"LOUISE BARNARD'S FRIENDSHIP."
When she has finished her story there is a long silence, then she says,
with a suddenness that would have been surprising in any other woman
than the one before me:
"You say you have arrested Arch Brookhouse for the shooting of Dr.
Bethel. Tell me, is it true that Dr. Bethel is out of danger?"
"He is still in a condition to need close attention and careful medical
aid; with these, we think, he will recover."
"I am very glad to know that," she says, earnestly.
"Miss Lowenstein, I have some reason for thinking that you know who is
implicated in that grave-robbing business."
"I do know," she answers, frankly, "but not from them. The Brookhouses,
father and sons, believed Dr. Bethel to be a detective, and to be
candid, so did I. You know 'the wicked flee when no man pursueth.' They
construed his reticence into mystery. They fancied that his clear,
searching eye was looking into all their secrets. I knew they were
plotting against him, but I had told Arch Brookhouse that they should
not harm him. When I went down to the cottage with Louise Barnard, I
felt sure that it was _their_ work, the grave-robbing.
"Tom Briggs was there, the fiercest of the rioters. Tom had worked about
my stable for a year or more, and I thought that I knew how to manage
him. I contrived to get a word with him. Did you observe it?"
"Yes, I observed it."
"I told him to come to The Hill that evening, and he came. Then I made
him tell me the whole story.
"Arch Brookhouse had planned the thing, and given it to Briggs to
execute. There were none of the regular members of the gang here to help
him at that work, so he went, under instructions, of course, to Simmons
and Saunders, two dissolute, worthless fellows, and told them that Dr.
Bethel had offered him thirty dollars to get the little girl's body, and
offered to share with them.
"Those three did the work. Briggs buried the clothing and hid the tools.
Then, when the raid began, Briggs told his two assistants that, in order
to avoid suspicion, they must join the hue and cry against Dr. Bethel,
and so, as you are aware, they did."
This information is valuable to me. I am anxious to be away, to meet
Simmons and Saunders. I open my lips to make a request, when she again
asks a sudden question.
"Will you tell me where and how you arrested the Brookhouse gang? I am
anxious to know."
"I will tell you, but first will you please answer one more question?"
She nods and I proceed.
"I have told you that Arch Brookhouse is charged with attempted
abduction; I might say Louis Brookhouse stands under the same charge. Do
you know anything about the matter?"
"I? No."
"Did you ever know Miss Amy Holmes?"
"Never," she replies, emphatically. "Whom did they attempt to abduct?"
"Three young girls; three innocent country girls."
"Good heavens!" she exclaims, her eyes flashing fiercely, "that is a
deed, compared with which horse-thieving is honorable!"
I give her a brief outline of the Groveland affair, or series of
affairs, so far as I am able, before having heard Carnes' story. And
then I tell her how the horse-thieves were hunted down.
"So," she says, wearily, "by this time I am known all over Trafton as
the accomplice of horse-thieves."
"Not so, Miss Lowenstein. The entire truth is known to Carnes and
Brown, the two detectives I have mentioned, to Jim Long, and to Mr.
Warren. The vigilants knew that the horses had been concealed near
Trafton, but, owing to the manner in which the arrests were made, they
do not know where. I suppose you are aware what it now becomes my duty
to do?"
"Assuredly," with constrained voice and manner. "You came here to arrest
me. I submit."
"Wait. From first to last it has been my desire to deal with you as
gently as possible. Now that I have heard your story, I am still more
inclined to stand your friend. The three men in Trafton who know your
complicity in this business, are acting under my advice. For the
present, you may remain here, if you will give me your promise not to
attempt an escape."
"I shall not try to escape; I would be foolish to do so, after learning
how skillfully you can hunt down criminals."
"Thanks for the compliment, and the promise implied. If you will give
your testimony against the gang, telling in court the story you have
told me, you shall not stand before these people without a champion."
"I don't like to do it. It seems cowardly."
"Why? Do you think they would spare you were the positions reversed?"
"No, certainly not; but--" turning her eyes toward the foliage without,
and speaking wistfully, "I wish I knew how another woman would view my
position. I never had the friendship of a woman who knew me as I am. I
wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would advise me."
[Illustration: "I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would
advise me."--page 438.]
Scarcely knowing how to reply to this speech, I pass it by and hasten to
finish my own.
Will she remain in her own house until I see her again, which may not
be until to-morrow? And will she permit me to leave Gerry Brown here,
for form's sake?
Jim Long would hardly question my movements and motives, but Mr. Warren,
who is the fourth party in our confidence, might. So, for his
gratification, I will leave Gerry Brown at the Hill.
She consents readily enough, and I go out to fetch Gerry.
"Miss Lowenstein, this is my friend, Gerry Brown, who has passed the
night in your barn and in very bad company. Will you take pity on him
and give him some breakfast?" I say, as we appear before her.
She examines Gerry's handsome face attentively, and then says:
"If your late companions were bad, Mr. Brown, you will not find your
present company much better. You do look tired. I will give you some
breakfast, and then you can lock me up."
"I'll eat the breakfast with relish," replies Gerry, gallantly; "but as
for locking you up, excuse me. I've been told that you would feed me and
let me lie down somewhere to sleep; and I've been ordered to stay here
until to-morrow. It looks to me as if I were your prisoner, and such I
prefer to consider myself."
I leave them to settle the question of keeper and prisoner as best they
can, and go out to Jim.
He is smoking placidly, with Arch Brookhouse, in a fit of the sulks,
sitting on an overturned peck measure near by, and Dimber Joe asleep on
a bundle of hay in a corner.
We arouse Dimber and casting off the fetters from their feet, set them
marching toward the town jail, where their brethren in iniquity are
already housed.
