will, I am sure. When I say that I know you are innocent, I

found my belief on my short but pleasant acquaintance with you. But I

cannot guess, from the evidence at the inquest yesterday and that of

to-day--just published in the afternoon papers,--who committed the

murder, or what was the motive of it. Have you any clue to the mystery?"

"Yes--yes," replied Marcus. "We think we have a clue; but so slight,

that it is hardly worth mentioning. My friends here are going to

follow it up."

"And in order that we may do so without any delay," said the lieutenant,

"please give us the name of that sneaking letter writer."

Marcus coughed, looked at the lieutenant knowingly, and said, "Oh,

_that's_ no consequence. It's a false scent. Depend on it."

The old gentleman, as he entered the room, had caught Marcus Wilkeson's

words. "He is the son--" and had observed the slight confusion with

which Marcus had stopped saying something. He now noticed the glance

enjoining silence, which Marcus had directed at the lieutenant

of police.

Mr. Van Quintem turned pale, as a harrowing suspicion came into his

mind. "Mr. Wilkeson," he said, in a trembling voice, "will you answer me

one question truly?"

"I--I will," replied Marcus.

"Then tell me, in Heaven's name, do you know of anything that connects

my son with this monstrous crime? I have had a dreadful presentiment,

all along, that he had something to do with it. The end of his wrong

career will be the gallows. I have dreamt of it for years. O God! that I

should have begotten such a profligate and miscreant into the world!"

The old man made another pause, and then said, with a calmness that

surprised his hearers. "Now I am ready to hear all."

"And you shall," said Marcus, "though it pains me, my dear friend, to

tell you what we know of your son. I will say, however, that there is

no proof directly connecting him with the murder."

"He is cunning and covers his tracks," said the wretched parent. "I know

him well."

Marcus then exhibited the letters. Mr. Van Quintem compared them

carefully, but could not detect the least trace of resemblance. But, on

examining the envelopes, at the suggestion of Fayette Overtop, he at

once recognized the Hogarthian curve as a mark which he had always

observed on his son's letters.

"I could almost swear to this mark; and yet it is possible that he did

not write the letters. Bad as he is, I will wait for further proofs.

Please tell me all else that you know, Mr. Wilkeson."

"With regard to the letter written to Miss Minford," said Marcus, "there

is, unhappily, but little doubt; as this lad, who was well acquainted

with the Minford family, can inform you."

The boy Bog, very reluctantly, and with many awkward breaks, and

swingings of his cap, repeated the history of the first letter, and

described the young man's person most minutely, and told how he had

followed him in his wild rambles about the town.

The old man listened sadly and quietly; only now and then interrupting

the boy's narrative with questions that were seemingly as calm as a

judge's interrogatories.

"He is a murderer. Something in the air tells me that he is," murmured

the old man. "And he is my son."

The inexpressible heart-broken sadness, with which he uttered these

words, brought tears to the eyes of his hearers.

"It may be, my dear Mr. Van Quintem, that your son did not write the

anonymous letters to Mr. Minford, notwithstanding the point of

resemblance which we think we have detected. While sitting, at my

window, I have often noticed him in his room scribbling at a desk, as if

he were practising penmanship. Perhaps, if you examine the contents of

the desk, you may get some further light on the subject. It is

wonderful--most people would say impossible--that a man should write

two letters so entirely dissimilar as these."

"My son always excelled in writing. It was one of the branches that he

took prizes in at school. I will examine the desk; but I fear I shall

only confirm my strong suspicions that he is a murderer. O God! O God!

Why did he not die with his sainted mother! Far better would that have

been. It is a hard thing, gentlemen--it is a very hard thing; but if

this boy of mine does not surrender himself to the hands of justice

to-morrow, I shall--I shall--myself denounce him to the--"

The afflicted man, overcome with the terrible conflict between a sense

of public duty, and a lingering, inextinguishable parental affection,

fainted and fell into the arms of Marcus, who sprang to catch him.

While he was still insensible, the lieutenant of police, and the boy

Bog, slipped out of the room, and started off on a search for Myndert

Van Quintem, jr.

CHAPTER VI.

WHAT PAPER, TYPES, AND INK CAN DO.

When Marcus and his counsel, accompanied by the faithful lieutenant of

police, arrived in a close carriage at the scene of the inquest, at the

hour of adjournment next morning, they saw a convincing illustration of

the power of paper, types, and ink.

The morning journals, with whole leaded pages of evidence, and new

diagrams of the house and fatal room; and the enterprising illustrated

weekly, with portraits of the deceased, the prisoner, his counsel,

Tiffles, Patching (great hat and all), Patty Minford, the coroner, the

foreman of the jury, a full-page design of the murder, as it was

supposed to have taken place, representing the infuriate Wilkeson, club

in hand, standing over the prostrate body of the inventor, from whose

forehead the gore was pouring in torrents--all these delightful,

provocatives of sensation had done their full and perfect work.

At that moment, Marcus Wilkeson was known to the world of readers in New

York and the whole country round about, as the murderer of

Eliphalet Minford.

On the second morning of the inquest an immense crowd of people were

assembled in front of the house. They had been collecting since five

A.M., when a party of six Jerseymen, having sold off their stock of

nocturnal cabbages at Washington Market, had taken position of vantage

before the house, from which they and their wagons were afterward

dislodged with great effort by a squad of police. Some butcher boys,

also returning from their night's work at market, were next on the

ground, and selected adjacent awning posts and trees, as good points of

observation. Mechanics and shop girls, going to their labor, recklessly

postponed the duties of the day, and stopped to stare, awestricken, at

the house.

A knot of people in a street, is like a drift of wood in a river. It

chokes up the stream, and catches all the other wood that is

floating down.

The police had in vain tried to clear out this human throng. They had

waged the following contests with their fellow citizens, since six

o'clock A.M.:--first, they had driven the Jersey market wagons to the

street corner below; second, they had tumbled the butcher boys out of

the trees, where they hung like a strange species of fruit; third, they

had cleared a space of ten feet square in front of the house. Having

done thus much, the police paused from exhaustion, and endured the jokes

of the populace with philosophic disdain.

Three policemen guarded the door, within which no one was admitted but

the coroner, the jury, witnesses, a few political friends of the

coroner, who exhibited passes from him, and about twenty-five reporters,

fifteen of whom really belonged to newspapers, and the remainder had a

general connection with the press, which could never be clearly defined

and established. To the magic word "reporter," accompanied by the

flourish of a pencil and a roll of paper, the three policemen smiled

obsequiously, and unbarred the way. Seeing how well this plan worked,

two gentlemen of inelegant leisure, and at least one pickpocket,

provided themselves with rolls of paper and pencils, and, giving the

password, were admitted.

As the carriage rolled round the corner of the street, bringing Marcus

in full view of these acres of men, women, and children--all waiting for

him--the little courage which he had plucked up failed him, as

plucked-up courage generally does. The sound of mingled laughter, jokes,

oaths, and exclamations of impatience reached his ears.

"Great heavens!" he cried; "and I am to face all these people!" If his

features could have been seen, at that instant, by some person who

thought himself skilled in physiognomy, he would have been

unhesitatingly pronounced guilty of several murders. Marcus sat in the

rear part of the coach, and he leaned back to avoid observation.

As the carriage entered the outskirts of the throng, they became aware

that it contained the man of their desires. Five small boys, who had run

all the way from the station house, had brought the exciting

intelligence. The vehicle was at once surrounded by clamorous people.

"Say, Mister, wich is the murderer, hey?" asked a red-shirted fellow of

Matthew Maltboy, whose corpulent figure squeezed the thin form of

Fayette Overtop into a corner of the front seat.

Maltboy was not quick at thinking; but, on this occasion, a brave

thought came into his head before he could turn to the speaker. "I am

the prisoner," said he.

"I knowed you wos," was the red-shirted reply, "by your--ugly face."

"Thank you," said Matthew, meekly.

"That's the chap that killed the old man--him with the big chops," said

the red-shirted individual to his numerous red and other shirted

friends about.

"What! that fat cuss with the pig eyes?"

"Zackly!"

"He's the puffick image of his portrait in the--Weekly, isn't he?"

"Like as two peas."

There was truth in this; for the artist who sketched the portraits, had

inadvertently placed Marcus's name under Matthew's portrait, and

_vice versa_.

"Well," said another man, an expert in human nature, "I'd convict that

fellow of murder any time, on the strength of his looks. Never were the

worst passions of our nature more prominently shown than in that bad

face." Having said which, the speaker looked about for somebody to

contradict him, and was disappointed in finding no one.

Marcus Wilkeson said: "Here, Matt, none of that generous nonsense, if

you please. I am the prisoner, my good people." As Marcus spoke, he

stretched forward, and exhibited his face to the gaze of the red-shirted

querist and his companions.

"No, you don't!" said that fiery leader. "This blubbery chap is the one.

We knows him by his picter."

"No use disputing them, Mark," said Maltboy, with his indomitable smile.

The friendly struggle was soon terminated by their arrival at the house.

Here the human jam was tremendous; but the police, under the direction

of the lieutenant, succeeded in getting their convoy safe within the

entry. The door was then closed, and five sturdy policemen stood outside

to guard it.

On entering the room, everybody and everything were found just as they

had been the day before--a day that seemed to Marcus a month ago. The

jury were idling over the newspapers, or lazily turning their quids. The

coroner, who looked a little the worse for his dinner of the day before,

was bandying jokes with the facetious reporters. The other reporters

were sharpening their pencils and laying out their note books. Some--the

younger ones--were listening with a species of reverence, which they

would soon outgrow, to the official jesting of the coroner. Others were

squabbling over the right and title to certain chairs which possessed

the extraordinary advantage of being a foot or two nearer the coroner

than the other chairs. This is a grave cause of dispute among the

reporters, and has been known to give rise to a great many hard words,

and threats of subsequent chastisements, which are always indefinitely

postponed.

