These reflections, which were neither profitable nor interesting to the

parties immediately concerned, were interrupted by a peculiarly

rigorous pull at the door bell. Pulls of a startling description had

come so often, the previous ten minutes, that Mr. Whedell had quite

ceased to notice them. But this long and strong pull caused him to

start, and remark, "It must be Quigg."

It was Quigg, who had come to make his last appeal. He was by far the

heaviest creditor. The unfortunate servant girl, acting under her

general instructions, would fain have shown him into the parlor, where

his fellow sufferers, having overrun the library and dining room, were

already in strong force; but Quigg, having immense interests at stake,

would stand no such nonsense.

"Where is Whedell?" said he. "I can't dance attendance on him all day."

It was always remarked that Quigg put off his slow and stately method of

speech, when dealing with obstinate debtors.

The terrified Mary lost her presence of mind, and replied; "In the first

floor, front." Quigg mounted the stairs with surprising agility, and

gave a hard rap at the door of the first floor front.

Mr. Whedell said, in a voice calm with despair, "Come in." In the few

minutes that had elapsed since the retirement of Chiffield, Mr. Whedell

had privately determined to give up everything to his creditors, leaving

them to divide the spoils among themselves, and then to go out, expend

his last quarter on a dose of poison, and end his existence. This

resolution, suddenly taken, imparted preternatural composure both to his

mind and his face. He could now see his way out of all difficulties--or

out of the world, which is the same thing. Clementina, who had not yet

risen to that height of philosophy, buried her face in her hands, and

sobbed with fresh violence.

Quigg entered, and at a glance saw that he had lost. He stopped short in

the bow that he was intending to make.

"Well, Whedell," said he, roughly, "how are things to-day?" By "things,"

he always meant money.

"Not a penny," said Mr. Whedell. "I've done my best to pay you, and

failed."

"Just as I expected. Serves me right. I never was forbearing with a

debtor, that I didn't get chiselled this way. Strike me if I ever make

the mistake again. This marriage of your daughter's, which was going to

set you up in funds, has proved a fizzle, eh? Instead of taking somebody

in, you have been taken in yourself."

Quigg laughed; and then remembering that a delinquent debtor was before

him, assumed his wonted serious aspect.

At this allusion, poor Mrs. Chiffield burst into tears again. Mr.

Whedell adroitly turned the circumstance to advantage. He pointed to

her, and said, "There is my reply."

Quigg felt that he was losing ground on these side issues. "Well,

Whedell, we must have a settlement to day. You owe me one hundred and

fifty dollars. Turn over all your furniture to me, and we'll call

it square."

Mrs. Chiffield doubled her sobs anew. But Mr. Whedell said, "Very good.

Take everything, I shall want nothing where I am going."

Quigg had been accustomed to these dark hints from contumacious debtors,

and was not to be frightened. "I accept your offer," said he, "and will

take everything."

At this moment, a rush, as of many feet, was heard upon the stairs. The

owners of the feet appeared to be literally tumbling up in their anxiety

to get up. By the time Quigg could open the door, a half dozen flushed

persons were ready to step in, and did so, brushing him aside. More than

a score of others followed, and all plunged pell mell into the presence

of Mr. Whedell and daughter.

"Here we are, Mr. Whedell, by appintment," said the spokesman of the

party, Rickarts, the shoemaker.

"I see you are," responded the placid Whedell. "Take seats, if you can

find them, gentlemen." This with a real smile, for he thought of the

arsenic, and the immeasurable relief that it would afford him.

"We don't want seats, Mr. Whedell; and, if we did, there isn't enough

for all of us. We want our pay, and have got tired of waitin' down

stairs for it. You put us all off to the 1st of May, you know, expecting

you said, to raise money enough by the marriage of your daughter (excuse

the remark, marm, but business is business) to pay off all of us. We

found, on comparin' notes down stairs, this mornin', that you had told

the same story to everybody. Now, sir, as your daughter is married,

accordin' to the papers, and the 1st of May has arriv', will you be good

enough to square up?"

Mr. Whedell smiled touchingly. "My good and patient friends," said he,

"nothing would give me greater pleasure--I might say, without

exaggeration, rapture--than to pay all that I owe, with compound

interest thrown in. But, unfortunately for my excellent intentions, I

have no money."

"Blast me if that isn't just what we expected! I told 'em, down stairs,

that I'd bet ten to one you couldn't or wouldn't raise any think out of

your son-in-law."

"Your name is Rickarts, I believe?" asked Mr. Whedell.

"Yes, Rickarts!" growled the owner of the appellation, "You ought to

know it by this time; for I've dunned you often enough."

"True, Mr. Rickarts, but then I have so many creditors, you see, that I

cannot be expected to know them all. I merely wanted to observe, Mr.

Rickarts, that, at least, _you_ have not been disappointed in your

expectations. Furthermore, that if you had made a bet of ten to one, it

wouldn't have been a bad speculation for you."

Cries of "Pshaw!" "Humbug!" "Swindled!" "Done for!" and kindred

expressions, arose from all sides. The spokesman said: "We ha'n't got no

time to joke, Mr. Whedell. We have only to remark, now, that the best

thing for you to do is to give up your furniture, without the trouble

and expense of a lot of lawsuits."

"You are perfectly welcome to the whole of it, my good friends," said

Mr. Whedell.

"The, deuce they are!" cried Quigg. "Why, you have just turned it over

to me!"

"I give it to all of you, singly and collectively, severally and

jointly," responded the happy, melancholy man. "Divide it among

yourselves, and leave me."

The small creditors, under twenty dollars, took a favorable view of the

proposition. One of them immediately jumped on a bureau having a marble

top and elaborately carved legs, and expressed his willingness to take

that for his pay. Another laid violent hands on the heavy yellow window

curtains, and declared himself satisfied. A third commenced ripping up a

corner of the carpet, and notified all persons that he claimed _that_.

The original owner of the bureau, curtains, and carpet, who had

furnished the house, and held an exalted rank among the principal

creditors, objected to this summary disposition of the property. Quigg,

in very emphatic but improper English, insisted that he had the largest

and first claim, and warned everybody on their peril not to remove a

thing from the house.

Mr. Whedell reclined in his chair, positively enjoying the spectacle,

which was all the more entertaining because the common wrath was now

diverted from him. Mrs. Chiffield wept behind her handkerchief. Her

bonnet was knocked on one side, and the flowers were seriously

disarranged, indicating a real case of distress.

_Sauve qui peut_ was now the motto among all the small creditors.

Notwithstanding the energetic objections of Quigg and others, they

rushed down stairs into the parlors, where the best furniture was kept,

and commenced, taking possession. Rickarts, the shoemaker, seated

himself on the top of the piano, and said he considered that his'n. But

a second after, a man milliner, who had furnished two new bonnets to

Miss Clementina on the strength of the brownstone front, took his seat

on the other end of the piano, and gave Mr. Rickarts distinctly to

understand that he was glued to it. The man milliner was a powerful

fellow, and looked as if his proper vocation were hammering stone or

rolling iron, instead of handling flowers and feathers. Rickarts

murmured something inaudibly, at first but, on taking a second survey of

his neighbor, concluded that he would be more desirable as an ally than

as an enemy.

"All right," said he; "s'pose we go snacks on this?"

"Agreed," said the man milliner.

Other of the minor creditors, not caring to quarrel for a third or

fourth interest in the piano, attached themselves to movable pieces of

furniture, such as ottomans, whatnots, etageres, and chairs. One

succeeded in unscrewing a large chandelier which hung from the centre of

the front parlor, and the gas came pouring through the opening in

odorous volumes, while the spoliator waddled off to the door with his

prize. Others rummaged the small stock of showy books which consituted

the library, and were surprised to find that the most imposing volumes

were bound in wood, with gilt backs, and contained nothing but air,

which a funny creditor characterized as very light reading matter.

In about five minutes, a considerable amount of portable property would

have gone out of the house, but for Quigg's presence of mind. Seeing

that decisive action was required, he slipped out of the front door,

locked it, and returned in a moment with a couple of policemen, who

chanced to be strolling through the street at that hour.

On the way to the house, Mr. Quigg succeeded in persuading the policemen

that it was necessary for the peace of society that they should turn all

the other creditors out of the house, and leave Mr. Whedell's effects to

be divided among them according to the regular legal process. As the

officers marched up the steps of the house, it fell out that Matthew

Maltboy came sauntering by. Observing the two officers, headed by an

excited individual, going into Mr. Whedell's house, it occurred, to his

benevolent heart that that gentleman must be in trouble. He also felt

moved by a desire to hear of his old flame--for such she now seemed at

the remote distance of six weeks,--of whose marriage with Mr. Chiffield

he had read in the papers with the utmost complacency. Therefore,

Maltboy stepped up behind the officers, and was about to follow them

into the house. The officers would have kept him back; but Quigg

recognized his friend of New Year's day, and asked him in, hoping to get

legal advice for nothing.

"An old friend of mine, and of Mr. Whedell's," said Quigg. "Admit him,

officers. Perhaps, sir" (Quigg had forgotten his name), "you know

something about Whedell's affairs, and, as a lawyer" (with a wink), "can

tell me where he has some property snugly stowed away, that I can pounce

on. If so, I would cheerfully let the smaller creditors divide the

furniture among themselves. Any information--ahem!--will be

confidential, you know."

"I am not a shyster!" said the indignant Matthew, alluding, by that

term, to the outlaws of his profession.

Quigg was evidently surprised at this unfriendly repulse. "I only made

the suggestion for you to think on. No offence meant. Please walk

in, sir."

The door being opened, several of the small creditors were discovered,

grouped together, with property in their hands. They had made several

ineffectual attempts to break the lock, or pry back the bolt. The larger

creditors were forcibly remonstrating against this disposition of Mr.

Whedell's effects; and a serious row would probably have ensued, but for

the timely arrival of the police.

CHAPTER VII.

DEUS EX MACHINA.

One of the officers planted himself against the front door, and gave

general notice that no one would be allowed to remove any of the

furniture. The other officer stationed himself at the back door, to

carry out a similar policy at that point.

These manoeuvres caused consternation among the small creditors, and a

vivid feeling of approval among the larger ones.

"I am happy to announce," said Quigg, "that the counsel of Mr.

Whedell--one of the most distinguished ornaments of the bar--has now

arrived, and will take charge of his client's affairs. To those who know

the name of--" (Aside) "By the way, your name escapes me at

this moment."

"Maltboy," said Matthew, a little flattered with this compliment.

"I repeat, that, to those who know the name of Maltboy, no assurance

need be given that Mr. Whedell's affairs will be honorably adjusted."

Quigg again winked at the young lawyer.

Matthew, having recovered from the flutter into which he was thrown, was

about to disclaim the office thus thrust upon him, when the voice of Mr.

Whedell was heard from the first landing. He had come to listen to the

disturbance, and smile at it.

"It is my dear Maltboy!" he exclaimed, catching at the straw of a hope.

"Thank Heaven! he is here. Yes, gentlemen, he is my lawyer, and I refer

you to him for the adjustment of all your claims. Come up, my

dear Maltboy."

"Oh! it is dear--good--Mr. Maltboy!" added a voice, qualified by sobs.

"How kind of him--to--to come here at this time! Oh--ho!"

Maltboy never could resist Beauty in any condition; and, for Beauty in

tears, he would cheerfully lay down his life. He did not deny that he

was the counsel and confidential adviser of Mr. Whedell, but rushed up

stairs, just in time to receive the falling form of Mrs. Chiffield

in his arms.

Matthew felt that he had no moral right to clasp that burden of

loveliness; but he took it tenderly in his arms, and followed Mr.