Trafton is in a state of feverish excitement. As we approach the jail
with our prisoners the air is rent with jeers and hisses for them, and
"three cheers for the detective," presumably for me.
I might feel flattered and gratified at their friendly enthusiasm, but,
unfortunately for my pride, I have had an opportunity to learn how
easily Trafton is excited to admiration and to anger, so I bear my
honors meekly, and hide my blushing face, for a time, behind the walls
of the jail.
All the vigilants are heroes this morning, and proud and happy is the
citizen who can adorn his breakfast table with one of the band. The
hungry fellows, nothing loath, are borne away one by one in triumph, and
Jim and I, who cling together tenaciously, are wrangled over by Justice
Summers and Mr. Harris, and, finally, led off by the latter.
We are not bored with questions at the parsonage, but good, motherly
Mrs. Harris piles up our plates, and looks on, beaming with delight to
see her good things disappearing down our hungry throats.
We have scarcely finished our meal, when a quick, light step crosses
the hall, and Louise Barnard enters. She has heard the clanging bells
and witnessed the excitement, but, as yet, scarcely comprehends the
cause.
"Mamma is so anxious," she says, deprecatingly, to Mr. Harris, "that I
ran in to ask you about it, before going down to see Carl--Dr. Bethel."
While she is speaking, a new thought enters my head, and I say to myself
instantly, "here is a new test for Christianity," thinking the while of
that friendless girl at this moment a paroled prisoner.
"Miss Barnard," I say, hastily, "it will give me pleasure to tell you
all about this excitement, or the cause of it."
"If I understand aright, you are the cause, sir," she replies,
smilingly. "How horribly you have deceived us all!"
"But," interposes Mr. Harris, "this is asking too much, sir. You have
been vigorously at work all night, and now--"
"Never mind that," I interrupt. "Men in my profession are bred to these
things. I am in just the mood for story telling."
They seat themselves near me. Jim, a little less interested than the
rest, occupying a place in the background. Charlie Harris is away at his
office. I have just the audience I desire.
I begin by describing very briefly my hunt for the Trafton outlaws. I
relate, as rapidly as possible, the manner in which they were captured,
skipping details as much as I can, until I arrive at the point where I
turn from the Trafton jail to go to The Hill.
Then I describe my interview with the counterfeiter's daughter minutely,
word for word as nearly as I can. I dwell on her look, her tone, her
manner, I repeat her words: "I wish I knew how another woman would view
my position. I wish I knew how such a woman as Louise Barnard would
advise me." I omit nothing; I am trying to win a friend for Adele
Lowenstein, and I tell her story as well as I can.
When I have finished, there is profound silence for a full moment, and
then Jim Long says:
"I know something concerning this matter. And I am satisfied that the
girl has told no more and no less than the truth."
I take out a pocket-book containing papers, and select one from among
them.
"This," I say, as I open it, "is a letter from the Chief of our force.
He is a stern old criminal-hunter. I will read you what _he_ says in
regard to the girl we have known as Adele Manvers, the heiress. Here it
is."
And I read:
In regard to Adele Lowenstein, I send you the papers and copied
reports, as you request; but let me say to you, deal with her
as mercifully as possible. There should be much good in a girl
who would go to prison for two long years, rather than utter
one word disloyal to her counterfeiter father. Those who knew
her best, prior to that affair, consider her a victim rather
than a sinner. Time may have hardened her nature, but, if there
are any extenuating circumstances, consider how she became what
she is, and temper justice with mercy.
"There," I say, as I fold away the letter, "that's a whole sermon,
coming from our usually unsympathetic Chief. Mr. Harris, I wish you
would preach another of the same sort to the Traftonites."
Still the silence continues. Mr. Harris looks serious and somewhat
uneasy. Mrs. Harris furtively wipes away a tear with the corner of her
apron. Louise Barnard sits moveless for a time, then rises, and draws
her light Summer scarf about her shoulders with a resolute gesture.
"I am going to see Adele," she says, turning toward the door.
Mr. Harris rises hastily. He is a model of theological conservatism.
"But, Louise,--ah, don't be hasty, I beg. Really, it is not wise."
"Yes, it is," she retorts. "It is wise, and it is right. I have eaten
her bread; I have called myself her friend; I shall not abandon her
now."
"Neither shall I!" cries Mrs. Harris, bounding up with sudden energy.
"I'll go with you, Louise."
"But, my dear," expostulates Mr. Harris, "if you really insist, I will
go first; then, perhaps--"
"No, you won't go first," retorts his better half. "You don't know what
that poor girl needs. You'd begin at once to administer death-bed
consolation. That will do for 'Squire Brookhouse, but not for a
friendless, unhappy girl. Take your foot off my dress, Mr. Harris; I'm
going for my bonnet!"
She conquers, of course, gets her bonnet, and ties it on energetically.
During the process, I turn to Jim.
"Long," I say, "we have yet one task to perform. Dr. Denham is on duty
at the cottage, and fretting and fuming, no doubt, to know the meaning
of all this storm in Trafton. Bethel, too, may be anxious--"
"Now, hear him!" interrupts our hostess, indignantly. "Just hear that
man! As if you were not both tired to death already. You two are to stay
right here; one in the parlor bed, and one in Charlie's room; and you're
to sleep until dinner, which I'll be sure to have late. Mr. Harris can
run down to the cottage and tell all the news. It will keep him from
going where he is not wanted."
Mr. Harris warmly seconds this plan. Jim and I are indeed weary, and
Mrs. Harris is an absolute monarch. So we submit, and I lay my tired
head on her fat pillows, feeling that everything is as it should be.