The coroner nodded, and said "good morning" to the comers, and assumed a

temporary official dignity, by taking down his right leg from the arm of

the chair over which it gracefully depended. He also fortified himself,

by thrusting a sizable chew into a corner of his mouth, as if he were

carefully loading a pistol.

But neither the coroner, nor the jury, nor the reporters, nor the few

private citizens who had obtained entrance by special dispensation, and

sat gaping about the room, attracted the attention of the prisoner.

Before him was one in whose presence all other persons faded into

nothingness--the fair disturber of his peaceful life--the arbitress of

his fate--Patty Minford.

CHAPTER VII.

PET AS A WITNESS.

Little Pet sat on the low stool which she had always occupied, and which

Marcus, in his strange sentimentality, had always considered sacred to

her. She was veiled; but, through the thick gauze, he could see that her

beautiful face was deathly pale. Her slender frame shook with little

convulsions, that made the chair rattle.

"Be calm, my dear child," said a stout, self-possessed woman who sat by

her side, and held a bottle of salts conspicuously in her hand.

"Remember, you have only to tell the trewth, and let the consekences

fall where they may. Tell the trewth, as the old sayin' is, and shame

the de--you know who."

Mrs. Crull--for she it was--checked herself with a neat cough. Her

three months' private education seemed to have been lost upon her. She

could never speak correctly out of Miss Pillbody's sight. Fortunately,

her heart needed no education. She had taken the poor orphan girl to her

home, and been a mother to her. In that phrase there is an horizonless

world of love.

The deep, manly voice of Mrs. Crull carried assurance to the sinking

heart of Patty. She took the extended hand, and pressed it, deriving

strength from the contact of that strong, positive nature.

"If you please, Mr. Cronner," said Mrs. Crull, "I think you'd better go

ahead with her examination at once. Quickest said, soonest mended,

you know."

The prisoner and his counsel having taken their seats, the coroner

having involuntarily thrown his right leg into the old, easy position,

the jury having pricked up their ears, the reporters having cleared

spaces for their elbows, the young girl proceeded to give her testimony.

She was too nervous to make a clear, connected statement. Sometimes

terror, sometimes tears, would choke her voice; but the cheering words

and the smelling bottle of Mrs. Crull invariably "brought her round in

no time," in the words of that estimable lady.

Pet told the story of her return home on the fatal night, of her finding

Mr. Wilkeson and her father in angry conversation; of her retiring to

bed very much fatigued; of more conversation, growing angrier and

angrier, which she overheard; of her marvellous vision in the night; of

her waking next morning to find her vision true, and her father dead on

the floor. All these facts, with which the reader is already familiar,

the poor child made known to the jury in a fragmentary, roundabout way,

as they were elicited by questions from the coroner, the jury, and

occasionally the prisoner's counsel. The narrative of the vivid dream,

or vision, produced a startling effect on the coroner, who was a firm

believer in every species of supernaturalism winch is most at variance

with human experience and reason.

In his interrogatories to the witness, the coroner took the truth of the

vision for granted. When she testified to the blows which (in her

dream) she saw her father and the prisoner exchange, and the battered

appearance of Mr. Wilkeson's face, the coroner looked at the prisoner,

and was evidently disappointed to observe no traces of a bruise upon his

pale brow or cheeks, nor the lightest discoloration about his eyes. But

the absence of this corroboration did not, in the coroner's opinion,

throw the least discredit on the dream.

But the foreman of the jury, who had been listening with an affrighted

look to the marvellous story, and believing it, had his faith sadly

shaken by this discrepancy. Having been fireman ten years, and foreman

of a hose company six years, he knew by large experience how long it

took to tone down a black eye or reduce a puffed cheek. The foreman

looked at the smooth, clear face of the prisoner, smiled incredulously,

and shook his head at his associates.

Fayette Overtop here acted his part with a skill worthy of a veteran.

Instead of making a great ado over this weak point of the dream, he

shrugged his shoulders, and smiled faintly at the jury. The jurors, who

had been inclined, up to this time, to accept the dream as evidence,

without question, now decided that it was nonsense.

Marcus Wilkeson sat and listened, as if the scene and all the actors in

it, himself included, were only a dream too. The young girl's evidence,

of which he had not an inkling before, would have astounded him, if

anything could. But he had reached that point of reaction in the

emotions, where a stolid and complete apathy happily takes the place of

high nervous excitement. He somehow felt certain of his acquittal, but

was strangely benumbed to his fate.

He looked at the witness--the holy idol of all his romantic and tender

thoughts in days gone by--with unruffled composure. The marked stoicism

of his demeanor was not lost on the reporters, and they noticed it in

paragraphs to the effect that the prisoner exhibited a hardened

indifference during the most thrilling portion of the evidence.

QUESTION BY THE CORONER (_after thinking it over a bit_). "Who do you

say struck the fust blow, miss? Remember, now, you're on oath."

ANSWER. "My father, sir--or rather, I dreamed so."

The coroner was disappointed again, for he hoped that the witness would,

on second thought, fix the commencement of the actual assault on the

prisoner. "Your father, being old and kind o' feeble, struck a light

blow, I s'pose."

WITNESS. "No, sir--a heavy one, I should judge; for it appeared to cut

open Mr. Wilkeson's lip, and bruise his cheek. The blood seemed to run

down his face in a stream." Here little Pet exhibited signs of

faintness, which good Mrs. Crull stopped by an instant application of

the smelling bottle.

CORONER. "Mr. Wilkeson struck back a terrible blow in return, I s'pose."

WITNESS. "Yes, sir. He hit my father right in the eye, raising a black

and blue spot as large as a hen's egg." The painful recollection of this

part of the dream so overpowered the witness, that she burst into tears,

but was soon quieted by the motherly attentions of Mrs. Crull.

FOREMAN OF THE JURY. "I don't want to hurt the young lady's feelin's,

but this 'ere dream is all nonsense; and it strikes me we're a lot o'

fools to be listenin' to it. Why, Harry, you know, as well as I do, that

there wasn't no bruise on the old man's face, exceptin' the big one on

his forehead. No more is there a sign of a scratch on the prisoner's mug

there. It's all gammon."

Three others of the jury nodded in approval of this sentiment. The

remaining two shared somewhat in the coroner's reverence for dreams, and

awaited further developments.

The coroner turned his quid uneasily. "You can think as you please,

Jack," said he: "but we'll see--we'll see." The coroner, like many

other men of greater claims to wisdom, used this enigmatical expression

when he could not see anything.

A lawyer less crafty than Fayette Overtop would have protested against

the reception of this singular testimony at the outset, and at intervals

of a minute during its delivery. But he foresaw that, being a dream, it

must be full of absurdities, which would surely betray themselves, and

help his client. Besides, he was curious to hear all of the evidence,

however ridiculous and worthless, against the prisoner.

The witness then proceeded to the close of her testimony, amid the

silence of all hearers. The narrative of the dreadful grapple, the

struggle for the club, and the death blow given by Mr. Wilkeson to her

prostrate father--all delivered with an intense earnestness, broken only

by occasional sobs and pauses of anguish--produced a powerful

impression. As she finished, and fell, half fainting, into the arms of

Mrs. Crull, the coroner nodded his head slowly, and said:

"What do you think of dreams now, Jack? Something in 'em, eh?"

The foreman shared in the general feeling of awe; but he had given his

opinion that the dream was nonsense, and stood by it. "It's strange,"

said he. "It's what the newspapers call a 'strordinary quincidence,'

that the young lady should 'a' dreamed out this murder so plain. I do'

'no' much about the science o' dreams, but I think this one might be

explained somethin' in this way: The young lady heerd the old man and

Mr. Wilkeson here talkin' strong, when she come home that night. She

went to sleep with their conversation ringin' in her ears. Part on it

she heerd in her dreams, and the rest she 'magined. She says she was

afraid there would be trouble between 'em when she went to bed. The

fight, and the murder, and all that, which she says she saw in a dream,

or vision like, might have grown out o' that naterally enough. That's my

notion of it, off hand. I've often gone to bed, myself, thinkin' of

somethin' horrible that was goin' to happen, and dreamt that it did

happen."

[Illustration: THE INQUEST. MARCUS SPRINGS TO HIS FEET.]

This was precisely the theory upon which Fayette Overtop intended to

explain the dream to the jury when the proper time arrived. He was glad

that the foreman had done it instead; for he knew the tenacity with

which a man, having given an opinion, defends it. To have so potent an

advocate of his client's innocence on the jury, was a strong point.

"Very good, old boy," said the coroner; "but, if the prisoner didn't

commit the murder, who did?"

This question, so manifestly unjust, and betraying the coroner's

intention to sacrifice Marcus to a theory, roused that unfortunate man

to consciousness, and he sprang to his feet. But the wiser Overtop

placed his hands upon his friend's shoulder, whispered in his ear, and

forced him reluctantly into his seat. Overtop knew that the

argumentative foreman could best dispose of the coroner.

The foreman replied to the coroner's question:

"As to who did the murder, that's what we're here to find out. But, for

one, I sha'n't bring in no man guilty till it's proved onto him."

The foreman's face was a dull one, but it became suddenly luminous with

an idea:

"You say, miss, that you was waked by a noise as of somethin' heavy

fallin' on the floor?"

"Yes, sir."

"You s'pose--as we all s'pose--that it was your father's body that fell,

when he received his death blow?"

"Yes, sir."

"You say you heerd no one a-goin' out o' the room?"

"No, sir."

"That's not strange; for the murd'rer could 'a' slipped off his boots or

shoes, and walked out puffickly quiet. I noticed, this mornin', and the

other members of the jury can see for themselves, that the boards of the

floor don't creak when you walk on 'em, nor the entry door neither when

you open it. Didn't you never observe that succumstance?"