Whedell into the room which father and daughter had just left. There he

deposited it, with the gentleness of a professional nurse, on the sofa,

when it opened its eyes, and faintly said, "Heaven bless you, our

benefactor!"

The creditors were pouring into the apartment. "In the name of

humanity," said Mr. Whedell, "leave us for a few moments. I appeal to

you as gentlemen and Christians."

The appeal produced no effect; those to whom it was made conceiving,

perhaps, that it did not apply to them. Maltboy added the remark: "If

you will withdraw at once, I promise you that in fifteen minutes we will

proceed to business."

"That's all right," said Quigg, winking again at Matthew. "Let us go,

friends."

The proposition was accepted, as the best thing that could be done under

the circumstances, and all the creditors retired.

Mr. Whedell then locked the door, and proceeded to inform Mr. Maltboy of

the black-hearted treachery of which he and his daughter had been the

victims, in the Chiffield alliance. Clementina corroborated the paternal

statement with numerous particulars, delivered in a heart-broken voice,

showing what an abandoned wretch her husband was. Matthew listened,

nodded his head, and said, "The brute!" and the "The monster!" at

intervals, looking the while into the deep blue eyes of Mrs. Chiffield,

which sparkled with tears. "If he had but been the lucky man!" he

thought. But it suddenly occurred to Matthew that these thoughts were a

little irregular; and, besides, he had a fresh recollection of the

troubles from which Fayette Overtop had not yet emerged. He therefore

pulled out his watch, and informed Mr. Whedell that thirteen of the

fifteen minutes were consumed. The creditors were beginning to pace

heavily in the entry.

Mr. Whedell, taking the hint, came down to business. His affairs were of

a kind that were easily settled. He owned nothing except his personal

clothing, and a few small articles of furniture. Everything else had

been obtained on credit, and either not paid for, or only partly paid

for. This statement of affairs occupied one minute.

A minute remained, which Mr. Whedell put to good use. He looked

appealingly at Maltboy. So did Mrs. Chiffield.

"My dear friend," said Mr. Whedell, "I find myself, at an advanced

period of life, in this cold world, deserted, penniless. You are the

only person living that I can call by the sacred name of friend. I have

already experienced your noble bounty in a loan of two hundred

dollars." (Tramps of creditors becoming louder outside.) "In a word,

sir, can you lend me one hundred dollars more? It will at least save me

from the self-destruction which I had contemplated."

At the word "self-destruction," Mrs. Chiffield cried aloud, and threw

herself on her parent's breast, with a fresh flood of tears.

These tears swept away the last trace of Matthew's prudence. He whipped

out his pocket book, and delivered over five twenty-dollar gold pieces

to Mr. Whedell. The sight of those beautiful coins seemed to reconcile

the wretched man to life.

Mr. Whedell was about to thank his preserver most profusely, and Mrs.

Chiffield to burst into a new torrent, when Matthew, to avoid these

demonstrations, rose, opened the door, and let in the pack of hungry

creditors.

Now Matthew had, in these fleeting fifteen minutes, thought up no plan

of settlement. Being taken aback by the sudden reappearance of the

creditors, he did not know what to propose.

"Everything fixed, I s'pose?" said Rickarts, the shoemaker.

When Matthew was in strong doubt what to do in any case, it was his

invariable custom to postpone. "I think," he feebly suggested, "that we

had better postpone final action, say till three P.M. It would give

us time--"

"Can't come it!" "No go!" "Now, or never!" were some of the exclamations

which went up from the excited crowd.

Matthew was too good natured to quarrel with these insinuations. "My

friends," said he, "as you appear to have unlimited confidence in each

other, suppose you appoint a committee to dispose of this property,

which my client generously" (cries of "Oh! oh!") "turns over to you, and

divide the proceeds among yourselves _pro rata_"

The creditors looked at each other suspiciously. A want of that

childlike trust which, in a perfect state of society should exist

between man and man, was unhappily too apparent.

Just then, when Matthew was at his wits' end, the police man who guarded

the front door entered the room, and delivered a note to Mr. Whedell.

That gentleman perused it languidly, and passed it to Matthew.

"Good news," said he. "Mr. Abernuckle, the owner of these premises, who

was intending to move in to-day, writes that he will not be able to take

possession until noon to-morrow. Therefore, I say, let the creditors

employ an auctioneer, hang out the red flag, sell, and divide, before

that period arrives."

The large creditors were silent--Quigg veiling his dissatisfaction under

a look of complete misanthropy--but the small ones, headed by Rickarts,

the shoemaker, highly commended it.

"Besides," added a butter man, who had originally been in the

mock-auction line, "don't ye see, we can all stay at the auction, and

kind o' bid on the things. Hey?" The butter man nodded at the lesser

creditors.

The idea took; only a few of the larger creditors holding out against

it.

"My friends," again observed Matthew, drawing on his stores of legal

knowledge, "you seem to forget that, if my client chose to resist your

claims, he could retain a large amount of furniture as household

articles under the law, which exempts certain necessary things. But,

with rare magnanimity, he gives up all."

The allusion to magnanimity produced some derisive laughs, which

slightly nettled Matthew.

"Auction it off," said he, "or we throw ourselves back on our reserved

rights."

At this hint, everybody gave in; and a committee, consisting of Quigg,

Rickarts, and the butter man, was appointed to make all the arrangements

for an immediate sale.

It is not pleasant to pursue this painful theme--the decline and fall

of the Whedell household--farther. Let the historian barely record, that

the sale attracted a large crowd, and that, by the ingenious side bids

of the creditors, the furniture was run up to twice its original value

(no uncommon thing at auctions); that the creditors, large and small,

were well satisfied with the results; that Mr. Whedell and daughter

moved to Boston, and became stipendiaries upon a younger brother, who

had made a fortune in the upholstery business, and whom Mr. Whedell had

always despised; that Mr. Chiffield took to drink tenaciously in

consequence of his misfortunes, and never saw or sought after his wife

from the day when he discovered that she was dowerless; that Mrs.

Chiffield obtained a divorce from the bonds of matrimony, but had not

married again at last accounts; and that Matthew Maltboy, Esq., on

looking over the whole episode of his acquaintance with the Whedells

thanked his stars that he had got out of their entanglements on the

reasonable terms of three hundred dollars.

BOOK ELEVENTH.

DISCOVERIES.

CHAPTER I.

THE OLD HOUSE REVISITED.

In the month that followed the acquittal of Marcus Wilkeson, three real

murders, a railway collision killing thirty persons, and a steamboat

explosion almost as tragical in its results, occurred. The Minford

affair was already getting old. Public curiosity, except in the

immediate neighborhood of the house, no longer exercised itself upon the

problem which all of Coroner Bullfast's powers of analysis had failed

to solve.

Marcus Wilkeson might have derived a selfish consolation from the fact

that other mysteries and calamities were causing his name, which last

month was on the tongue of the whole town, to be forgotten. But he had a

nobler and truer source of consolation in his dear books. In the

presence of the philosophers, and sages, and historians, and novelists,

and poets, and wits, the men of genius of the past, chroniclers of the

loss of empires, grave men who taught the vanity of life, and funny men

who taught the same lesson in a different way, Marcus felt his pack of

sorrows considerably lightening. His first, last, only disappointment in

love had subsided into a gentle and not disagreeable melancholy. His

trial, and the dreadful notoriety which his name had acquired, had

imparted to his mild nature a gentle tinge of cynicism, which

improved him.

Marcus was sitting, one morning, in the little back parlor, idly

turning over the leaves of an old folio, and looking with a half eye

through the closed window at the houses opposite, and thinking what a

deal of trouble it was possible to extract from a single block of

buildings, when a slight rap was heard at the door. Simultaneously, the

door was pushed open, and Wesley Tiffles shot in.

He had brought all his tonical properties with him. Good nature and

cheerfulness effervesced from his face. Through the trial, and since the

acquittal, Wesley Tiffles had stuck to Marcus. Twice, often three times

a day, he called, and was always welcomed by Marcus, and not

inhospitably received by Miss Philomela Wilkeson. The interviews between

that lady and the romantic speculator usually took place, quite by

accident, in the entry, on the arrival or the departure of Mr. Tiffles;

but, as it happened, not with the cognizance of Marcus.

On one occasion--at the edge of evening--Marcus went into the entry a

few minutes after Tiffles had left the room, and saw that gentleman and

Philomela standing in the doorway. Tiffles appeared to be in the act of

raising the lady's hand to kiss it; but, if that were his intention, he

abandoned it on seeing Marcus, and shook the attenuated fingers instead.

Then he coughed, and, saying "Good-night," went down the steps, as if he

had not seen Marcus in the gloom. Miss Wilkeson coughed also (why do

people always cough?), and, turning to her approaching brother, said it

was a cool night, which was not true, as the night was agreeably warm.

Marcus had never afterward seen them together, and had forgotten this

slightly mysterious circumstance. Wesley Tiffles had, as usual,

something enlivening to tell.

"Got the funniest piece of news for you, my dear fellow!" said he.

"Anything funny is always welcome, Tiffles," said he, closing his folio,

that he might not appear to obstruct his friend's jocosity.

"I've heard from that infernal old panorama--when I say infernal, of

course I don't mean to imply that it wasn't a splendid idea, if I had

had capital enough to see it through--and what do you s'pose the

landlord and the other creditor have done with it? You couldn't guess

in a month."

"Well, what?" asked Marcus Wilkeson, laughing in anticipation.

"Ha! ha! cut it up, and sold it for window curtains. A friend of mine,

who passed through there the other day, says there's a picture of a

lion, or a palm tree, or a slice of a desert--principally desert--hung

up in every other window. And the best of it is, that they made a good

thing of it. The curtains brought at least twice what I owed them. Great

heavens! why didn't I think of it myself?"

"Of what?"

"Why, to cut up the panorama into window curtains, when Patching had

finished it, and--ha! ha!--peddle them through the country. By Jupiter!

that speculation may be worth trying yet. But at present I have my new

patent process for----"

Marcus coughed, and opened the book. Tiffles accepted the delicate hint

in a spirit of true friendship, and let his new patent process drop.

"Marcus," said he, "I don't wish to revive an unpleasant subject; but

have you no idea what the late Mr. Minford was trying to invent?"

"Not the least. I never trouble myself about inventions, as you well

know, who are full of them. Besides, poor Mr. Minford was not

communicative on that subject. He kept the secret even from his

daughter."

"You have a claim on the apparatus, whatever it is."

"Yes. Mr. Minford insisted on giving me a paper to that effect, as

security for two loans of five hundred dollars each. I took it to please

the old gentleman." Marcus felt like groaning, as he thought of the

sorrows that he had derived from his connection with the Minford family;

but he had just been reading of the consolations of philosophy, and he

stifled the rising weakness.

"I have thought, Marcus, that there might be something about that

unfinished machine that could be patented for the benefit of Miss

Minford. You know I am a good judge of patentable things."

"What do you propose, then?" asked Marcus, concealing, with an effort,

the emotions which the mention of Miss Minford always caused."

"That we go to the house together. The legal claim which you hold upon

the machine entitles you to see it, if only to ascertain that it has not

been stolen."

"The visit you propose is a disagreeable one; but if you think there is

a possibility of benefiting Miss Minford, I will go. Not that she is

likely to be in want, however, at present, for I understand that a

wealthy lady, Mrs. Crull, who befriended her at the inquest, you

remember, has taken her to her own house."

Without further words--for Marcus retained his old business habit of

forming his conclusions suddenly, and adhering to them--the friends

proceeded to the late residence of Mr. Minford.