"Yes, sir; but it did not occur to me when I woke up. I thought, if the

dream had been true, that I should have heard Mr. Wilkeson moving around

in the room, or going out of the door. I listened for a long time, as I

have already said, and, hearing nobody, I thought the dream was nothing

but a nightmare, as father used to call it."

"One more question, miss, which may or may not be of some consekence.

Haven't you no idee about what time it was when you was waked up by this

noise of somethin' fallin'?"

"No, sir; not the least. It might have been about midnight, I should

guess."

"Think a minute, miss, if you didn't hear any sound outside that could

give you some idee of the time." The foreman fixed his eyes piercingly

on the witness.

She reflected a moment. "Yes--yes; I do remember, that when I jumped out

of bed--which I did the very second that I woke up--and listened at the

door, I heard the fire bells striking. Now, if anybody could tell what

time that happened."

"At precisely twenty-five minutes of twelve," said the foreman, in a

solemn voice. "It was for the seventh district--the only 'larm that

night. It was a false 'larm, and only three or four rounds was sounded.

Did you hear the bell many times?"

"Only two or three, and then it stopped. The sound was very plain, sir,

because the bell tower is only a short distance from here, you know."

"Exactly," said the foreman. "You woke up just as Uncle Ith was givin'

off the last round."

There was a deep, awestruck silence in the room; for all understood the

object of these inquiries.

"Now, gentlemen," continued the foreman, in a trembling voice, "let the

prisoner only prove that he was a half, or a quarter, or an eighth of a

mile from here when that 'larm was sounded, and I rather think he will

clear himself. Where are the policemen that the prisoner saw

that night?"

A noise, as of heavy official boots, was heard on the stairs, sending a

strange thrill through the hearts of all present.

"God be praised," said Fayette Overtop, "if the lieutenant has found

them." It was the first time that the model young lawyer had shown any

signs of emotion.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BENEFICENCE OF FIRE BELLS.

The door opened, and the tall form of the police lieutenant appeared,

attended by two patrolmen. The patrolmen, on entering, looked directly

at the prisoner, and seemed to recognize him. The police lieutenant

appeared to be pleased with his success in finding the witnesses, after

a hunt through several station houses; but he was not aware what

importance the testimony which they could give had suddenly acquired.

The witnesses had been searched for at the suggestion of Fayette

Overtop, with the vague hope of making them useful in some way.

The coroner scowled at the witnesses, for he feared that they would

prove the man innocent, who, in his opinion, was the murderer. Having

adopted this theory at the outset, and staked the whole issue upon it,

he felt a natural reluctance to give it up.

The lieutenant explained to the coroner that the two officers could

probably throw some light on the prisoner's movements, the night of

the murder.

The coroner administered the oath to both of them, as follows:

"Holeup your ri't'an'. You swear to tell truth, th'ole truth, nothin'

but truth, s'elpyeGod. Kiss the book."

The men complied with these impressive formalities, and the coroner then

proceeded to interrogate one of them--a strapping fellow with an

intensely Irish face.

"Name?" said the coroner.

"Patrick O'Dougherty, yer Honor."

The phrase "Yer Honor" produced its customary gracious effect.

"Do you spell O'Dougherty with a 'k,'?" asked the coroner.

"Hang me if I knows!" said the O'Dougherty. "I niver spilt it. Spill it

to suit yezself, yer Honor."

"Spell it in the usual way, with a 'k'" said the coroner, turning to the

reporters.

"Your residence, Mr. O'Dougherty?"

"Me what?"

"Your residence. Where do you live?"

"Oh! it's fare I live yer want to know. In Mulberry street, near

Baxter."

"You belong to the perlice, I believe?" asked the coroner.

"It's quare ye should ax me that!" replied the O'Dougherty, with an

enormous smile.

"Because you have the perliceman's hat, club, and badge? You forget,"

said the coroner, patronizingly, "that courts of justice doesn't know

nothin' until it's proved to them. As a coroner, I shouldn't know my own

grandmother, until she swore to herself."

"'Tisn't that, yer Honor; but becos yer got me onto the perlice yerself.

Don't yer 'member, on 'lection day, I smashed two ticket booths of

t'other can'date, in the Sixth Ward, lickt as much as a dozen men who

was workin' agen ye, an' din was put into the Tumes over night--bad luck

to the Tumes, I say! Well, yer Honor, ye was 'lected coroner by a small

vote; an', in turn for me services, ye got me 'p'inted--"

"Ah! oh! I remember, now," said the coroner, somewhat confused. "I did

not know you in the perliceman's dress. Well, Mr. O'Dougherty, did you

see the prisoner on the night of the murder?"

"I did, yer Honor. It was about twelve o'clock. I was sittin' on a

bar'l in front of Pat McKibbin's store, corner of Washin'ton

and ---- streets. I was watchin' the bar'l, yer Honor, becos Pat

McKibbin had some of 'em stole lately, ye see."

"Could yer swear to him, Mr. O'Dougherty?"

"Could I shwear to me own mother?--Hivin rest her sowl! Bedad, I shud

know him a thousan' years from now. Didn't he shtop and light his siggar

at me poipe? And didn't his nose touch me own?"

"Did he look pale and excited?" asked the coroner.

"No, yer Honor; his face was red as a brick, an', though it was a cowld

night, he looked to be warm wid fasht walkin'."

"Did he say anythin'?"

"No; he only axed for a light."

"Was his 'pearance 'spicious?"

"No, yer Honor, more'n yer own. No offince to yez."

"That'll do, Mr. O'Dougherty. Next witness."

"If you please, your Honor," said the smooth Overtop, rising, "you have

accidentally omitted to ask one very important question. The prisoner

stated, on his preliminary examination, you remember, that, when he

stopped to light a cigar from the pipe of a policeman, he heard the

sound of a fire bell commencing to strike. Miss Minford testifies, that

when she was roused from sleep by the noise of her father falling to the

floor, she heard the alarm for the Seventh District. McKibbin's store,

at the corner of Washington and ---- streets, is more than half a mile

from here. In view of these facts, I will, with your Honor's permission,

ask Mr. O'Dougherty if he heard the fire alarm that night; and, if so,

whether the prisoner was in sight at the time?"

"Shure, an' I heerd it," answered the O'Dougherty. "It was fur the

Seventh District. An' wasn't this gin'leman here at the ind o' me poipe,

jist when it begun to bang away?"

Overtop cast one triumphant glance at the jury, which was fully

reciprocated by the foreman and four others.

"I have no more questions to ask, your Honor," said Overtop.

"Nor I," said the coroner, "as the witness's testimony has no great

bearin' on the case, that I can see. What is jour name, Mister--er--"

"Thomas Jelliman," responded the second policeman, a stout, bluff,

honest-looking fellow. He did not say "Your Honor," and thereby offended

the coroner.

"Well, what's yer bizness, anyhow?" asked the coroner, curtly.

"I should think you would remember that I was a policeman," said the

witness, looking the coroner straight in the eye.

The coroner, taking a second observation of the witness, recalled him as

the identical officer who had arrested him, one Christmas night, for

drunkenness, and locked him up in the station house. This little

occurrence was before his election to the dignified and responsible

office of County Coroner.

"If you don't remember me," said the witness, "I think I could bring

myself to your mind easy. On a certain Christmas night, not many

years ago--"

"Never mind the particulars, Mr. Jelliman," observed the coroner. "Come

to look at yer, I recolleck yer very well. Ahem! What do you know about

this 'ere case, Mr. Jelliman?"

"Nothing, sir, except that I can swear to having seen the prisoner, on

the night of the murder, at the corner of West and ---- streets. He was

smoking a cigar, and walking fast. As he passed me, he said, 'A cold

night, Mr. Policeman.' This made me notice him particularly, because it

isn't very often that people throw away civilities on us. Just as he

turned the corner below me, the alarm bells struck the last round for

the Seventh District. They had struck three or four rounds. That is all

I know about the affair."

"I have no other questions to ask, Mr. Jelliman," said the coroner, with

great politeness.

The coroner was baffled. He had staked the whole case upon the theory of

Marcus Wilkeson's guilt, and had made no attempt to procure other

testimony than what would prove that supposition. He scratched his head

and rolled his quid in a perfect quandary.

Another noise was heard on the stairs, as of several persons hurriedly

ascending.

Then the door opened, and an excited group made its appearance. In

advance was a slender young man, whose face was pale with debauchery.

His clothes were rich, and had an unpleasantly new look. As he stepped

over the threshold, he glanced coolly about the room, and, his eyes

resting on the coroner, smiled.

"Ah, Myndert, my boy," said the coroner, "what are you here for?"

CHAPTER IX.

AN OLD MAN'S OFFERING.

"Hang me if I know, Harry! It's the old man's work. He'll explain it to

you."

Behind this easy young man came a strong policeman, who, immediately

upon his entrance, received a nod of approbation from the lieutenant.

Behind the policeman walked, with bended white head and tottering limbs,

the venerable Mr. Van Quintem. The old gentleman was partly supported,

in his infirmity, by the boy Bog. It was a touching sight to see the

confiding trust with which the weakness of sixty-eight clung to the

strong arm of nineteen. Bog hung down his head modestly, and blushed. He

was not seen even to look at the little veiled figure which sat in the

middle of the room. But young Myndert Van Quintem looked at it, and

bowed with the deepest respect. The bow was answered by a faint nod and

a delicate blush. Mrs. Crull observed the interchange of recognitions,

and frowned to herself.

"Mr. Coroner," said the old gentleman, straightening himself, and coming

forward with a quick step, as one who was about to perform an unpleasant

task, and would hurry through it, "this young man is my son. God knows

what love I have lavished upon him from the day that he was born, and

with what ingratitude he has repaid me. But--but that is neither here

nor there. I have come here to deliver him up to you as a prisoner--"

"As a prisoner!" echoed the coroner; and he and all looked amazed at

this strange announcement.

"Why should it surprise you? It is a simple act of justice. I have

reason to think that my son knows something about this murder" (here the

old gentleman's voice faltered); "and my duty, as a good citizen and an

honest man, requires me to surrender him. There are other affairs of a

private nature between myself and my son--he knows to what I refer

--which I am not prepared to make public at the present time." The old

gentleman looked significantly at his son, who smiled calmly at him

in return.

A chair was brought for Mr. Van Quintem, sen., and he sank into it. The

young man seated himself in another chair which was handed to him by the

attentive coroner himself.

"Now, Myndert, my good fellow," said the coroner, "if yer knows anything

about this affair, fire away."

"Will the coroner be good enough to swear the witness?" asked Fayette

Overtop.

"Oh! I'd quite forgot it." And the coroner mumbled his irreverent

jargon.

"Two minutes are enough to tell you all I know, Harry," said the young

man, in a sweet, effeminate voice. "I happened to save Miss Minford's

life, a few months ago--she will give you the particulars, no doubt, if

you desire them--and that is the way I made her acquaintance." (Here

another respectful bow to the young lady.) "Since then, I have met her,

quite accidentally, a few times, and--I do not pretend to conceal

it--have gradually come to feel an interest--a brotherly interest, I may

call it--in her." (The coroner smiled.) "Having learned from her that

she was receiving her education at the expense of Mr. Wilkeson, and that

that gentleman was a constant visitor at her father's house I thought

it proper, as a sincere and disinterested friend of the young lady, to

make some inquiries into his character. Judging, from the result of

these inquiries, that his designs were not honorable toward Miss

Minford--Mr. Wilkeson will pardon the expression, but I am under oath,

and must tell the truth as to my motives--I took the liberty of writing

a note to Mr. Minford, merely cautioning him against Mr. Wilkeson. I did

not sign my name to the note, because I was not personally acquainted

with Mr. Minford--in fact, never saw him in my life--and did not wish to

assume the responsibility, disagreeable to every sensitive person, of

interfering in another man's family affairs. The object of the note was

to make Mr. Minford cautious. I presume no one will undertake to say

that a father can be too cautious concerning the honor of a young and

lovely daughter." (Another respectful glance at Miss Minford.) "I am

aware anonymous letters are a little irregular, in the opinions of most

people. But, when sent with a good motive, I really don't see the

harm in them."

"Nor I neither," said the coroner. "It strikes me they're correct enough

when the motive's a good 'un."

"But, your Honor, when an anonymous letter is full of lies and slanders,

I respectfully submit that it is a piece of cowardly malice, which the

law ought to punish with the utmost severity." Fayette Overtop spoke

with tranquillity and firmness, looking young Van Quintem directly in

the eye, and making him quail.

The judicious phrase, "Your Honor," alone saved Overtop from an

explosion of official wrath. "The Court can't allow these interruptions,

Mr. Overtop," said the coroner. "Her dignity must be maintained. As for

'nonymous letters, whether it's right or wrong to send them, people will

differ. The coroner and the jury is competent to judge for themselves.

Go ahead, Myndert."

"As the first letter seemed to have no effect, I sent another,

suggesting that Mr. Minford should inquire into Mr. Wilkeson's history

in the little village of----, Westchester County, where he was born,

and lived many years. I learned from Miss Minford that her father

visited Westchester County one day, and presume that he made some

important discoveries there; for Miss Minford told me, that, on his

return, he had forbidden Mr. Wilkeson to come to the house. If there was

any harm in putting Mr. Minford on the track to find out the real truth

about the man who was a constant attendant at his fireside, I do not

see it."

"Nor I neither," said the coroner. "The end, as the sayin' is, justifies

the means."

"If your Honor pleases," said the facile Overtop, "we could easily prove

that all the reports which Mr. Minford gathered in Westchester County,

prejudicial to my client, arose from a confounding of another person

with him. But, as this explanation would involve the disclosure of

private family affairs, and also the reflection of disgrace on the

memory of the dead, my client prohibits me from saying more on the

subject. But all this, as none knows better than your Honor, has nothing

to do with the case. We ask that my client shall either be proved guilty

of the murder, or of some knowledge of it, or released."

Fayette Overtop here looked volumes of confidence at the jury; and five

of the jury looked back volumes of agreement with him.

"Nobody can be in a bigger hurry than me, Mr. Overtop," said the

coroner, with tolerable good nature. "These 'ere inquests, commencin' in

the mornin' and holdin' on a good part of the day, are rather hard on a

chap 'customed to his 'leven-o'clock drink. I have to make up for the

loss by adjournin' early in the arternoon. Ha! ha! Now, Myndert, my boy,

rush her through. You don't know anythin' about the murder, I s'pose.

You were somewhere else on the fatal night, of course--and I can guess

where. At Brown's, eh?"

Brown's was a notorious gambling house on Broadway.

"Exactly, Harry. I was at Brown's from nine P.M. to four o'clock the

following morning. And, if I mistake not, there is a gentleman in this

room who can swear to having seen me there, say from ten to eleven."

Saying this, young Van Quintem winked hard at the coroner.

"You needn't mince matters," said the coroner. "I was at Brown's that

night, and between the hours you name. Being a public officer, I

sometimes look into Brown's, and a good many other places, too, to see

that nothin' a'n't a-goin' on wrong. Ha! I partickly 'member it, because

I accidentally lost about fifty dollars there that night. Ha! ha!"

"I think I recollect the little circumstance," said the witness, with a

smile.

"Very likely. Ha! Now, Myndert, of course we all understand that you are

innocent; but, to satisfy the public, I guess I'd better summon a few

witnesses from Brown's, to prove you were there all night."

"I thought of that, Harry, and requested a number of my friends at

Brown's to drop around here, and prove an _alibi_ for me. They were very

much engaged at the time, or they would have come with me."

"They were playing faro," said the old gentleman, "and my son was

gambling with them. Wretched young man, how often have I cautioned you

against that vice!"

"The cautioning I don't object to," said the son; "but I consider it

unfair to drag a fellow away from a streak of good luck. I was raking in

the piles just as you and the policeman, and that mop-headed youth

behind you" (he alluded to the boy Bog) "came down on me. Ah! I see the

game is finished, and here they are."

Four men, of a highly correct appearance, dressed in quiet good taste,

who would have passed in the Broadway muster for merchants of the

severest practical variety, entered the room.

They nodded in the most gentlemanly manner to the coroner, and gave a

friendly recognition to young Myndert.

"You may be willing to believe these polished scoundrels under oath;

but hang me if I would!" said the old gentleman, with emphasis.

The four gamblers showed their even rows of white teeth pleasantly, and

one of them replied:

"You are an elderly gentleman, Mr. Van Quintem, and the father of our

young friend; and, of course, you are permitted to abuse us as much as

you like."

"It seems to me, Mr. Van Quintem," said the coroner, "that you are

rather hard on these gen'lemen, who, so fur as I know 'em, is of the

highest respectability. Don't yer want to have yer son prove

an _alibi?_"

"I want to have him prove the truth, and that's all. And for that reason

I wouldn't credit such evidence as these men will give."

"You would like to have me hanged, my dear father," said the son,

mildly; "but I don't think you will be gratified in that amiable little

desire. Eh, Harry?"

The coroner grinned, shifted his quid, put on his most serious official

look, and said:

"No more of this 'ere jokin', if you please, gen'lemen. A inquest isn't

zactly the place for fun."

He then proceeded to swear and interrogate the four new witnesses. They

took the oath decorously, kissing the book in the politest, most

gentlemanly manner. Their testimony was to the effect that young Van

Quintem passed the night of the murder, from ten P.M. till four A.M., at

Brown's, and was not absent one minute. They were able to corroborate

the fact, by a reference to pocket memorandum books, in which entries

such as "Van Q., debit $50," or "Van Q., credit $100," appeared at

intervals. As to the general character of the house, upon which several

members of the jury asked questions, they testified that it was a

species of club house, where a few gentlemen of excellent reputation

occasionally met for the purposes of innocent social intercourse. Games

of chance were sometimes played at Brown's, to while away an hour; and

betting was now and then done, in a strictly honorable and legitimate

way. Several of the jurymen would have improved the occasion, to learn

all about the internal management of Brown's; but the coroner decided

that such questions were entirely "relevant" (meaning irrelevant), and

suggested that, as there were no more witnesses, the case might as well

go to the jury. The coroner had just consulted his watch, and found that

it was four o'clock. He was aware, from the turn things had taken, that

he had lost the verdict which he hoped to obtain; but that was no reason

why he should lose his dinner. The coroner was not a man of energy; and,

being foiled in his efforts to convict Marcus Wilkeson, he had no

disposition to pursue the matter further. Besides, he had already

achieved a large measure of profitable notoriety from the case; for he

had been ridiculed and abused in most of the city papers; and _that_

insured him, beyond all doubt, the nomination for and election to the

State Senate, for which he was an aspirant at the next fall campaign.

Under all these circumstances, the coroner was satisfied.

The jurors, receiving but a shilling a day, and being hungry and tired,

were quite willing to wind up the case. After putting their heads

together, whispering and nodding about five minutes, the foreman

declared the following as their verdict:

"That the deceased, Eliphalet Minford, came to his death, on the night

of the ---- day of April, 185-, from a wound inflicted on the head by a

club in the hands of some person unknown to the jurors."

Overtop and Maltboy took the verdict as a matter of course, having

anticipated it for some time. Marcus Wilkeson, who had been in a gloomy

stupor for the past hour, and had expected the worst, looked up in

surprise at this lucky dispensation of Fate. Tears sprang to his eyes,

and he extended a hand to each of his faithful friends, by whom he was

warmly congratulated on the happy issue of the affair. The jurors also

came forward with their congratulations. Even the coroner said, "Well,

Mr. Wilkeson, I did my pootiest to hold you, because I thought you was

the murderer; but the jury doesn't indorse my 'pinion, and I gives in."