Marcus had not yet philosophically conquered his dread of recognition in

the street as the man who had been suspected of a murder. He buttoned

his overcoat up to his chin, pulled his hat over his brow, and walked

fast. As he had purposely altered his style of dress since the inquest,

he was not readily identified. But he was sympathetically conscious that

several persons whom he passed, and who glanced at him, knew him, and

that he was pointed out to others when his back was turned.

Reaching the house, they hurried up stairs, hoping to run the gauntlet

of the three floors in safety. Luckily, there had been a general move

from the premises--the lodgings being less desirable since the supposed

murder. The faces which thrust themselves out of the doorways as the two

visitors passed, were strange ones.

Marcus felt his heart palpitating, and his face growing pale, as they

ascended the last flight of stairs, at the head of which were the room

and the mystery. The lodgings had not been taken. The rent had been paid

by Mr. Minford up to the 1st of May; and no person had been sufficiently

charmed with the apartments to hire them since that date.

Upon the door was a placard, announcing that the key could be obtained

by application to the floor below. Tiffles went for it, and returned

accompanied by an old woman, who looked as if she knew a great deal

which she did not care to tell. She had been requested by the landlord

to show the apartments to applicants, but not to whisper a word about

the murder; and she was almost bursting with her great secret. While the

old woman was wondering how much longer she would be able to hold in,

Marcus and Tiffles entered the front room, and quietly closed the door

in her face. The old woman grumbled at this discourtesy but, as she had

a superstitious objection to putting her foot in a room where a murder

had been committed, she leaned against the banisters of the stairs, and

waited for the visitors' reappearance.

The room looked just as it did on the day of the inquest. The faded and

worn furniture was all there; the yellow curtains still covered the

windows; the clock still hung against the wall, tickless. Marcus's eyes

glanced restlessly about the room for a moment, not daring to look at

the spot where the old man had received his death blow. But an

inevitable magnetism soon brought his eyes to it, and his heart was

lightened as he saw that the blood stains had been carefully wiped out.

The door of the adjoining room--the maiden's bedchamber--was ajar.

Marcus pushed it open with that slow motion which is a token of delicacy

and respect. The general appearance of the room was unchanged, as well

as Marcus could recollect from the occasional glimpses of it which he

had formerly stolen. The little row of dresses which hung on pegs in a

corner, and a few simple ornaments, might have been removed, but nothing

more. Marcus felt that he was intruding here, and he closed the door.

In the mean time, Wesley Tiffles had been examining the mysterious

machine, which stood undisturbed in its corner, with the protecting

screen still standing before it. Tiffles had first wiped off the dust,

and then looked into it, and through it, and over it, and under it, with

an eye that was predetermined to pry out a secret. Then he felt of every

wheel, lever, cam, ratchet, drum, and other portion within reach of his

fingers. Everything was immovable. Then he stood aloof from the machine,

folded his arms, pursed up his lips, and cocked an eye at it, as if, by

the mere force of intellect, he would compel the dumb thing to give up

its mystery.

As Tiffles was applying this species of exorcism in vain, Marcus came to

his assistance.

"What on earth can it be?" exclaimed Tiffles. "Not a new kind of steam

engine; or an electrical apparatus; or a clock; or a sewing machine; or

anything for spinning, carding, or weaving--nothing that is adapted to

any useful labor. These heavy weights, that have fallen on the floor,

would give the works a kind of jerky motion for a few seconds, while the

weights were descending. Nothing more. But the ultimate purpose of the

machine is a puzzler."

"Mr. Minford always said that it was something that would revolutionize

the world of industry--that it was a new mechanical principle of

universal application."

Tiffles laughed a little. "Excuse my levity," said he, "but

inventors--and I am one of them, you know--always claim that they are

about to revolutionize the world of industry. I never knew one of them

to claim less than that for a patent flytrap or an improved sausage

stuffer. Mr. Minford was a man of genius, I dare say, but he probably

overestimated the importance of his invention. Have you any objection to

my prying the thing apart at this opening? I want to inspect some of the

works that are partly concealed. I pledge myself to put it together

again as good as new."

CHAPTER II.

A POSTHUMOUS SECRET.

"Go ahead," said Marcus; and Tiffles, inserting his walking stick in a

wide gap between two cog wheels, forced the strange machine apart. A

large brass drum upon which a small chain was loosely coiled, fell to

the floor. The other portions were not disturbed. Marcus picked up the

drum; and Tiffles cast his unerring eye in among the new jumble of

wheels and connecting levers that was brought to view.

"Can't make head or tail of it," said he, at length. "Let me see that

drum."

Marcus handed it to him. Tiffles took it, like an expert, between a

thumb and finger, and tapped it with his stick. It answered back with a

muffled clink.

"It is hollow, and contains some soft non-metallic substance. Ah! here

we have it." And Tiffles, unscrewing a nicely fitting cap from the drum,

drew out a close roll of paper. He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

The upper portion of the paper was covered with neatly drawn diagrams,

which bore some semblance to the machine. Beneath, in the fine

copperplate hand of the inventor, were these memorable words:

"_Eliphalet Minford's original plan of_ PERPETUAL MOTION, _to which he

has devoted his fortune, and twenty years of labor. Perseverantia

vincit omnia_."

"_Christmas Day_, 185-."

Then followed a careful technical description of the plan, and a mention

of the fact that on two occasions the machine had moved. One occasion

was the night of April 10, 184-, when the mass of wheels started with a

sudden click, but stopped in three seconds by the clock. The other

occasion was daybreak, December 30, 185-, when the works began to move

of their own accord, and did not stop for six seconds. This record had

evidently been made by the inventor for his private reference, and

concealed in the brass drum for safe keeping.

Tiffles read with bated breath; and Marcus listened in astonishment.

"What do you think of it?" asked Marcus.

"I think," replied Tiffles, "with every respect for the memory of the

inventor, that he was insane. Perpetual motion, without an exhaustive

power--or, in other words, the eternal motion of a thing by its own

inherent properties--is a simple impossibility. To cite familiar

illustrations of its absurdity, you might as well try to lift yourself

by the straps of your boots, or pour a quart into a pint pot. I wasted

six months on perpetual motion when I was a boy, and gave it up. Every

inventive genius bothers his head with this nonsensical problem, till he

learns that he is a fool. Of course, I say this with every possible

regard for your deceased friend. He was insane on this point--_quoad

hoc_, as the lawyers have it--without question, or he would not have

thrown away twenty years on it;--or twenty-three years, I should say,

since the paper is dated, you observe, three years ago."

"But Mr. Minford says, in that document, that the machine moved twice.

He could have no object in deceiving himself."

"You are wrong there, my friend. Inventors are continually deceiving

themselves. Their judgment, their very eyesight becomes worthless in

respect to subjects upon which they have labored long and hoped

ardently. This machine has evidently been greatly altered from the

original plan in the progress of its construction. You observe that

these weights do not appear on the diagrams. They were an

afterthought--recently put on, I should judge, from the appearance of

the cords which hold them. Anybody can see, as I said before, that the

weights would move the works spasmodically, so to speak. But this motion

cannot be what he alludes to as having taken place on two occasions. Of

course, I can't explain what caused the motion on those occasions--if it

were a real motion, and not a fantasy of the inventor's brain--but I'll

bet my life that any intelligent mechanic could have fully explained it

to Mr. Minford at the time. But, mark you, Mr. Minford would never have

accepted the explanation. Inventors never take advice."

"So then you are satisfied that this machine is of no value--to Miss

Minford--except for old brass?"

"Oh! I don't say that. Mr. Minford, aside from this absurd crotchet, may

have possessed real mechanical genius. Let me see if some part of it may

not be good for something besides perpetual motion."

Wesley Tiffles peered down among the brazen and steel complexities

again. "Sure enough, here it is," said he; "a splendid window fastener."

"I don't see any window fastener," exclaimed Marcus, looking in the

direction of his friend's forefinger.

"There--that cam with a small spring and lever attached. Strength and

simplicity combined. I have studied the subject of window fasteners--in

fact, have invented three or four, which possessed the extraordinary

property of never letting the window up or down when you wanted to move

it. I recognize, in this window fastener, my ideal. Marcus, you must

patent it for Miss Minford. It will be a sure fortune to her. I'll make

the drawings and specifications."

Marcus, sadly happy in the thought of rendering any service to that

young lady, readily chimed in with Tiffles's views, and said that the

patent should be obtained as soon as might be.

It was then agreed that Tiffles should call on Mrs. Crull, on the

following day, and inform Miss Minford of the important discoveries

which had been made by him--not mentioning the name of Marcus

Wilkeson--and should also offer to remove and dispose of the neglected

furniture, as the young lady might think best.

As this conclusion was arrived at, the door opened suddenly. The old

lady, being apprehensive, from the long stay of the two visitors, that

they were ransacking the rooms and hiding portable articles about their

persons, had overcome her superstitious antipathy, and opened the door

quickly, so that she might catch them in the act. But they were only

standing in the middle of the room, earnestly talking to each other.

The old lady muttered an inaudible apology; and the two friends hastened

to take their departure.

CHAPTER III.

OVERTOP FINDS A SENSIBLE WOMAN.

Next morning, Mr. Wesley Tiffles, after an inexpensive breakfast at a

cheap restaurant in Chatham street, set out on his mission of goodness.

He was reduced to his last dollar, but felt opulent in the possession of

his diamond breastpin--that tower of moral strength to the borrower. He

whistled as he walked, and thought what would be the best name for the

new patent window fastener of the future. "Union," "American,"

"Columbian," "Peoples'," "Washington," "Ne Plus Ultra," and a score

more, were turned over and rejected. Finally he settled upon the

"Cosmopolitan Window Fastener," meaning that its destined field of

usefulness was the whole civilized globe. Patents for it could be and

should be obtained in England, France, Germany, Russia, and Spain.

While Wesley Tiffles was taking this rosy view of the "Cosmopolitan

Window Fastener," he stumbled upon Fayette Overtop, Esq., who was

walking briskly toward his office, and thinking over a hard case in

which his services had been secured the day before.

The firm of Overtop & Maltboy had recently come into a small but paying

business, in this way: The release of Marcus Wilkeson was generally

supposed to have been effected, not by his innocence, but by the skilful

and professional, but unprincipled efforts of his legal advisers. Their

name was not unfavorably known among the thieves and murderers of the

city; and several individuals belonging to those classes of society

resolved to employ them when they got into their next little difficulty.

And, since the inquest, another thing had greatly contributed to the

prosperity of the firm. We allude to the case of Slapman _vs_. Slapman.

This was an action for divorce, with alimony, brought by Mrs. Grazella

Jigbee Slapman against her husband, Ferdinand P. Slapman. The ground

upon which the separation was sought, was the continual brutality of Mr.

Slapman toward his wife.

It was the law and the custom, in cases where both parties to the action

were agreed to that arrangement, to turn over this species of litigation

to a referee, who took the testimony in private, heard arguments of

counsel, and rendered a decision subject to the confirmation of the

Supreme Court. The Court had issued a standing order prohibiting all

persons from publishing (except with the consent of the parties to the

action) any further reports of the cases than a simple announcement of

the decree, as confirmed by the Court, for or against a divorce. This

order was put forth to protect the public from the contaminating example

of matrimonial infelicities; though we are not aware that the number of

divorce cases has materially decreased, or the standard of public

morality been greatly elevated in consequence thereof.

The case of Slapman _vs_. Slapman was on trial before a referee, by

mutual agreement of the parties. The newspapers did not report it; but

some of them kept hinting at it in an appetizing way. The gentleman

whose "gallantry, &c.," was the "remote cause of the action," was

described as "a rising young lawyer, who distinguished himself in a

recent inquest before Coroner ----, the thrilling particulars of which

are still fresh in the minds of our readers;" or as a "young ornament of

the legal profession, whose office was not a hundred miles from the

corner of Broadway and ---- street" (the precise location of his

office). One paper went so far as to say, that the "triumph which this

disciple of Coke had achieved in the late _cause celebre_, was only to

be equalled by his invariable success in affairs of the heart, &c., &c."

All this caused Fayette Overtop's name to be known by thousands of

people. Persons who were seeking divorces, reasoned, strangely enough,

that a man whose "gallantry, &c.," was the cause of a divorce, could

materially assist them in severing the matrimonial bonds. Therefore they

began to flock to him. He already had five female and two male clients

of this description.

When Tiffles stumbled against Fayette Overtop, he at once invited his

friend to go with him to Mrs. Crull's. His legal knowledge (of which

Tiffles, in common with the public, was beginning to have a high

opinion) might be of some service. Overtop had been told by Marcus

Wilkeson of the previous day's transactions, and of Wesley Tiffles's

intended visit to Miss Minford; and he at once consented to

accompany him.

On their way to Mrs. Crull's--whose residence had been ascertained from

the Directory--they passed Miss Pillbody's select school. Tiffles

suggested that it would be well to call on that young lady, and pick up

some intelligence of Miss Minford. She might still be receiving lessons

from Miss Pillbody; and might, possibly, be in the house at that moment.

Overtop also thought it would not be a bad idea to call there. He had

heard much from Marcus Wilkeson in praise of Miss Pillbody, especially

of her sensible qualities. Being still in the active pursuit of a

sensible woman, he was moved with a real curiosity to see her.

The servant showed the two callers to the speckless little front parlor;

and, a minute afterward, Miss Pillbody, looking fresh and neat, her

narrow collar white and smooth, and every hair of her heavy brown

tresses in its place, made her appearance.

Miss Pillbody entered the room in that noiseless, sliding way, which

indicates a constitutional diffidence. Her eyelids involuntarily

contracted, so that she might see her callers on a near approach to

them. Fayette Overtop, marking her modest demeanor and her

short-sightedness, immediately announced his name and that of his

companion, and the object of their visit.

At the mention of his name, Miss Pillbody started. She had heard of

Fayette Overtop, Esq., through the newspapers, as counsel for Marcus

Wilkeson; but not as the philosophic friend of Mrs. Slapman. In reply to

questions about Miss Minford, she stated that that interesting young

pupil had not taken lessons from her since the death of her father.

Miss Pillbody here indulged in a little artifice. She produced a

memorandum book, to see when Miss Minford took her last lesson; and, in

order that she might read distinctly, drew out her eyeglasses, and

adjusted them with a graceful movement of the arm and hand. Overtop

thought that she handled the eyeglasses in a most ladylike manner; and

that, when they were astride of her shapely nose, they became her face

wonderfully.

When Miss Pillbody had referred to the little memorandum book, she gave

one short look at Fayette Overtop. That gentleman, conscious that his

face was scrutinized, looked at the wall. Miss Pillbody stole but one

glance, and then shut the eyeglasses prettily, and stuck them into an

invisible pocket of her waist. She had come to the conclusion that Mr.

Overtop was a person of dignified and intelligent appearance. And Mr.

Overtop had settled into the opinion that Miss Pillbody was a near

approach to that imagined paragon--a sensible woman.

Mr. Overtop was about to make a shrewd remark upon the great superiority

of private select schools over all public institutions for the education

of young ladies, when Miss Pillbody rose.

"Do you desire any other information, gentlemen?" said she.

"No, I thank you, Miss Pillbody," returned Overtop, who interpreted her

question to mean that a pupil was waiting for her somewhere--which was

true; for Mrs. Gipscon, a fat lady of forty-eight, was taking her

second grammar lesson in the back parlor.

The two callers seized their hats.

"Could I intrust you with a message for Miss Minford, Mr. Overtop?"

"With a thousand," said that gallant man.

"Please, then, give my love to her, and ask her to come round and see

me."

Mr. Overtop would have said that he always found it difficult to carry a

lady's love to another without keeping some himself; but then he thought

that this might be a little bold for a stray caller. So he answered,

"With pleasure."

The two visitors bowed, and Miss Pillbody bent her head gracefully

toward Mr. Overtop.

"What do you think of the schoolmarm?" asked Tiffles, when they had got

into the street.

Overtop did not like the phrase "schoolmarm." "I think Miss Pillbody,"

said he, "is--a sensible woman."

CHAPTER IV.

INNOCENCE ON A SLIPPERY ROAD.

Walking with the nervous and unreasonable quickness of city men, they

soon arrived at Mrs. Grail's. The good lady was sitting at one of her

front windows, sewing. As she looked into the street, her face was seen

to have a sad and thoughtful expression. She came to the door in

response to a sharp ring by Wesley Tiffles, who was tentative of

bellpulls. Mrs. Crull kept two servants, but she could never get over

the impulse to answer the door, when she was near it.

Overtop explained that they were desirous of seeing Miss Minford on

important business.

"The poor, dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Crull, in a broken voice. "She is

not here."

"Not here!" cried Overtop. "Where is she, then?"

"I don't know, sir; and that's what troubles me so." Here the good Mrs.

Crull began to twitch about the mouth. But she did not cry. She had too

much of the masculine element for that. Her whole life was a struggle

between the weakness of her feminine body and the strong self-control of

her manly soul, in which the latter, after an effort, always came

out victor.

Mrs. Crull then proceeded to explain, a little incoherently, that she

had taken Miss Minford to her house, the day after the murder, and had

asked the poor child to live with her, to be her adopted daughter. Miss

Minford had gladly accepted the offer, and had stayed there until

yesterday. During the last two or three days, she had noticed that Miss

Minford, or Pet, as she always called her, was worried about something.

She would not tell Mrs. Crull what was the matter, but Mrs. Crull

somehow guessed that it was a love affair. She remembered the handsome,

dissipated young man at the inquest, and she had seen him standing at

the corner below her house, only two days before Miss Minford left.

"Left!" exclaimed Overtop, jumping at a conclusion. "Then that villain

has abducted and ruined her."

"It's bad enough, I fear," continued Mrs. Crull; "but perhaps not so bad

as that 'ere. Anyhow, I hopes not. I spoke to Pet about that young man,

and she looked as innocent as a spring lamb at me, though she kind o'

blushed when she denied having met him since the trial. And, to do her

justice, I don't think she had met him then, though I sort o' suspeck

she seen him from the window two or three times--she had a habit of

looking out o' the window--and that he contrived to have a talk with her

somewhere and somehow, the day before she went away. And I think he must

have had the cheek to come into this very room" (Mrs. Crull had shown

her visitors into her front parlor), "because one o' my servants says

that she heerd a strange voice in the entry, and the door shut as if

somebody had gone out. When she come into the entry to see who it was,

she saw Pet hurrying into the parlor, and heerd her humming a tune. Pet

wasn't in the habit of humming tunes; and, the servant thought that

rather 'spicious. So do I--not of any wrong, mind you. I wouldn't

believe that till it was proved. But, to make a long story short, here

is the note that poor Pet left on my dressin' table. Read it. I--I

haven't got my spectacles."

The truth was, that Mrs. Crull's eyes were filling with tears, and she

could not have read the now familiar lines on that little piece of paper

even with the powerful aid of her spectacles.

Monday Evening.

DEAR MRS. CRULL:

Please pardon me for what I have done. I knew you would not

consent to it, and so I did not tell you. I was afraid I

should become a burden to you; though you are too

good-hearted to say so. I have a nice place, and am earning

my own living honestly. Do not try to find me, but believe I

will always be good, and worthy of your love, and, some day,

will repay you for all your kindness.

With love and respect,

PATTY MINFORD.

"A very strange note!" murmured Overtop. "Young girls are not apt to

complain of being burdens, or to take such misanthropic views of life.

There is a man's hand in this. That wretch, Van Quintem, jr., without a

doubt. Did you never warn Miss Minford against him?"

"Once," said Mrs. Crull, with a faint choke in her voice. "I had noticed

his glances toward her at the inquest, and I told her he was a bad young

man, and she must not allow him to speak to her in the street, and that,

if he should come to my house to see her, I should shut the door in

his face."

"And what did she say to that?"

"She said all she knew about him was, that he had saved her life once.

She couldn't forget that. Then I showed her how improper it was in him

to hide his own name from her, and what horrid holes these gambling

dens was which he goes to. I also p'inted out how unfeelin' his conduct

was to his poor old father."

"And what did she say to all that?"

"She nodded her head, and said, 'Yes, so it was;' but I see, now, that

all my talk didn't make no impression on her."

"The sum of it is," said Overtop, "that she loves this worthless

vagabond, and knew that you would not permit his visits to your house.

Therefore she has left you."

Mrs. Crull was a woman of firmness as well as affection. She regretted

that her opposition to this young man should have been the means of

driving Pet away. But she knew that she had done what any prudent mother

would have done for her own child.

"I'm sorry it has come to this," said she; "but I did it all for the

best, Heaven knows. Gen'lemen, we must find this child. But how?"

Tiffles, being a man of infinite expedients, and accustomed to solve

problems for himself, and everybody else, at the shortest notice,

answered at once:

"_Not_ by advertising for her, or putting the police on her track. Young

Van Quintem would take the alarm, and move her out of town. She will go

anywhere with him, if I mistake not, until she finds him out better.

Have you no clue to her whereabouts; or can you think of any one that

could give us any information?"

Mrs. Crull reflected. "Unless I am much mistaken," said she, "I saw that

tall, clean-looking boy, Bog, I believe they call him--you remember him

at the inquest--walking on t'other side o' the street, two or three

times since Pet come to live with me. He looked sideways and kind o'

sheepish at the house as he passed. I've a notion that he was a lover of

Pet's, too."

"He's the man, or boy, for us!" cried Tiffles. "Is in the bill-posting

business, and knows the town better than I do, if anything. A shrewd

fellow, judging from his looks; and, if he's in love with Miss Minford,

then he's sure never to tire of hunting her up. He must disguise

himself, and find young Van Quintem, and follow him day and night, till

he brings up at Miss Minford. That's the shortest road. When Miss

Minford has been found, then we will consider what is to be done next."

Mrs. Crull and Overtop at once approved of this plan, and no time was

lost in putting it into execution.

CHAPTER V.

BOG'S OPEN SESAME.

Bog was easily found, and gladly consented to do the work allotted to

him. It was agreed that he should conduct the search alone, and in his

own way; but that, after he had succeeded in tracing Miss Minford to her

place of concealment, he should send word, without delay, to Mrs. Crull,

and also to old Van Quintem, whose advice upon the subject had been

obtained. It was thought that the reasoning and entreaties of the two

together would win back the poor girl from the path of danger which she

was unconsciously treading.

Bog disguised himself by putting on his old, discarded working clothes;

and, as he looked at his reflection in the glass, thought how much truth

there was in the maxim, that "fine feathers make fine birds."

"Go, my good boy," old Van Quintem had said to him, in faltering

accents; "go among the gambling houses, and other dens of infamy, and

you will surely hear of my son."

Acting on this advice--which confirmed his own opinion--Bog proceeded to

visit the gambling houses on Broadway. Child of the city as he was, he

knew the locations of them all. His constant travels about town, day and

night, had made him a master of all this knowledge, and much more of the

sort, which is only useful when, as in the case of this poor orphan

boy, it serves to show where evil must be avoided, not sought. Thus the

pilot, taking his vessel through Hellgate, profits by his knowledge of

the rocks and the shallows, to steer clear of all dangers, and come

safely into port.