Mrs. Crull, who had been watching Marcus narrowly, and was firmly

impressed with the conviction of his innocence, came forward with a warm

hand, and tried to think of a proverb suitable to the occasion, but

could not. Patty Minford removed the veil from her face, and looked at

her benefactor. She made a motion as if to rise and go toward him. Then

an expression of doubt stole over her features; and Marcus, who observed

her at that moment, knew that the vision of the night was still before

her, and that she could not hold him guiltless though a dozen juries had

released him. This thought touched Marcus with sadness, which all the

congratulations of his friends could not disperse.

A faint cry was heard. Old Mr. Van Quintem had fallen from his chair,

and would have dropped upon the floor, but for the strong arm of the boy

Bog. He was in the act of rising from his seat for the purpose of

offering his hand to Marcus, when the vertigo, from which he was an

occasional sufferer, seized him.

"Poor old gentleman!" said Marcus, forgetful of all else, and rushing to

the side of his venerable friend. Directing that the windows be opened,

Marcus, aided by the boy Bog, bore the senseless form to the fresh, cool

air. The grateful breeze, and a cup of cold water applied to his brow,

soon restored the wretched father to a beginning of consciousness.

As he lay there, more dead than alive, in the arms of his two friends,

the ingrate son, having lighted a cigar, looked coldly over the

shoulders of the bystanders at the senseless figure of his father, and

said, in the sweetest voice:

"Poor old fellow! He has only himself to blame for kicking up all this

row. I told him it would be too much for his nerves; but he would insist

on dragging me up here. I forgive him from the bottom of my heart."

The bystanders looked on in amazement at this speech.

The son continued: "I'm glad to see that he is in good hands. Upon my

word, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to help a little; but

I fear that, when the old man came out of it, and saw me over him, he

would go off again. So I guess I had better leave."

And young Van Quintem sauntered cheerfully out of the room, in company

with his four friends from Brown's. The coroner had been waiting at the

foot of the stairs for them; and the party adjourned to the nearest

drinking saloon, when the coroner, overjoyed at having got rid of a

tedious and embarrassing case, stood treat for one round.

But who killed the inventor?

The papers and the police, after groping for weeks in search of the

answer, turned it over to the solution of Time, with the comforting

assurance that MURDER WILL OUT.

BOOK TENTH.

DONE ON BOTH SIDES.

CHAPTER I.

A FISHER OF MEN.

Mr. Augustus Whedell was a gentleman who had been living handsomely for

three years on his wits.

There was nothing remarkable in Mr. Whedell's personal appearance, with

the exception of his wig. It was his fond belief that this wig looked

like natural hair; but everybody knew it was a wig across the street. He

also wore a gold double eyeglass, which he handled as effectively as a

senorita her fan. Most of his loans, credits, and extensions, had been

obtained by the dexterous manipulation of that eyeglass.

Mr. Whedell twirled the dangerous instrument, and opened and shut it

with more than his usual grace, one evening toward the middle of April.

He was about to broach a disagreeable subject to his daughter, who,

blooming, and exquisitely dressed, sat by the fire and yawned.

"My dear Clementina, you are now twenty years old, and ought to be

married. Delays are dangerous. What do you think of Chiffield?"

Mr. Whedell spoke bluntly, and to the point, because he was addressing

his own daughter, and also because short speeches suited his

natural languor.

"He's a horrid dancer!" said that young lady.

"Granted. But when he does dance, he jingles money in his pocket."

"He's a perfect fright, pa. You won't deny that?"

"I won't deny that he is a plain, substantial gentleman. He has immense

feet, and he is a little bald. What of that?"

"Oh! nothing," replied Clementina, in a tone that signified

"Everything."

Her father caught the irony of the remark, and said:

"My dear child, I know the natural leaning of your sex to handsome men.

You are like your mother there. But remember, they never have any

money--as a general rule. I won't undertake to explain the curious fact.

But fact it is, you will admit that."

"Very likely. But I hate this old Chiffield."

Mr. Whedell smiled, twirled his double eyeglass a few dozen times round

his forefinger, and said:

"My darling daughter, listen, and you will appreciate the advantages of

this match."

Clementina frowned, and bit her finger nails.

"My child," continued the fond parent, "I have always concealed my

troubles from you. They can no longer be kept a secret. This house is

not mine. Most of this furniture is unpaid for. The last month's bills

at the butcher's, baker's, and grocer's are still due. I have exhausted

my credit, and don't know where to raise a dollar. That is my

'situation,' as the newspapers say."

Clementina turned pale with amazement, and could not say a word.

"You are willing to hear me? I will explain further. Three years ago, my

old friend Mr. Abernuckle failed. He owned this house, and, wishing to

save it from his creditors, he had previously made a sham sale of it to

me. I have occupied it free of rent. On the strength of this house, I

got credit for furniture, for clothes, for our bread and meat. On the

strength of this house, I have borrowed money enough to keep my

principal creditors at bay. On the strength of this house, we occupy

to-day a very fair position in society. On the strength of this house, I

propose to marry you."

His daughter still looked on with open mouth, like one stupefied.

"But, to do this, no time must be lost. My friend Abernuckle has at last

settled with his creditors at fifteen per cent., and wants possession of

the house on the 1st of May. On that day this will be our home

no longer."

There was a fearless pull at the door bell. "It is a creditor," said Mr.

Whedell. "I will face him."

Mr. Whedell went to the door, and returned in a few moments. "It was the

butcher," said he. "He had called twice to-day, and, not finding me in,

takes this unusual hour to ask for a settlement. The old excuses would

not do. What do you suppose I told him this time?"

"I can't imagine. Something dreadful, I suppose," was the shuddering

reply.

"The man had to be got rid of. We must have meat. I was at my wits' end.

So I took the liberty of telling him, confidentially, that my daughter

would marry a wealthy merchant in a few days, and asked him, as a favor,

to let the bill run on to the 1st of May. On that day he should

positively be paid. The man grumbled at first, but finally said he would

give me one more trial, and then went away. Neatly arranged, wasn't

it, my dear?"

Mr. Whedell would have been delighted with one word of approval (even a

qualified one) from his daughter, but she would not, or could not

speak it.

"You listen attentively, my darling. I am glad to see it. This plan

worked so well with the butcher, that I shall try it on with the

upholsterer, the baker, the grocer, the tailor, and the rest of my long

list of creditors. I shall stake all on the 1st of May. To save us from

a grand explosion, and to obtain a roof for your head and mine on the

1st of May, you must marry immediately."

Miss Clementina Whedell, like many other people, had an unsuspected

strength of character which only a great occasion could call out. "It is

perfectly atrocious," said she, at length, "and I am making a grave

sacrifice of my happiness; but I suppose I must do it. Are you sure this

Chiffield is rich?"

"Now, you are my own dear daughter!" said Mr. Whedell, tossing his

double eyeglass up and catching it, as was his custom when exulting.

"Your question is a prudent one, and worthy of you. I am happy to inform

you that Chiffield is worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Clementina smiled faintly, though she tried to look like a martyr.

"I learn this from the tax rolls. When Chiffield first began to call

here, and showed a profound interest in my conversation, I knew that he

was after you, and I thought it best to look into his resources. The tax

rolls, which are the best possible evidence, show that he has ten lots

in Harlem, with a cottage tenement on each of them, and several acres

now rented to German gardeners in the Twelfth Ward. These are rated in a

lump at seventy-five thousand dollars, which is a low estimate. So much

for the real estate. Now the personal property of Upjack, Chiffield &

Co. is valued on the same tax rolls (which always understate it) at

three hundred thousand dollars. Suppose Chiffield to own a one-fourth

interest only, and there you have the item of seventy-five thousand

dollars more. Grand total, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A

nearer figure would probably be two hundred thousand dollars; but I will

not build castles in the air for you. Chiffield is only forty--which is,

in fact, young. He is healthy and energetic. The firm are making money.

He will yet be a millionnaire. Confess, now, that I have chosen

wisely for you."

Here another decisive pull at the door bell. Mr. Whedell answered it in

person. Returning, he merely said, giving his double eyeglass a fillip,

"The furniture man. Have fixed him for the 1st of May. So far, the plan

works well."

"But are you sure, pa," asked the discreet Clementina, "that Mr.

Chiffield will offer himself?"

"Positive; because he has always been so very attentive to me. When men

flatter, and study the hobbies of the father, they are after the

daughter in earnest. Mr. Chiffield's very figure--the cut of his jib, so

to speak--is that of a marrying man. Only you must give him some little

encouragement. Not keep him at a distance, as you have hitherto done."

"But he may not be anxious to marry before the 1st of May. Then what?"

"Poor thing! how little you understand mankind! He will marry you at

twenty-four hours' notice, if you will let him. All men are alike

impatient and unreasonable in such matters. It is the women who hold

back--after they are safely engaged."

"La, pa! how knowingly you talk!"

"I flatter myself I know something of the human species," returned Mr.

Whedell. "Ah! another ring. Too faint for a creditor. Mr.

Chiffield, perhaps."

CHAPTER II.

PLAYING WITH THE LINE.

The conjecture was correct. But with Mr. Chiffield came Matthew Maltboy.

They had arrived on the door steps at the same moment, coming from

different directions.

Mr. Whedell received Chiffield with his heartiest grip, and inflicted

only a mild squeeze on the hand of Maltboy, whose appearance at that

time he considered decidedly unfortunate. The father thought he had

observed in Clementina signs of preference for that corpulent young

lawyer. He was pained to see that Clementina barely extended the tips of

her fingers to Chiffield, while to Maltboy she gave her whole palm with

great cordiality. Not only this, but she encouraged Maltboy to take a

seat by her, and commenced talking with him of the opera, of balls, of

new music, of fashions, of the last novel, rattling away on these

subjects as if her whole soul were wrapped up in the discussion. It was

almost a monologue. Maltboy's part consisted of "Yes;" "I think so too;"

"We agree perfectly," and adjectives of admiration occasionally thrown

in. That musical voice! He could have listened with rapture to its

recital of the multiplication table.