Bog, before leaving his shop, had been provided with this decoy note,

written by the ingenious Wesley Tiffles in cunning imitation of Miss

Minford's handwriting. The long, elegant curves, and all the delicate

peculiarities of her chirography, taught by Miss Pillbody, had been

copied from the sample furnished by her note to Mrs. Crull. It ran

as follows:

MR. VAN QUINTEM:

DEAR SIR: Come to me at once, for I am in trouble.

PET.

The plan (Bog's contrivance all this) was to inquire at the gambling

houses where Mr. Van Quintem, jr., was most likely to be, and, when he

was found, to send this note in to him by a servant. Bog, having

delivered the note, was to withdraw to the sidewalk, lie in ambush, till

young Van Quintem came out, and then follow him to Miss Minford's

retreat. There he was to wait, and send a swift messenger to Mrs. Crull

and old Van Quintem. It was not known that young Van Quintem had ever

seen Miss Minford's handwriting; but, to make the game sure, the note

had been written with a skill worthy of a counterfeiter, or that most

dexterous of penmen, young Van Quintem himself.

Bog commenced operations about three o'clock in the afternoon--the hour

when the gambler and debauchee, who have been up all the previous night,

are ready to begin their feverish life again.

He first visited a snug establishment near the lower end of Broadway. It

was situated in the second story, over a nominal exchange office, and

was the favorite resort of down-town brokers, who, having gambled on

Wall street till the close of business hours, dropped in to flirt with

Fortune an hour or two before going home to dinner. Sometimes their

hour or two was protracted to six o'clock next morning, when they

staggered home to breakfast and a curtain lecture together. This Temple

of Faro was never impertinently molested by the police; and it was a

subject of remark, among people who thought they had been robbed there,

that there was never a policeman within sight of the door.

In the hallway of the second story occupied by this gambling saloon,

were a number of doors, which the experienced eye of the boy at once

decided to be blinds, or, in other words, no doors at all, but only

imitations. The appearance of the second story was that of a suite of

unoccupied offices. Whoever rapped at these blind doors, could obtain no

admission.

At the end of the hallway, Bog came upon a long window, which was

painted white on the inside. He saw, by a glance at the grooves of the

lower sash, that it was often raised. There was a boot-worn hollow on

the floor beneath the window. The unusual length of the lower sash, and

the nearness of the sill to the floor, would permit persons to step into

the room easily when the window was raised.

Bog rapped thrice at this window. He had a vague idea--derived from

reading, perhaps--that three raps were an open sesame to mysterious

rooms the world over. The last rap had not ceased to vibrate on the pane

of glass, when the window was suddenly shoved up, as if by somebody

waiting on the other side.

A negro of intense blackness stood revealed. He took a hasty inventory

of Bog's old clothes, and then said, "Clare out, now!" He commenced to

close the window.

"I was told to give you a half dollar," said Bog, bethinking himself of

a powerful expedient, "if you would find out whether Mr. Van Quintem was

here, and hand him a letter."

The negro's eyes dilated, and his thick lips wreathed into a grin.

"Mr. Fan Squintem--a little feller with a big black mustache? I knows

him. Dunno wether he's in, 'L see fur ye." The negro paused. The

interrogatory, "Where's your half dollar?" could be plainly seen in his

great eyes.

"Here it is," said Bog.

The negro grinned his satisfaction, pocketed the coin, disappeared

through another door from which there exhaled an odor of cigars and mint

juleps, and returned, in a minute, with the intelligence, "He a'n't in,

Mister. P'a'ps you want to leave some word for him?"

Bog had no time to lose. He said, "Nothing partickler," and hurried off,

leaving the negro to puzzle over his half dollar.

At the next gambling saloon, near the junction of Broadway and Park Row,

Bog simplified his method of operations. Before making any inquiry of

the servant who answered his triple rap, he thrust a half dollar at him,

and then put his question. This plan saved surly looks and explanations.

Mr. Van Quintem was a well-known patron of the establishment, but had

not been there for a week: which was rather strange, the man

politely added.

Bog continued his search, walking as fast as he could. In second

stories, in third stories, in fourth stories, in the rear of ground

floors, in one or two basements, among all the more fashionable gambling

dens, which, at that period, lay between Fulton and Tenth streets, he

picked his way. His new system had drawn heavily upon his stock of loose

silver, and he had but two half dollars left. The question now was, how

to spend them?--for Bog knew of no more resorts of gamblers on Broadway;

and there were none on any of the side streets which a man of young Van

Quintem's style would be likely to frequent. It was the edge of evening.

The boy walked up and down between Tenth and Fourteenth streets,

thinking what it would be best to do next. He kept a sharp lookout at

the passers by, hoping to see the object of his search. He paused to

rest himself a few minutes in the doorway of a photographic gallery;

and, while there, observed two young men, with sickly complexions and

bloodshot eyes, coming up the street. He recognized them as young men

whom he had often seen issuing from gambling places in the small hours

of the morning. They were talking briskly, and Bog pricked up his ears.

"The very d----l's in the cards lately," said the whitest-faced of the

two.

"Luck must have a turn," said the other. "By ----" (with a horrid oath),

"suppose we try Van's?"

"Van's? Where's that?"

"Why, the concern just opened on the corner above. The biggest kind of

suppers there, they say."

"All right," said the other, wearily. "We'll try Van's."

Van is a common prefix of names in New York; but Bog needed no further

assurance that this Van belonged to Quintem. The opening of a new

gambling saloon under his name (with some wealthy backer furnishing the

capital, as is usually the case) would explain why young Van Quintem had

not been seen at any of his old haunts on Broadway for a fortnight past.

Bog followed his guides at a short distance. After proceeding two

squares, they stopped in front of a stylish old mansion, and, after a

furtive look up and down and across the street, ascended the steps, and

opened the door. As they did so, Bog swiftly passed the house, and saw

that a muscular servant stood within the entry, for the obvious purpose

of preventing the intrusion of persons not wanted there. The large

diamond breastpins and depraved faces of the two young men were their

passports, and were _viséd_ without hesitation by the diplomatic

attendant.

Bog took a half dollar in his hand, advanced to the door, which was now

closed, and boldly opened it.

The athletic guardian of the place, being confronted with this audacious

youth in old clothes, put on a commanding look, and said:

"Well, sir, and what the d----l do you want here?"

"Only to give you half a dollar, as I was told to," said Bog, "and to

ask if Mr. Van Quintem was in. Note from a lady, sir; that's all."

Bog winked.

The servant smiled, and took the coin.

"He's in," was the reply.

"Then please hand this to him, and say as how it's 'mportant. No arnser

wanted."

The servant received the note, and sententiously remarked, "Consider it

done;" whereon the boy Bog hurriedly retreated, and hid himself in a

doorway nearly opposite. He had hardly done this, before the door of the

house opened again, and disclosed the man whom he longed to see. The

letter was crumpled in his hand, and his pale face betrayed agitation.

He cast wary looks in all directions, and then descended to the

sidewalk, and walked fast down Broadway. Bog emerged from his seclusion,

and followed him at a distance, always keeping somebody between him and

the object of his pursuit.

At the corner of Astor Place, young Van Quintem stopped; and Bog came to

a halt also, half a block behind.

The next minute, the Eighth-street stage, going up, approached the

corner at a rapid rate, as if the driver were hurrying home to his

supper. There were but few persons in the stage.

Young Van Quintem hailed the conveyance, jumped in before it could stop,

and the driver whipped up his horses to an increased speed. Bog was

tired, and he knew not how far he might have to follow the stage at a

full trot. He resolved upon his course instantly. Turning the corner of

Clinton Place, he ran up that side of the triangular block, and met the

stage. He pulled his old cap farther over his eyes, to prevent the

possibility of recognition by young Van Quintem, and, gliding swiftly

behind the stage, when he was sure that the driver was not looking,

hooked on to the step behind, just as he had done a thousand times when

he was a smaller boy.

CHAPTER VI.

TRACKED.

Young Van Quintem sat at the farther end of the stage, absorbed in his

own thoughts. His thin lips moved restlessly at times, as if he were

arguing to himself. In his hand he still held the crumpled note. Twice

he unfolded it, and read the contents carefully; then crushed it in his

hand again. Bog watched him through the window of the stage door--not

looking straight at him, but with that side vision with which we trace

the outline of faint comets. He was aware that young Van Quintem looked

at him twice suspiciously, and then settled back into his own

meditations. Bog felt safe in his disguise--or rather his original and

native dress.

When the stage stopped to take in or let out passengers, Bog slipped

from his perch, and hid himself from the driver's sight. Long experience

had taught him how to render himself invisible to that vindictive

personage.

The stage rolled on to the Greenpoint ferry, dropping all its passengers

by the way, excepting the pursued and the pursuer. It was now evident

that young Van Quintem was going to Greenpoint.

The ferry boat was not in, and would not be in, and ready to leave

again, for ten minutes. Bog, having seen his game enter the ferry house,

thereby conclusively proving his intention to cross the river, slipped

into a boiler yard near the ferry. There, against a post, he scrawled

with a stump of pencil, on the back of two playbills (which he had

brought with him for stationery), two notes, as follows:

Tuesday Evening, about 8 o'clock.

Please come to the ferry house on the Greenpoint side, and

wait there till I send for you. BOG.

These notes he addressed to Mr. Van Quintem, sen., and Mrs. Crull, at

their residences. The next step was to find a boy to deliver them. Bog

did not have to wait long for that. Boys of the ragged and city-wise

variety may be picked up at any corner of New York at any hour of the

day or night.

Another Eighth-street stage, which came rattling toward the ferry,

brought a fine specimen of the juvenile vagrant and dare-devil, seated

on the step. Bog looked out of the boiler yard, and hailed him with a

shrill whistle, formed by thrusting two fingers in the mouth, and

blowing fiercely. The boy recognized the signal of his ragged tribe,

slid off the seat, and came running to where Bog was standing. As he

drew near, Bog recognized him as a trusty lad whom he had employed as

file leader in a walking advertisement procession, several weeks before.

"Wot yer want, hey?" asked this youth.

"Know me?" asked Bog.

"Know ye? No. Yer a'n't one of our fellers."

"Look again." Bog raised his ragged cap, and smoothed his hair back.

"Why, it's Mr. Bogert. Cuss me if it a'n't!"

"Just so, Bill. I'm trying to catch a chap that owes me something, you

see. He's in the ferry house there, waiting for the boat. I'm going to

follow him to Greenpoint, and find out where he lives. Then I'll have

him arrested. Now, there are two people I would like to have as

witnesses, when I track him to his house. The names are written here;

and what I want of you is, to deliver these notes to them as soon as you

can, and tell them to come right away. Will you do it, Bill?"

"Won't I, Mr. Bogert? Jest tell me the names, streets, and numbers, cos

I can't read handwritin' very well, yer know."

Bog read the addresses, and, at the same time, produced a quarter from

his fast-diminishing stock of silver. "Take that," said he.

"No yer don't!" said the eccentric youth. "You've done some good turns

to me. Bill Fish don't forget his friends, I can tell yer. Here

goes, now."

Bill Fish snatched the notes from Bog's hand, and ran down the street

after a stage which had just left the ferry house on its down trip. Bog

saw him seat himself on the step, with his head well hid from the

driver, and sent a parting whistle after him, to which Bill Fish

responded with an enormous grin and a jerk of thumb over shoulder at his

natural enemy on the box.

"I'll give Bill Fish a good job, some day," mused Bog. "Now for the

scoundrel."

The boat had come in. Bog watched from his hiding place until he saw

young Van Quintem step on board, and disappear in the ladies' cabin.

Then he hastened to the ferry house, paid his fare, and entered. To

avoid being seen by young Van Quintem, he took a seat in that repository

of stale tobacco-smoke called the "Gentlemen's Cabin."

At the Greenpoint landing, Bog watched young Van Quintem's departure

from the boat, and stole out, taking the opposite side of the street. It

was then quite dark, and, with reasonable precaution, there was no fear

that the pursued would see him.

The young profligate walked up the street several blocks, and turned

into a side street, occupied by residences, with small shops and

groceries at the corners, and occasionally at intervals between them.

Suddenly, Bog observed him looking around, as if to be sure that he was

not watched. Bog slipped behind a large tree. Having apparently come to

the conclusion that nobody was observing him, young Van Quintem strode

on rapidly a few rods farther, and then made a sharp turn into a neat

little millinery shop, which stood quite remote from all other places

of business.

When the young man's form had disappeared, Bog ran at the top of his

speed to a point opposite the shop, where he could readily see what was

going on within.

The door was open and a strong light from the interior shone across the

street. There was no tree or awning post, or other object, on the

sidewalk, behind which he could conceal himself. Exactly opposite to the

shop, and in the full blaze of its light, was a high door shutting on a

small alley way. Bog tried the latch, and found the door locked. With

instant decision, he caught the top of the door, and vaulted over it,

trusting to fortune not to be caught on the inside. Applying his eye to

the keyhole, he observed the following condition of things:

The shop was a milliner's, beyond all question. It was filled with

articles of ladies' wear, whose names and uses were all unknown to Bog;

while outside, in the air, dangled various patterns of skirts which had

just then come into fashion; and the public and obtrusive exhibition of

which is one of the singularities of our rapid civilization.

Behind the counter stood one of those thin ladies who have dedicated

themselves to the millinery and a single life. At that distance, she

looked to Bog like a perfectly respectable woman, with a sharp eye to

business. Farther on, toward the end of the same counter, was the angel

of his heart, Patty Minford. Her appearance, pale, and therefore more

touchingly beautiful than ever, threw his senses into that sweet flutter

which is the proof and mystery of love. He repeated the vow which he had

made to himself, and dreamed of fulfilling a thousand times, to save her

from harm at the risk of his life. She was folding up articles on the

counter, and packing them into little boxes, and did not look toward

young Van Quintem. Bog thought this a good sign.

The young man leaned over the counter, and addressed some words to her,

to which her lips moved as if in reply, while her eyes were still

downcast on her work. He then smoothed out the crumpled note which he

had carried in his hand, and placed it before her. She started in

amazement, as she remarked the close imitation of her handwriting; and,

having read it, shook her head with a wondering air. Young Van Quintem's

inexpressive face assumed a look of astonishment, and he instantly

walked to the door, and peered up and down the street, and opposite.

Then he nodded to Miss Minford, as if to excuse himself for a moment,

and, darting out of the shop, walked rapidly to the street below, and

then to the one above, passing Bog's hiding place on that side of the

street, and causing that youth to remove his eye from the keyhole for

fear of detection. When he had made this reconnoissance, and satisfied

himself that there was no spy about, he returned to the shop. In the

mean time, some pantomime had been going on between Miss Minford and the

shopwoman, which Bog interpreted to mean that Miss Minford appealed to

her for protection, and that the shopwoman promised it. This was

followed by the retiring of the young lady through a door in the rear of

the shop, and the locking of the door by her female friend, who put the

key in her pocket.

Young Van Quintem came in, and was surprised not to see Patty. The

shopwoman explained, with a gesture, that she had gone up stairs,

whereon he consulted his watch, and then sat down in an armchair in

front of the counter, as if with the determination of waiting for her.

Bog judged, from all the circumstances, that Miss Minford would not

again show herself for some time; that young Van Quintem would wait, in

the hope of seeing her; and that the shopwoman could be depended on as

her friend to the last. He therefore concluded that he might safely

spend time to go to the ferry house, and procure the company of old Van

Quintem and Mrs. Crull, who had probably reached the rendezvous.

Watching for an opportunity when the young man's back was turned, Bog

lightly vaulted from his hiding place, and noiselessly ran down

the street.

CHAPTER VII.

FOUND AND LOST.

When he arrived at the ferry house, the boat was coming in, with his

venerable accomplices on board. Upon receiving her cue from the

faithful Bill Fish, Mrs. Crull entered her carriage (which had been in

readiness for her since Bog started out on his search), and was driven

to Mr. Van Quintem's. The old gentleman, who was sitting in his study,

with his light overcoat and hat on, prepared for any journey, took the

spare seat in the carriage, and, in less than twenty-five minutes, by

fast driving and the timely cooperation of the ferry boat, they were at

the appointed spot.

"Have you found her, you dear Bog?" asked Mrs. Crull, breathless.

Bog answered "Yes," and that Mrs. Crull should see her in five minutes.

That lady then assisted him into the carriage, and kissed him on the

forehead in a motherly way, which would have astonished the sedate

family coachman, if he had not been entirely used to Mrs. Crull's

eccentricities.

"My good boy," said old Van Quintem, in a trembling voice, "are you sure

we are not too late--quite sure?"

"Sure!" said Bog.

"Thank God! thank God!" murmured the old gentleman. Then he looked with

a strange interest upon the honest and intelligent face of the lad. He

was contrasting the history of the poor boy, which he had learned from

Mrs. Crull, with that of his abandoned son.

The carriage was stopped, by the order of Bog (who calmly took charge of

the whole proceedings), at the corner of the street below the shop; and

the party (excepting the driver) walked slowly toward the scene of

interest. Old Van Quintem's increasing infirmities compelled him to lean

for support on the arm of Mrs. Crull, and also with greater and more

confiding weight, on that of Bog.

As the party entered the shop, young Van Quintem was sitting with his

head turned toward the door by which Miss Minford had vanished, savagely

biting his finger nails. He wheeled in his chair, and confronted the

intruders.

"What the ---- are you doing here?" he cried to his father.

"We are here to save a young girl from ruin, and you from another

crime," said the old gentleman, greatly agitated, and leaning with his

whole weight, now, on Bog's arm.

"The ---- you are! And you have brought along an old woman, and a boy

that looks like a pickpocket, to help you."

The phrase "old woman" stirred up Mrs. Crull. She left the old

gentleman's side, and advanced to within a yard of the profligate. "Old

as I am," said she, "I'm strong enough to spank such a white-livered,

broken-down puppy as you are. But I'll leave you to the hands of the

law. It's a long lane that hasn't any turning, remember; and you'll pull

up at the gallows at last. That's some comfort!"

Mrs. Crull here became conscious that it was highly impolite to lose her

temper, and she fell back to the support of her old friend. Young Van

Quintem laughed at her, showing his white teeth unpleasantly.

"Ah, I recognize you now," he continued, looking maliciously at the boy

Bog. "You are the young thief that tracked me here, are you? I'll settle

with you now."

He sprang from his chair, and strode toward the lad. He was met halfway

by Bog, whom the insulting epithet had stung to the quick.

A foe met halfway is half vanquished. A single glance at Bog's clear,

courageous eye, and his sinewy proportions, assured young Van Quintem

that he had more than his match.

"This--this is no place for a row," he faltered. "I'll attend to you,

some time, in the street."

"I shall always be ready for you," said Bog, smiling at this

pusillanimous postponement--which is a mild way of making a

clear backout.

Here the attention of all was called off by the appearance of Miss

Minford. The quick ear of the milliner had caught her footstep on the

stairs, coming down. She unlocked the door, and the beautiful object of

their search stood before them. She was very pale, and tears dimmed her

eyes. Mrs. Crull flew toward her, and the poor girl fell on her breast,

and cried as if her heart would break.

Good Mrs. Crull helped her to a sofa, and sat down, and strained her

young friend closely to her bosom, "Be calm," said she, "dear child!"

Old Van Quintem and Bog looked on with sad interest. The young villain

stood in a corner, gnawing his finger nails, and revolving schemes of

vengeance. All waited for Miss Minford to become calm before any

explanation was sought.

Under the soothing caresses of Mrs. Crull, the young girl soon became

comparatively tranquil. With her head still pillowed on the broad bosom

of her protectress, she made a broken statement to the following effect,

in response to the tender questionings of that lady:

She said that she had no thought of leaving the house of her dear

friend, until he had told her how much better it would be to earn her

own living at some easy and pleasant trade, than to be dependent on one

who was not a relative. He had also told her that, one day, when he was

passing the house, he heard Mr. Crull scolding because Mrs. Crull had

brought a girl home to be her companion.

At this point, Mrs. Crull turned furiously toward the pale offender.

"You miserable wretch!" said she. "I only wish my dear old man was here,

to thrash you soundly. Why, he loved this little darling almost as much

as I did. Besides, I'm the mistress of our house; and he never meddles

with my affairs. Go on, dear Pet."

Pet then stated that he (she never called him by his name) had promised

to get a place for her, and that she, supposing he was a true friend,

had accepted the offer of his aid. One day, when they had met by

appointment (which was very wrong, she admitted, with a fresh torrent of

tears), he told her that he had found a nice situation for her in a

milliner's shop in Greenpoint, and that she must come right away, or she

would lose the chance. She went home, and packed up her few things in a

handkerchief, and came with him here in a carriage. She came directly

here, and had not been out of Mrs. Wopping's sight since then. Mrs.

Wopping had treated her very, very kindly.

Mrs. Wopping, who had been lying in wait for her opportunity, here spoke

up. She was a respectable woman, she said, thank God! and had been in

the business for fifteen years, in New York. They could inquire about

her in Canal street, where she had served her apprenticeship; in

Division street, where she had been a forewoman; and in Grand street,

where she had kept a shop. In an evil hour, she had been persuaded to

start a millinery establishment in Greenpoint; and a very bad time she

had had of it. All she knew about this unfortunate affair, was this: The

young man, there, had called on her, a few days ago, and said that he

wanted to do a favor for an orphan girl, who was a distant relative of

his. She was poor, he said, but proud--no strange thing, Mrs. Wopping

believed--and would not accept anything directly from him.

"Therefore," said Mrs. Wopping, "he wanted to arrange with me to give

her some easy work to do, enough to make her think she was earning her

own living, and he would pay me her board, and give me twenty shillings

a week to hand to her as her wages. By this plan, I could get a boarder

at a fair price, and the services of a young lady to wait on the shop

for nothing. Very imprudently, I consented, but not before I had made

the young man there swear to Heaven that his intentions were honorable.

This he did in the most solemn manner. I loved the dear girl at first

sight, and determined to watch over her, and keep her from harm. I had a

little sister once--long since dead--that much resembled her. I should

add, that, though Miss Minford seemed to think very well of the young

man there, when he brought her here, she became quite suspicious of him

yesterday--he was here all yesterday afternoon--and refused to ride out

with him, though he had brought a handsome carriage for her. I advised

her not to go."

"Thank you, good Mrs. Wopping!" said Mrs. Crull, shaking that lady by

the hand, "you have been a true friend to our dear child; and I'll

order my bonnets from you for the futer. Virtue shouldn't always be its

own reward.

"You see, now, my darling," continued Mrs. Crull, "what a scoundrel you

have escaped from. Will you be my adopted child forever? Speak, my

precious!"

Poor Pet threw her soft white arms around the thick neck of her

protectress, and cried for joy. "Dear, dear mother!" she murmured.