Mr. Chiffield and Mr. Whedell had settled themselves on a _tête-à-tête_,

and, after some cursory observations on the weather, commenced talking

of finance--a theme of which neither of those gentlemen ever tired.

"So money is getting tighter?" said Mr. Whedell, after a pause to digest

the awful truth which Mr. Chiffield had imparted to him. "Now I

shouldn't be surprised, sir, to hear of failures before long, and in

quarters where the public least expect them."

If Mr. Whedell's double eyeglass had been astride his nose instead of

swinging in his fingers, he might have noticed a faint paleness blending

with the deep yellow of Mr. Chiffield's complexion. That gentleman

replied, a little more quickly than was his wont:

"A few small, weak houses may go down, perhaps, but the strong ones will

weather the storm easy enough. If our establishment could live through

1847, it is in no danger now."

"And such was the good fortune of Upjack, Chiffield & Co., I well

remember," said Mr. Whedell.

Mr. Chiffield bowed his gracious acknowledgment of the handsome

historical allusion.

"How is Erie, Mr. Chiffield?"

"Looking up."

"Sure of it?"

"A leading Wall-street man told me, this afternoon, it would advance

three per cent. this week. I have a slight interest in watching it,"

said Mr. Chiffield, smiling.

"So have I," said Mr. Whedell, smiling also.

Daring their conversation, and the remainder of their financial

dialogue, Mr. Whedell kept one ear, and occasionally one eye, inclined

toward his daughter and the favored Maltboy. If there was a hint

conveyed in those side glances at his daughter, she either did not

notice it, or did not choose to take it. Sometimes Mr. Chiffield looked

in the same direction, but casually, as it were, and without one sign of

impatience visible in the depths of his calm brown eyes. Mr. Chiffield

was not a nervous man.

Matthew Maltboy was so perfectly free from selfishness at this moment,

that he would cheerfully have spared a few words from Miss Whedell's

delightful monologue for the gratification of his late rival ("late" was

now decidedly the word, in Maltboy's opinion) over the way. In the

exercise of his large charity and compassion, he pitied that

unfortunate, sadly disappointed dealer in dry goods.

This pity, as Matthew used to say in after days, was thrown away. At the

end of a brilliant description of a new set of quadrilles which Miss

Whedell had danced at a sociable the night before, that young lady said,

"Excuse me," and crossed the room to a what-not in the corner, and

searched for something among a pile of magazines and pictures. The

thought that she was making efforts to please him, tickled Matthew's

vanity. While she was overhauling the pile, Mr. Whedell left his seat by

Chiffield, and took the one just vacated by his daughter. Matthew

received him with the diplomatic courtesy due to the parent of one's

enchantress, and made a well-meant if not novel remark on the state of

the weather. Mr. Whedell mildly disputed his proposition (whatever it

was)--for Mr. W. was always disputatious on that subject--and then

passed to the consideration of national politics. "The one topic

natually suggests the other," said Mr. Whedell, "for they are equally

variable." This was one of the father's few standard jokes; and Maltboy

always laughed at it with the heartiness of a future son-in-law. They

then grappled with the great theme in earnest.

CHAPTER III.

PULLING IN.

Clementina, having found what she sought, glided to the chair which her

father had relinquished, and said, coquettishly, "Now I have come to

entertain _you_, Mr. Chiffield. You were speaking of Niagara Falls, the

other day. Here are some photographs of them, taken for me on the spot."

She handed the pictures to Mr. Chiffield. That gentleman took them with

a profound bow, glanced over them, and said, "How elegant!" "What rich

scenery!" "How tasty they are got up, a'n't they?" "This is the showiest

picture;" "Here's a neat one," &c., &c., &c. Mr. Chiffield had

contracted the use of a certain class of highly descriptive adjectives

in selling dry goods. Clementina watched him narrowly, and thought how

nicely she could manage this heavy fellow.

"How many times have you been to the Falls?" she asked, when Chiffield

had shuffled through the photographs twice.

"Three times," said Chiffield, telling a white lie; for he had seen them

at morning, noon, and evening on the same day. "And how often have you

visited them, Miss Whedell?"

"Oh! so often I can't remember. My last visit was early last autumn. Oh!

pa, did we go to Niagara Falls before or after our trip to the White

Mountains?"

"After it, my child," replied the father, who maintained a cocked ear

toward his child. "Don't you recollect we went from the Falls to Lake

George, and stayed there till the first week in November? That was the

year we omitted Newport and Saratoga, for a wonder," he added, conveying

the idea, in a look to Mr. Chiffield, that such an omission was a marvel

in their annual experiences.

"You love the Falls, I suppose?" said Mr. Chiffield.

"Oh! not much. I think they're dreadfully overrated." Clementina was

determined not to be won too cheaply.

"So I think," said Chiffield, delighted to speak his real sentiments

this time; "though everybody is obliged to praise 'em, because that's

the fashion."

"But, though the Falls a'n't much, I must say the balls and hops are

delightful. The fresh air there seems to give one strength to dance all

night without a bit of fatigue. I bought these pictures because they

show the hotels and other places where I have had such delicious

dances."

Chiffield execrated dancing, because he had large feet, and legs

slightly bowed. He moved in the cotillon or waltz with a certain

elephantine ponderousness and sagacity. Therefore she tantalized him

with these reminiscences.

"You see the Clifton House, there, on the Canada side? One night I

danced eight waltzes, six polkas, four quadrilles, three fancy dances,

and wound up, at five o'clock, with the German."

"Wonderful!" observed Chiffield, not knowing what else to say.

"Perhaps you think I was tired? Oh! not a particle. Next night we had a

little hop on Table Rock. It was got up on short notice, but perfectly

charming, I assure you. There were only two fiddles, and sometimes the

noise of the Falls would almost drown the music. The fiddlers had to

scrape so hard, that they gave out about three o'clock, and we had to

give up the dancing, and go home, very much disappointed."

"Unlucky, indeed!" interjected Chiffield.

"But the next night we had two extra fiddlers. They relieved the other

two at midnight, and then we danced till daybreak. Oh! such a glorious

time. Next year, when I heard that a part of Table Rock had tumbled into

the horrid river, I could have cried."

"It was a great shame, indeed!" said Chiffield.

"Isn't this view of Suspension Bridge natural?" she asked

"Amazing!" said Chiffield; and he ventured to add that he considered

that bridge to be a great triumph of human genius.

"I dare say it is. But I didn't think of that. I was only going to tell

you how the gentlemen of our Table Rock party tried to hire the use of

the bridge one night to dance on. The owners wouldn't let it. Mean,

weren't they?"

"Contemptible!" replied Chiffield.

"We should have had it nicely swept and lighted. The breeze coming down

the river would have been beautiful, and the awful noise of the Falls

wouldn't have been too loud for the music. But we almost made up for our

disappointment. Next night, the gentlemen hired the 'Maid of the

Mist'--the little steamboat, you know, that you see in this picture--and

we sailed round and round below the Falls all night, dancing all the

time. We went so near the Falls twice, that I got quite wet with the

nasty spray, and caught cold; but that didn't prevent me from dancing

all the next night, at the International. You have a good view of the

house in this picture."

"Tasty," said Chiffield.

Mr. Whedell and Maltboy had not lost a word of this conversation, though

they had been mutually boring each other with complex sentences about

national politics. Happily, the discussion required no mental effort,

and left them both free to hear and make mental comments on the dialogue

that buzzed across the way.

Mr. Whedell regretted that his daughter should expatiate with such

vivacity upon a subject that must be extremely disagreeable to a

gentleman of Mr. Chiffield's large figure and steady habits. To the

cultivated judgment of Maltboy, it was evident that the young lady was

trying to amuse Chiffield merely for the purpose of annoying him

(Maltboy). Experience had taught Matthew the best kind of cure for this

species of female perversity. He determined to leave the house, and

thereby show that he was not to be trifled with.

Availing himself of a pause in the dissertations on national politics,

Maltboy pulled out his watch and consulted it. "Why!" said he; "nine

o'clock! And I was to be in Fourteenth street by half past eight. Only

intended to drop in just to see how you were. You really must excuse me,

Mr. Whedell." Matthew rose as he spoke, to show that his mind was made

up, and remonstrances would be useless.

"Don't go. Put off your other call," ejaculated Mr. "Whedell, at the

same time rising, and thereby indicating a perfect acquiescence in the

departure of his guest.

"You are in a hurry," said Miss Whedell, calmly, but without objection

in voice or eye.

Mr. Chiffield looked calmly at his rival; and none but a skilled student

of physiognomy could have discovered a gleam of triumph in his dull,

yellow face.

Maltboy was disappointed in the calm demeanor of Miss Whedell; but,

strong in his purpose, he walked toward the door, followed by the

father. As he passed into the entry, he bowed coldly to the lady of his

heart, and drew from her a scarcely perceptible nod.

At this moment, a valuable thought occurred to the paternal Whedell.

"My dear Maltboy," said he, closing the parlor door, "excuse the

abruptness of the question; but could you lend me a couple of hundred?"

The question was indeed abrupt, but not altogether unexpected. Mr. Quigg

had apprised Maltboy of Mr. Whedell's financial weakness; but the

infatuation of the ardent young bachelor had led him to disregard that

warning. He was fully prepared to say, "Yes, with pleasure," and he

did say so.

"Thank you," said the gratified parent. "Only want it a few days." Mr.

Whedell was too great an adept in the art of borrowing, to waste words

of tedious explanation and gratitude, which only produce an impression

that the borrower does not mean to pay. He accepted Maltboy's reply as a

matter of course.

"If not too much trouble, could you give me a check to-night?" asked

Mr. Whedell. "Have a payment to make before bank hours to-morrow."