There was a pause, daring which everybody but young Van Quintem had

occasion to wipe their eyes. He paced up and down, his brow wrinkled,

and inextinguishable hate flashing from his eyes.

"Well, sir," said his father, calmly, "what atonement have you to make

for this outrage?"

"You're a ---- old fool, and that's all I've got to say."

"Heaven be praised that his poor mother was not spared for this sorrow!"

was the tranquil reply.

"Curse you--and the old woman's memory. You're always making a fuss

about her."

The benignant expression of old Van Quintem's face vanished instantly,

and a just rage gleamed on every feature. "Unnatural son! monster!

fiend!" he cried, raising his hands aloft; "at last you have gone too

far. Leave my presence, sir, and never--never--let me see your face

again. I say to you, and before these witnesses, that I disown and

disinherit you forever--forever--forever!"

The coward son could not endure that terrible visitation of parental

wrath, and fled, without another word, from the shop.

Old Van Quintem fell exhausted upon the strong shoulder of the boy Bog.

"Henceforth," said he, "you--you--shall be my son."

[Illustration: FATHER AND SON.]

BOOK TWELFTH,

SPECULATIONS--PECUNIARY AND MATRIMONIAL.

CHAPTER I.

THE "COSMOPOLITAN WINDOW FASTENER."

The "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" was a veritable success. For the

first time in his life, Mr. Wesley Tiffles's theories had been

demonstrated by results. Had the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" been his

own invention, and disposed of for his own behoof, he would have

abandoned it long before its merits had been fairly tested, and tried

some other of the myriad schemes that floated through his brain. But the

profits of the "Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" went to another; and this

was the secret of Wesley Tiffles's persistent (and therefore successful)

exertions.

This was his plan of operations: In the first place, from the funds

supplied by Marcus Wilkeson, he procured a patent for the invention. In

the second place, he put an advertisement a column long in every daily

paper--six insertions paid in advance--and handed a highly polished

brass model of the invention to the editor, with a request to notice, if

perfectly agreeable. The just and logical result followed. Instead of

the ten-line paragraph with which patent churns and washing machines

are ordinarily turned loose on society, the "Cosmopolitan Window

Fastener" received notices so long and ornate, that it was quite

impossible to derive from them a correct idea of the matchless

simplicity of the invention.

Having thus roused public curiosity, Tiffles, in the third place, took

an office on Broadway, and put up a large sign inscribed in gilt

capitals, "The Cosmopolitan Window Fastener Manufacturing Co." From this

_pou sto_, Archimedes-like, he commenced to move the world of house

owners. This he accomplished by the following manoeuvre: He caused

double-leaded advertisements, under the head of special notices, to be

inserted in all the papers, informing the public that it would be

utterly impossible to supply the demand for the "Cosmopolitan Window

Fastener," and that, therefore, it would be useless to send in orders.

The Company were employing all the resources of two large manufacturing

establishments; but it was evident that these would fail to meet the

extraordinary and totally unexpected demand for this indispensable

protection against burglars--this moral safeguard, as it might not

inappropriately be called, of civilized homes. The Company had made

every effort, but without success, to secure a force of skilled workmen

equal to the emergency. Justice to their customers in all parts of the

country, compelled the Company to announce that no orders received after

that date could be filled under two months. Under these remarkable--they

might say, in some respects, disagreeable--circumstances, they begged

leave to throw themselves on the indulgence of a generous public.

These notices were put forth not only in the form of newspaper

advertisements, but as placards and handbills, which were stuck all over

the city, and thrown into all the stages, falling like autumn leaves

into the laps of passengers. This was the coöperative work of the boy

Bog, who, though adopted by old Van Quintem as his son and heir, had not

yet given up the bill-sticking business, but, on the contrary, had

increased it, and now had a practical monopoly of it in the city, with

branches in the suburbs. Bog would not eat the bread of idleness--and so

he had modestly told Mr. Van Quintem--and that fine old gentleman had

patted him on the back, and told him that there was genuine Dutch

blood in him.

Bogert & Co. now employed a hundred lads; and Bog's department of labor

was the general planning of operations, and the receiving and

disbursement of the money--and a very nice and agreeable department it

was. It enabled Bog to dress neatly, and keep his hands clean--two

points upon which he was now extremely fastidious. Bog was growing tall,

manly, and handsome. He was also showing a great improvement in his

grammar and pronunciation--the fruit of diligent attendance at the

evening school.

The public, being thus continually informed that orders for the

"Cosmopolitan Window Fastener" could not possibly be filled under two

months, very naturally began to send in orders for the invaluable

invention, to be filled after that period. Every mail brought hundreds

of them from all parts of the country. The Company--that is, Wesley

Tiffles--sat at their desk in the Broadway office from, nine to three

o'clock, exhibiting the window fastener to hundreds of visitors, and

receiving orders rather as a matter of favor to the customer than to

the Company.

At the end of a month, when orders to the amount of nearly seventy-five

thousand dollars had been received--every Northern and Western State

being extensively represented on the books--the Company issued another

advertisement, to the effect that, owing to the overwhelming pressure of

business, they were willing to dispose of patent rights for two of

the States.

There was a rush of applicants, to all of whom the Company could

truthfully exhibit large and genuine orders from all the States. The

rights for two States were readily sold, and the Company then found that

they could spare one more for a fair compensation; and so on, until

every State in the Union had been disposed of, and the Company had not

an inch of United States territory left. Not only this, but liberal

purchasers were found for Cuba, Canada, South America, England, France,

Germany, Russia, and all the countries of the Continent.

In three months, the Company had disposed of their entire interest, and

realized about one hundred thousand dollars cash. This sum Tiffles had

faithfully paid over, as fast as received, to Fayette Overtop, who not

only represented Marcus Wilkeson (unknown to Pet), but was Pet's own

attorney and agent. By Fayette Overtop it was placed in bank, credited

to Miss Patty Minford, and subject to her order alone.

Thus it happened that the poor inventor had not toiled in vain for the

child that he loved.

Tiffles--with that strange unselfishness sometimes found in men of his

class--had not thought of or desired any compensation for his services,

other than the payment of all the bills incurred in the operation. The

pleasure which he took in manipulating the public, and seeing his labors

crowned with success, was the only reward that he wished for.

Marcus Wilkeson, however, as soon as he saw that Tiffles was actually

about to perform the amazing feat of raising money, determined, as an

act of common justice, to insist upon his receiving twenty per cent. of

the total. Tiffles flatly refused, at first, saying (which was true)

that he could work a great deal better if he had no personal interest in

the scheme; but yielded, at length, to the earnest solicitations of

Marcus, backed by the emphatic declaration of Miss Minford (through her

attorney), that she would not touch a penny of the money unless he

consented. So, when the affairs of the Company were wound up, Tiffles

found himself the possessor of twenty thousand dollars--a sum whose

existence in a concrete form he had always secretly disbelieved. And

Tiffles's first act was to settle up all his outstanding debts.

The unexpected acquisition of this immense sum imparted a charm to every

object in life except Miss Philomela Wilkeson.

Poor Miss Wilkeson was quick to discern the change in Tiffles's manner

toward her. His calls were as frequent as ever, but were exclusively on

her half-brother, and had no side bearing in her direction. He no longer

lingered in the entry to converse with her; and flatly refused her

invitation to take a glass of wine in the dining room. Most ominous of

signs, he did not press her hand in the least, when he took it in his

own. His voice was no longer winning, but harsh and neglectful.

Indifference brooded in the heart of the monster. The worst of it was,

that he had been so cautious and noncommittal in his declarations, that

she could not upbraid him for his perfidy. With a cold calculation

worthy of a demon, he had made love in the pantomimic way, and eschewed

written or verbal communications of an erotic nature. No jury could have

muleted him one cent for damages in a breach-of-promise case, and

he knew it.

While Wesley Tiffles slipped off Miss Wilkeson like a loose glove, she

might as well have tried to divest herself of her natural cuticle as to

banish all thoughts of him. Miss Wilkeson was accustomed to allude

mysteriously to certain sentimental affairs of her youth. In

confidential moments, her friends had been favored with shadowy

reminiscences of a romantic past. But truth compels us to state that

Miss Wilkeson had never been the recipient of that delicate and awkward

thing known as a proposal, and that she had never been kissed by man or

boy since she wore long dresses. Hence the magnified importance which

she attached to that kiss which, in a moment of reckless but cheap

gallantry, Wesley Tiffles, on one fatal evening, had impressed upon her

withered hand. She loved the destroyer of her peace with the pent-up

energies of forty years.

CHAPTER II.

MIDDLE-AGED CUPID.

Being in ignorance of Tiffles's sudden fortune, she was at a loss how to

explain his defection. She conjectured all things, and finally settled

down to the conclusion that he was a coy young man, and had not been

sufficiently encouraged by her. She remembered instances where he had

exhibited signs of ardor--in one case so far as beginning to slip a hand

around her waist--and she had repelled him. He was evidently waiting for

some marked encouragement. How foolishly prudish she had been!

One evening, as Wesley Tiffles was passing through the hall to the door,

after a rattling hour with the three bachelors, he was confronted by

Miss Wilkeson, who chanced to leave the front parlor on a journey up

stairs at that moment. She was dressed in a light silk, and her hair was

carefully braided, and her face had a pink color in some parts, which

contrasted well with the pallor in other parts; and her glass had told

her that she was looking uncommonly youthful and charming. She had

carefully studied her part, which was to be a bold one, throwing off

all reserve.

"Good evening, Mr. Tiffles," said she, promptly offering her hand.

He took it with unsqueezing indifference. She had expected that.

"Mr. Tiffles," said she, with an air of youthful raillery, "you are a

naughty man, and I had an idea of not speaking to you again."

"Naughty!" said Tiffles, astonished. "How?"

"Why, you have hardly been civil to me, of late. I do believe you

wouldn't speak, or shake hands with me, if I didn't always set the

example." This in a half-complaining, half-laughing way.

It suddenly flashed upon Tiffles that he had been, for some time,

rather neglectful of the lady. It also forcibly occurred to him that it

was wise policy to be on good terms, at all times, with the mistress of

the house; and such was Miss Wilkeson's present position. He therefore

clutched her hand again, gave it a faint squeeze, and said that he

apologized a million times for his rudeness; but the fact was, he had so

much business on hand, that he had been turned into a perfect bear, he

supposed. He playfully challenged Miss Wilkeson to step into the parlor

and take a glass of wine, and he would show her that he was not the

brute she fancied.

Miss Wilkeson laughingly accepted the challenge. "But I do believe," she

added, "that it is only the glass of wine you care for. Now tell me, Mr.

Tiffles, aren't you a woman hater?"

"When a man is asked that question, categorically, by a woman, his most

effective answer is to make love to her out of hand. Tiffles was not

prepared to do this in the present case, but he was willing to pay

compliments to any extent.

"Ah, Miss Wilkeson, there you do me great injustice," said he, with his

pleasantest of laughs. "I drink this glass of wine to 'lovely woman,'"

with a nod at Miss Wilkeson.

Miss Wilkeson giggled, and took a fly's sip from the brim of her glass.

Tiffles heaved a sigh. "We bachelors are poor, unhappy fellows, really

to be pitied."

"You are horrid creatures--you know you are--and deserve no pity from

us!" Miss Wilkeson played her frisky, juvenile part admirably.

"So charming, and yet so cruel!" said Tiffles, uttering the first

preposterous compliment that he thought of.

"You flatterer!" said Miss Wilkeson, beating a breeze toward him with

her fan.

Tiffles, observing that matters were coming to a crisis, paused. Miss

Wilkeson interpreted his silence as another attack of timidity. Time was

valuable to her, and this kind of conversation might be kept up all

night, and amount to nothing. She resolved upon her final _coup_.

"Oh! oh! Mr. Tiffles, what--what is the matter?" She looked wildly about

her.

"The matter! What matter?" exclaimed that gentleman, little suspecting

what was to happen.

"The wine--the warm weather--something--oh! oh!"

"With these inexplicable remarks, Miss Wilkeson dropped her fan, uttered

a slight but sharp scream, and fell back in her chair, like a withered

flower on a broken stalk.

"By thunder, she has fainted!" said the excited Tiffles. He had never

been in a similar dilemma, and did not know what to do. He had heard

tickling of the feet highly recommended in such cases; but that was

obviously impracticable. A dash of cold water in the face was also said

to afford instant relief; but there was no water at hand. "I must call

for help," said he.

This remark appeared to arouse Miss Wilkeson. "Support me," she

murmured. "I shall be better soon."

Tiffles, all accommodation, clasped her fragile waist with an arm, and

gently inclined her head upon his shoulder. She heaved a sigh, and gave

other tokens of returning animation. Tiffles here noticed that her face

had not the prevailing paleness which always accompanies fainting. He

instantly suspected the true nature of Miss Wilkeson's complaint.

The noise of quick footsteps resounded in the entry. Marcus, Overtop,

and Maltboy had heard the sharp scream, and were rushing to the rescue.

"Good heavens! what will they say?" exclaimed Tiffles. "Don't be silly,

Miss Wilkeson, at your time of life." This cutting remark was wrung from

him by the annoyance and confusion of the moment.

It served as a wonderful anodyne; for Miss Wilkeson Jerked herself into

an erect position, and said, "You're a fool!"

At this juncture, before Tiffles had quite uncoiled his serpentine arms

from her, and while she was looking fiery indignation at him, the door

was pushed open, and the three bachelors rushed in.

"I really beg pardon," said Marcus. "No occasion for my services, I

see--ahem!"

"Heard a scream--thought it was here--no intention to intrude," added

Overtop.

The tableau reminded Maltboy of his own innumerable little affairs, and

he laughed. "It's a lovers' quarrel," said he, "and not to be

interrupted, of course."

The three bachelors hastily evacuated the room, and their merry laughs

rang in the entry.

"Miss Wilkeson," said Times, consulting his watch--he carried a gold

one, with an enormous gold chain--"you must really excuse me. Important

business engagement at nine. Good evening." So saying, Tiffles

precipitately retired, with the determination not to enter the house

again until he knew that Miss Wilkeson was out of it.

A week from that memorable day, Tiffles met Marcus Wilkeson on Broadway.

"Why haven't you been to see us?" said Marcus.

"Not been very smart, of late," explained Tiffles.

"Fainting fits, perhaps. Maybe they are catching, eh?"

Tiffles smiled, for he saw that Marcus knew the truth. "How is Miss

Wilkeson?" he asked, respectfully.

"She has gone into the country for her health, and will probably stay

away a number of years. In short, I have engaged for her the position of

first preceptress of a female seminary in the middle of the State. She

said she was quite sick of the hollow and heartless life of New York."

Marcus spoke truly. Miss Wilkeson had retired to the country with a

thorough feeling of disgust for town existence. She has taught for

several years, and is still teaching in the ---- Young Ladies' Seminary,

with eminent success, though her fair pupils complain, with much pretty

pouting, of her savage restrictions upon all walks and talks with the

eligible young beaux of the village. They say that she hates the men;

and they call her a cross old maid, and a great number of other

hard epithets.

But, sometimes, a tear is observed in the corner of her eye, which she

hastily wipes away. That tear is an oblation upon the memory of a lost

love. That lost love was, and is, and always will be, Wesley Tiffles.

CHAPTER III.

SLAPMAN _vs_. SLAPMAN.

The case of Slapman _vs_. Slapman occupied the attention of the referee,

Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., over two months. That gentleman was corpulent,

fond of good dinners, and had a highly cultivated taste for scandal. It

had been his custom to give this interesting case a hearing one or two

hours every afternoon, daily, after court. It was a relief from the

heavy business of the day; for Goldfinch had heavy business, which came

to him because he was a fat and pleasant fellow, with a large head, and

a great circle of miscellaneous acquaintance. The real work of the

office was done by a modest, unappreciated man named Mixer. On the

occasion of these antimatrimonial audiences, Mixer sat in the back room,

grubbing among his dusty papers; while Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., in the

front room, with shut doors, leaned back in his easy chair and

surrendered himself to enjoyment.

In the case of Slapman _vs_. Slapman, a great number of witnesses had

been examined on each side. Affidavits, amounting to hundreds of pages,

had been obtained in distant States--some as far away as California. The

lawyers had spared neither their own time nor the money of their clients

in raking together testimony which would bear in the slightest degree

upon the interests which they represented. All the relatives of Mr.

Slapman had testified that he was a gentleman uniformly kind and

courteous, possessing a singular placidity of temper, and indulgent to

his wife to a degree where indulgence became a fault. Those relatives,

and they were numerous--particularly in the country branch--who had

passed anniversary weeks at Mr. Slapman's house, were very severe on

Mrs. Slapman. She was a proud, disagreeable woman. She was continually

snubbing her husband before people. She had a great many male friends,

whose acquaintance she had retained in defiance of his wishes. She was

known to have received letters from men, and when her husband had

desired to peruse them, had laughed at him. It is true that she

pretended to be a patroness of literature, science, and the arts; but

anybody could see that those things were only the cover of the grossest

improprieties. She had been heard to listen without remonstrance, to

declarations of love from several young men. It turned out, upon

cross-examination, that these irregularities took place in charades and

plays, of which Mr. Slapman's relatives had been shocked spectators.

With regard to Mr. Overtop's transactions in the family, they could say

nothing; for they had long since ceased to visit Mrs. Slapman, on

account of her disgraceful conduct--and also (they might have added, but

they did not add) because Mrs. Slapman latterly had her house full of

Jigbees, and put her husband's relatives into obscure rooms in the third

story, and quite forgot their existence afterward.

_Per contra_, all the Jigbees--and they were a prolific race--swore that

their distinguished relative was a pattern of artlessness and innocence.

That she was remarkable from early childhood for a charming frankness

and transparent candor. That when this bright ornament of the Jigbee

stock was sought in marriage by the defendant, the whole family, with

one mind and voice, opposed the match. They had felt that a being of her

exalted intellectual tastes was too good for a sordid money-getting

creature like Slapman. But that man, by his ingenious artifices, had

succeeded in winning the hand of their gifted kinswoman, and married her

against their unanimous protests. There was but one consolation for this

family misfortune. Mr. Slapman was reported to be wealthy, and could

afford to indulge his wife in the exercise of her noble longings for

TRUTH. They were willing to say that Mr. Slapman had not been illiberal,

so far as vulgar money was concerned. He had given to his wife the house

and lot which she occupied, and had never stinted her in respect of

allowances. But what was money to a woman of Mrs. Slapman's soul, when

her husband withheld from her his confidence and trust, regarded her

innocent labors in behalf of Art, Literature, and the Drama, with a

cold, unsympathizing eye, and finally descended so low as to feel a

brutal jealousy of those gentlemen of talent, of whom she was the

revered patroness?

"Money" (we are quoting here from the remarks of Mrs. Slapman's eminent

counsel) "is very desirable in its way, but is it not the vilest dross,

your Honor, when compared with the pure gold of connubial trust and

sympathy?" Mr. Goldfinch nodded his head, as if to say that he rather

thought it was.

The testimony of two servant girls established the fact that Mr. Slapman

had several times been overheard to tell his wife that she would regret

it; and that the time was fast coming when forbearance would cease to be

a virtue; also that the worm, when trodden on repeatedly, might at last

turn and sting, and many other enigmatical sayings of that character.

The very vagueness of these threats, implying unknown horrors, had

inspired his wife with a mortal dread of him. She did not know at what

moment this jealous and revengeful man might strike her dead. She had

been living in the fear of her life for six years, and, during all this

time, had never complained, or expressed that fear to one of her

relatives or friends.

"Such is the noble, uncomplaining nature," said the eminent counsel, in

reference to this fact, "of the woman that Fate has thrown into the arms

of a fiend."

But the most striking proof of Mr. Slapman's murderous designs upon his

wife, was his conduct at the last dramatic _soirée_. Twenty witnesses

swore that it was his evident intention to spring on her and strangle

her, and that he was only thwarted in this horrid purpose by the noble

courage of Fayette Overtop, Esq. Mr. Overtop briefly and modestly

testified to this effect also; and, furthermore, narrated all the

particulars of his acquaintance with Mrs. Slapman, holding before her a

shield, from which the arrows of calumny, aimed by her husband,

fell harmless.

Mr. Slapman had not shown himself in the referee's office since the

investigation began. He had become convinced that he had lost the case

into which his mad jealousy and his lawyer's advice had plunged him.

Mrs. Slapman, according to the testimony of the two servants and several

others, was immured in her house, and brooding over this saddest episode

in her unhappy history.

"Nothing but that instinct of self-preservation," said the eminent

counsel, "which bids the dove to fly from the hawk, and the rabbit to

evade the pursuing hounds, could have induced that delicate, shrinking

lady to lay bare the horrors of her prison house to the world, and to

ask, in the name of common humanity, a release from the tyrant, and a

liberal alimony."

The eminent counsel repeated this flight of fancy in the ear of Mrs.

Slapman, at the opera that evening, whither she was accompanied by a few

of the Jigbees, and she smiled, and said that it was really beautiful.

The protracted case--of which we have given a mere sketch--was decided

by Samuel Goldfinch, Esq., in favor of the lady, a separation was

decreed, and alimony fixed at six thousand dollars a year, that being

only a wife's fair proportion of Mr. Slapman's income. Mrs. Slapman,

with a well-assumed appearance of levity, gave a _grande soirée musicale

et dramatique_ at her house, in honor of the event, at which Overtop was

a favored guest. Mr. Slapman went direct to Slapmanville, and raised the

rent on all his tenants, turned a superannuated non-paying couple into

the street, and took a general account of his property, to see how much

he could sell out for, preparatory to leaving for Europe, and so dodging

the payment of the alimony.

The illustrated papers published two portraits--one of an angel, the

other of a demon. The angel was Mrs. Slapman: the demon was her husband.

The comic papers served him up in puns, conundrums, and acrostics, of

the most satirical import. The daily papers, always on the look out for

subjects to write about, improved the occasion to overhaul the question

of divorce, in its statistical, moral, social, and religious bearings.

Two editors, in pursuance of a previous agreement, continued to discuss

the question with great warmth in their respective journals, until they

had written about two hundred octavo pages, when the debate was

published in book form, with paper covers, and sold for their

joint benefit.

CHAPTER IV.

HOW OVERTOP SEALED A CONTRACT IN A WAY UNKNOWN TO CHITTY.

The notoriety which Fayette Overtop had derived from his questionable

connection with the Slapman Divorce case, had (as has been already

stated) materially contributed to his professional income. By the time

the case was decided, the firm of Overtop & Maltboy ranked among the

most successful of the Junior Bar.

Now that Overtop had his hands full of business, his thoughts reverted

to matrimony more strongly than ever. It is a singular fact, that

business men find more time to think of marriage, than men of leisure.

Thoughts of matrimony invariably brought Miss Pillbody into Overtop's

head. He would project mental photographs of her at the top of a table,

beaming sweetly upon him, opposite, with her dim, lovely eyes, and

pouring out the tea from a small silver pot. Overtop never could explain

it; but this imaginary picture realized all his desires of domestic

happiness.