"Most readily, my dear sir," replied the amiable Matthew. "Have you pen

and paper convenient?"

"In this room, Mr. Maltboy," said his host, ushering him into a little

apartment at the end of the entry, which contained a few books, and was

passed off upon a credulous world as Mr. Whedell's library. The gas was

lighted, writing materials were produced, and, in less than three

minutes, Matthew Maltboy had put his name at the bottom of a check on

the ---- Bank, for two hundred dollars. He did so smiling, and with a

full consciousness that he had sustained a dead loss to that extent. But

he was always too good-natured to deny a friend; and, in this particular

case, he felt that he was buying a perpetual free admission to the

house, and a usufructuary interest in the fascinations of Clementina.

The idea of marriage with that young lady had never occurred to him. He

never troubled himself with problems of the future.

"All right," said Mr. Whedell, folding up the check carelessly, and

putting it in his pocket. "Shall I give you my note?"

"Oh, no!" said the willing victim, blandly. "Hand it me any time, at

your convenience."

"Can return it within a week," responded Mr. Whedell; "but, on some

accounts, the 1st of May will suit me best, if perfectly agreeable

to you."

"As you please."

"We will call it the 1st of May, then. I regret you are in a hurry, sir.

But remember, we are always happy to see you here."

With this pleasant remark ringing in his ears, and fully compensating

him for the loss of his two hundred dollars, Maltboy hastened home, but

did not tell his friends of his adventure; but he smoked and mused over

it agreeably, and was totally unmindful of the truth announced by Mr.

Quigg on New Year's day, when speaking of this same Whedell, that

"somehow debtors always give the cold shoulder to creditors, as if the

creditors owed the money."

Mr. Whedell, left to his own society, flattered himself that he had

turned a rejected lover to a good account, and entered his library and

sat down in the cold, that he might not, by his presence, mar the

harmonious progress of the courtship upon which so much depended, in

the parlor.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FIRST OF MAY.

Mr. Chiffield proposed, was accepted, and was married in a Broadway

church about the middle of April. The affair was simplicity

itself--bridesmaids, groomsmen, costly wedding costume, and the

subsequent conventional reception at the bride's residence being

dispensed with. The ceremony was witnessed only by the officiating

minister, the sexton, the happy father, and about two hundred of the

floating population of Broadway, including a number of pickpockets, one

of whom sounded the recesses of the coat tails appertaining unto Mr.

Whedell and his son-in-law, as they were coming out of church, and found

nothing in them.

The Siamese twins of the soul passed from the church amid the sneers,

criticisms, and suppressed laughter of the spectators--who united in

pronouncing the ceremony a shabby affair, not worth looking at--and,

entering a carriage with Mr. Whedell, were driven to the New Jersey

Railroad Depot furiously, as if they had been guilty of some crime

against society. At the depot, Mr. Whedell kissed his daughter in

public, and not without a touch of the melodrama, for which he had

cherished a fondness in his earlier days, and wrung the hand of his

son-in-law. The train bore the couple away toward the city of

Washington, where a portion of that indefinite season known as the

honeymoon was to be passed, amid every discomfort that money could

purchase. Why they should have gone to Washington in pursuit of bad

hotels, and other miseries, when they could have procured them in so

many other parts of the country for a quarter of the money, was

something which Mr. Chiffield was never able to explain to his own

satisfaction.

He afterward bitterly regretted that he had not made the nuptial trip to

Newburg, or some place near the city, where the expenses would have been

more moderate. But we anticipate.

Mr. and Mrs. Chiffield had been absent ten days. They were expected home

on the 28th day of April; but a letter from Clementina informed her

father that she had taken a bad cold, was confined to her room, and

could not return before the 1st of May. The brief note was written in a

crabbed hand, and exhibited spots, which, if not lemon juice, were

tears. She made no allusion to her husband, but wound up by saying, "Oh,

pa! I am an unhappy girl!"

This intelligence was a thorn in the bed of Mr. Whedell's comfort. Had

he not arranged to settle with his creditors on the 1st of May? Was not

the owner of the house occupied and used by him to resume possession on

that eventful day? And was not everything--even his daily

food--dependent on the return of his children, as he fondly called them,

with their pockets full of money? What if this infernal cold should keep

them in Washington until after the 1st of May? As Mr. Whedell thought of

himself, turned adrift, and a wanderer, he invariably tore out a few of

the gray hairs which could be poorly spared from his venerable skull.

Mr. Whedell had a deep and unchanging faith in his ill luck; but, this

time, he was pleasantly disappointed. The morning train on the 1st of

May brought back his children to him. They arrived just as those

Bedouins of civilization--the New Yorkers--were beginning to indulge

their nomadic propensities. The streets were full of wagons and drays

laden with jingling stoves, rickety bedsteads, conspicuous crockery, and

other damaged Penates, on the way to new domiciles. Fortunately, the

owner of Mr. Whedell's residence had not yet come to claim possession.

Creditors are early birds; but the hour--sis and a half A.M.--was even

too early for them; and only one--Mr. Rickarts, the shoemaker--had

called. He had been disposed of in the library, by the servant, under

the pretence that Mr. Whedell was not yet up. But Mr. Whedell was up and

dressed before six o'clock, and was watching for the expected carriage,

through the window blinds of his apartment. He ran down to the door with

juvenile briskness to receive the returning ones.

Mrs. Chiffield looked pale and jaded. Her hair was carelessly arranged,

and her bonnet awry--unerring indications of fathomless female misery.

To the anxious inquiry by her parent after her health, she only replied,

"Horrid!" Mr. Chiffield wore the aspect of a man who is disappointed in

his just expectations. He gave a hearty grip to the proffered hand of

his father-in-law, but he quarrelled with the driver over the fare, and

abused him in an under tone, by way of relieving himself.

"And how did you like Washington, my child?" said the fond father, in

his tenderest voice.

"I hate it!" said Mrs. Chiffield, hurrying into the house, as if she

were running away from her husband.

"Hum. Well, I'm not surprised that she dislikes the capital. I believe

most visitors do. Clemmy seems to be a little nervous from travelling,

eh?" Mr. Whedell addressed these remarks to his son-in-law.

"Nervous? Perhaps she is just a trifle nervous, sir. All women are."

"True--true! One of the peculiarities of the sex. Well, you have had a

pleasant time, I trust?"

"Pleasant time? Oh! yes--delightful! Your daughter is a charming girl,

sir, and will make a most excellent wife." Mr. Chiffield spoke as if he

were very much in earnest, but the expression of his face was not

of rapture.

"She is a treasure, sir--a perfect treasure!" replied the doting parent.

"It cost me many pangs to part with her. I trust that we shall not be

separated now. Why should we be? There are but three of us--just enough

for a happy family." Mr. Whedell was hinting at a home under the future

roof of his son-in-law.

"I agree with you perfectly," said Mr. Chiffield, with unaffected

eagerness. "Let us live together always. It will suit me exactly." He

was thinking of free board and lodging at the house of his

father-in-law.

The couple shook hands, mutually pleased at the prospect, and beamed on

each other.

A part of this conversation took place in the hall, into which the

hackman had borne the travellers' luggage. A pull was heard at the door

bell--a loud, confident pull--which Mr. Whedell knew could be inflicted

only by a creditor. It would not do to admit his son-in-law into his

budget of family secrets just yet. So he said:

"Now, Chiffield, you must need some rest. Let me not detain you, my dear

fellow. Your room is on the first floor. I'll show it to you."

Mr. Whedell snatched a carpet bag out of the hand of his son-in-law, and

hurried up stairs with him. Having turned that gentleman into the

apartment reserved for him, and shut the door, Mr. Whedell paused at the

head of the stairs, and listened for the developments below. The

servant, after waiting for two or three more jerks at the bell, so as to

be quite sure that it was the bell, went to the door, and there found

Mr. Numble, the butcher, who supplied the Whedells with meat on the

strength of the brownstone front.

Pursuant to instructions, the servant explained that Mr. Whedell was not

up, and asked him to walk into the library and wait a few minutes. Mr.

Numble growled--as if he scented deception not far off--but allowed

himself to be conducted into the library. There he discovered Mr.

Rickarts, the shoemaker, taking down the few books which graced the

shelves of the library, and evidently pricing them with an unpractised

eye. The two gentlemen knew each other, and straightway engaged in a

brisk dialogue about the weather.

CHAPTER V.

DEMOLITION OF CERTAIN AIR CASTLES.

The coast being clear, Mr. Whedell hastened down stairs to the front

parlor, where his daughter had secluded herself immediately after her

entrance into the house. She was lying back on the sofa, with her bonnet

on, biting the ends of her gloves, and staring into space. She did not

appear to observe her father.

Mr. Whedell seated himself on the other end of the sofa, and reached out

his hand, as if he would have taken his daughter's caressingly within

it. If that was his intention, it was frustrated by her drawing the hand

away. Then the father heaved a sigh, and said:

"Ah, my child, I am so thankful that you have returned to-day. You will

save us from ruin."

"_I_ save you from ruin!" said Mrs. Chiffield, in a hollow voice.

"That's a good joke!"

Mr. Whedell grinned a ghastly smile, as if he did not precisely see the

point of the jest. "Joke or no joke," said he, "I must look to you for

some money to put off the infernal creditors, who have begun to flock

into the house. There's the bell. Hang me, if it isn't another one! To

come to the point, then, I wish you would loan me, say two hundred

dollars. It is a small amount, but will stave them off a week or two."

"Two hundred dollars!" Mrs. Chiffield opened her fine eyes in amazement.

"That's all. Perhaps you have saved up the amount from your pin money?

Or, if you have been a little extravagant, and spent it all, why, then,

perhaps you can get it from Mr. Chiffield this morning?"

The daughter laughed bitterly again. "I tell you, father," said she,

"that this man is the meanest creature that walks OB two legs. He has

not spent fifty dollars on both of us, during our absence. As for me, I

have never got a cent from him, though I have dropped a thousand hints

about new bonnets, dresses, and jewelry."

"Gracious heavens!" cried Mr. Whedell, turning pale "But then," he

added, with an effort to laugh, "Mr. Chiffield is a business man, and

was an old bachelor. He knows nothing of women's wants. It must be your

mission to teach him what they are."

"Pooh!" said the daughter; "I don't believe he has got any money."

"Don't talk so, my child. You put me in a cold sweat."

"Anyhow, I examined his pocket, last night, when he was asleep in the

cars, and found only five dollars there."

Mr. Whedell's jaw dropped. "Oh, no! it can't be," said he, at length.

"Mr. Chiffield must be a rich man. You remember his fine horses at

Saratoga and Newport. You remember how much his society was courted by

mammas with disposable daughters. They never patronize poor young men.

Their instinct in finding out rich ones is unerring. And furthermore,

Mr. Chiffield is a member of a firm twenty years old, who are marked 'A

No. 1' on the books of a mercantile agency, that makes it a business to

pry into other people's affairs. I paid ten dollars for the information,

only a month ago. He must be rich! He must be rich!" Mr. Whedell

repeated it twice, as if the repetition put the question of Chiffield's

opulence beyond a doubt. "Ha! there goes that dreadful bell again!"

"What you say may be true, but I don't believe a word of it, till I have

the proofs," replied the daughter, who seemed to delight in taking a

gloomy view of her case. "Why--will you believe it?--I can't get him

even to talk about engaging a house in New York. He always dodges the

subject, somehow. Upon my word, I think he expects to quarter on you for

the balance of his life. That would be rich!"

Mr. Whedell raised his eyebrows, and emitted a doleful whistle.

Reflecting, he said:

"You may misjudge him. Perhaps he doesn't like to disturb Love's young

dream, by looking into the future. That's all--I'm sure of it."

"Humbug!" ejaculated Mrs. Chiffield.

"Poor thing!" said her father, tenderly. "There--cheer up. Depend upon

it, that you have got a rich husband, who will take all our troubles off

our shoulders. Stay here, and I will go up stairs and sound him."

Mr. Whedell proceeded to the apartment where his son-in-law was shut up,

and found that individual in a deep fit of meditation.

"Thinking--and so soon after marriage?" said Mr. Whedell, with a

charming smile.

"Oh, yes; and I was thinking how much happier is a married man than a

bachelor."

"You will always think so, I am sure, with my dear Clemmy as your wife.

My dear Clemmy! How naturally that phrase comes to my lips. And you are

about to take her away. It's a foolish thought, but I hardly know how I

shall live without her." Mr. Whedell paused, for effect, and

contemplated the vermicular work in the carpet.

"A happy thought strikes me," said Chiffield. "You have a house here,

already furnished. Let us occupy it free of rent, and I will pay the

housekeeping bills of the establishment. That will be mutually

advantageous, and will especially suit your daughter, who, of course,

has a child's attachment for home. What do you say to the proposition,

respected father-in-law?"

Mr. Whedell did not catch at it with the alacrity that was expected of

him. "A capital plan," said he, at length; "but, unfortunately, the

house is not mine. I only lease it."

Chiffield's lips puckered up. "That's curious," thought he. "The old

fellow must have put his money into bonds and stocks. Well, they are the

best-paying investments."

Mr. Whedell proceeded to break the news of his penniless condition to

his son-in-law, gently. "Mr. Chiffield," said he, "as a wholesale

dealer in dry goods, you must have observed, perhaps at times

experienced, the fickleness of fortune."

"Can he suspect?" thought Chiffield. "And what if he does? The truth

cannot be concealed much longer. But I will pump him a little further

before disclosing all."

"Yes," said he; "our firm, like others, has had its ups and downs; but

then, business would not be interesting without some little risks,

you know."

The easy manner of his son-in-law convinced Mr. Whedell that no "little

risks" had shaken the firm of Upjack, Chiffield & Co. "Ah, yes," said

he. "Rich to-day, poor to-morrow--the history of the world. As every

person may learn this by his own sad experience, some time or other, he

ought to be lenient in judging of those who have become reduced from

wealth to poverty."

"Can he mean me?" thought the son-in-law. "Faith! it sounds very much

like it. If so, his manner of broaching the subject is truly generous

and delicate."

"I agree with you," said he, aloud. "Money does not make the man." It is

a safe adage, and Chiffield quoted it intrepidly.

"True--true!" replied Mr. Whedell. "Money is but a small item in the sum

of earthly happiness. Take the institution of marriage, for example.

What gives to that institution its blessedness--love, or money?"

"Love," responded the unhesitating Chiffield.

"The promptness of that reply shows that he does not expect a fortune

with Clemmy," thought Mr. Whedell.

"He must suspect--perhaps already knows--the truth," thought Chiffield.

"How kind in him to spare me the least humiliation!"

"That person is truly rich," continued Mr. Whedell, "rich beyond

expression, who brings pure love and exalted virtues into the

married state."

"Generous father-in-law!" thought Chiffield. "He knows that I am ruined.

Yet how nobly he treats me! I may cast away all reserve now."

"It would be an affectation, sir," said Chiffield, aloud, "to pretend

that I do not understand to whom you refer, my dear father-in-law."

"The glorious fellow!" thought Mr. Whedell. "He guesses what I am about

to disclose, and yet calls me a dear father-in-law."

Chiffield continued: "To save any further circumlocution, sir, and in

order that we may fully understand each other, I will say at once, that

we are completely--ruined!"

"Ha! What! Who ruined?"

"The house of Upjack, Chiffield & Co. I--I thought you knew it."

"Ruined, sir!" cried Mr. Whedell, livid with horror. He choked for

further utterance.

"Yes, sir," said Chiffield, who, being a fat man, was happily calm;

"totally ruined."

"You impudent scoundrel! out of this house!" shrieked Mr. Whedell,

rising from his chair, and glaring like a wildcat at his son-in-law.

"Be calm," said that phlegmatic individual. "I respect your age."

"Curse your impudence! what do you mean by my age?" (approaching

Chiffield in a threatening manner). "I'll let you know, sir, that I am

young enough to kick a swindler like you into the street."

"Pray compose yourself, sir," returned the bland Chiffield. "Your

surprise and excitement are natural, and therefore pardonable. But my

affairs are, after all, not quite as bad as they might be. I have a sure

prospective fortune, if not a present one."

"What do you mean, sir?" asked Mr. Whedell, not quite so savage as

before.

"That I have talents, energy, a large business acquaintance," said the

cheerful Chiffield.

"Humbug!" roared Mr. Whedell. "What is all that stuff good for, without

money?"

"Not much, I admit," was the conciliatory reply. "There fore, sir, to

come to the point at once, advance me ten thousand dollars to start in

business again, and I will make a fortune in three years. It was the

outside speculations of my partners that ruined me. Perhaps you don't

know that dry goods are going up, sir? Now's the time to buy."

"This man will drive me mad!" shrieked Mr. Whedell, combing his hair

wildly with his hands.

"Regard it in the light of a family investment," suggested the soothing

Chiffield.

"You diabolical scoundrel!" yelled Mr. Whedell, in a partial asphyxia of

rage; "if I had a million dollars to-day, I wouldn't give you a cent.

You should starve first. But I want to tell you--and hang me if it isn't

a pleasure, too--that I am a beggar, sir--a beggar, sir--a beggar, sir!

By noon to-day I shall be turned out of this house. And, by Jove! I'm

glad of it, for then I shall get rid of you." During this _adagio_

passage, the speaker shook his fist within a few inches of

Chiffield's nose.

The summery Chiffield answered, with a hearty laugh: "I see," said he;

"it's a regular sell on both sides. However, neither of us is worse off

than he was, since neither of us had anything. As for me, I have gained

one point, for I have a tolerably good-looking wife."

Mr. Whedell was about to retort in a vein of unmitigated ferocity, when

Mrs. Chiffield, who had been listening in the entry, and could contain

herself no longer, rushed into the room, and, brandishing a small

clenched hand in the face of her laughing spouse, forcibly observed:

"You sneaking, swindling, cheating, lying, black-hearted, ill-looking

pauper, scoundrel, and vagabond!"

"Very prettily said," remarked the imperturbable Chiffield.

"You miserable thief!" continued his matrimonial partner, aiming a blow

at him, which he playfully parried; "why didn't you tell me you were

a beggar?"

"Why? Because you didn't ask me. For that matter, why didn't you or

your father tell me that _you_ were beggars?"

"I sha'n't answer your insulting questions, you mean, deceiving, ugly,

ungentlemanly--" (no other epithet suggesting itself.) At this crisis,

the infuriated wife burst into tears, and wished several times that

she was dead.

"Poor, dear wifey!" said the emollient Chiffield.

"None of your 'poor dears' to my daughter, you jailbird!" screamed Mr.

Whedell.

"Now, don't get excited, father-in-law."

"How dare you call me father-in-law, sir!"

"Perhaps you prefer the more endearing epithet of 'poppy,' sir?"

"Monster! will you leave my house?"

"Have you any good old brandy on hand?" asked Chiffield.

"Brandy! No. If you want brandy, sir, go to the d---l for it."

"Not quite so far, thank you," retorted Chiffield the genial; "but I

don't mind walking to the next corner for a smash."

Chiffield rose, put on his hat, and stepped toward the door.

"Good-by, wifey. I sha'n't be gone long."

A growl, bisected by a sob, was the only reply.

"By-by, poppy," said Chiffield, with a flippant wave of the hand.

Mr. Whedell cast at him a look of scorn, to which justice could be done

in no known language; and Chiffield, with a bow of exceeding grace, left

father and child to their reflections.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. WHEDEEL'S CREDITORS IN CONVENTION ASSEMBLED.