CHAPTER I_Master tales of mystery, Volume 1 (of 3)

[Frontispiece: A woman at his feet was clasping his knees in

thankfulness _Anna Katharine Green Room No. 3--p. 35_]

MASTER TALES

_of_

MYSTERY

BY THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS

AUTHORS OF TO-DAY

COLLECTED AND ARRANGED

BY FRANCIS J. REYNOLDS

VOLUME I

P. F. COLLIER & SON

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

BY P. F. COLLIER & Son

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

BY THE CROWELL PUBLISHING Co.

BY ABBOTT & BRIGGS, INC.

BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

BY NEW YORK HERALD Co.

BY THE PEARSON PUB. Co.

BY THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE COMPANY

BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

BY THE STORY-PRESS CORPORATION

_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

All rights reserved_

BY WOMAN'S WORLD MAG. Co., INC.

Introduction

The keynote of the reader's interest in present-day fiction is

interest. No longer does the reader look for encyclopedic

information mixed thoroughly through the pages of his novel. If

information is wanted, the vast number of reference works found at

every hand supply it.

The first object of all fiction is not to instruct but to

entertain--to hold the reader's thoughts so enthralled by the plot of

the story that all else is for the time being forgotten.

Granted then that fiction unadorned by actual facts is the most

popular form of entertaining reading, what particular class of

fiction meets the greatest demand? Why does one author have a hundred

thousand readers and another a bare score? What makes the

circulation of one great magazine go bounding upward while its rival

struggles desperately to retain its few subscribers?

If one writer succeeds where another fails, if one publication grows

while another declines, it is because the successful novelist and the

popular magazine interest and entertain--have gained and hold their

audiences by the bonds of pure delight.

To-day by far the most popular form of fiction is that known as

Problem or Mystery Tales because it gives that added zest to

entertaining fiction by injecting into it the oft puzzling plots and

situations whose unravelings bring surprises at every turn. It has

been aptly said that the popularity of the problem tales is due to

the fact that the human mind in its daily toil is confronted by

naught else but problems--that problem succeeds problem with such

lightning rapidity that the mind's functions actually consist of

nothing but problem solutions. Vast mysteries surround us--vaster

still stretch just before our puny limits of conception. We are

constantly striving to solve something, whether it be the merest

trifle of the moment or some baffling problem that threatens to

overwhelm our powers.

Fiction that feeds this craving is fiction that we understand and

appreciate--it's our kind of story, it fits in with our moods.

Public taste is correct because it shows unmistakably the natural

cravings of the general reader for mystery and problem tales as

proven by their universal demand.

Mystery tales from Edgar Allan Poe through the decades that bring us

to the present-day writers have ever been the most thoroughly

interesting of all our fiction. Nor is this class of fiction

confined to our own language, as shown by the French Gaboriau and by

the Germans Hoffman, Richter, Tieck, and Chamisso, and their

followers.

In the past the masters of this type of story could be named on the

fingers of one hand--a small band of geniuses who, to a more or less

extent, contented themselves with following in the footsteps of the

first great master, Poe. He, while master of the many cruder

sciences of his day, drew only upon a scant few to furnish the

solutions to his mystery and problem tales, whereas to-day every

science has been linked to this vogue of stories--astronomy,

chemistry, physics, biology, medicine, geology, electricity--their

principles all called upon to serve in the solving of problems in the

realm of mystery tales.

In these volumes are gathered the preeminent mystery tales of

to-day--each a master tale of an era that has produced the greatest

ever penned.

F. J. REYNOLDS.

Contents

ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

Room No. 3

The Gray Lady

The Thief

Midnight in Beauchamp Row

The Little Steel Coils

The Staircase at Heart's Delight

HAROLD FREDERIC

The Path of Murtogh

SIR GILBERT PARKER

There is Sorrow on the Sea

S. R. CROCKETT

The Smugglers of the Clone

W. CLARK RUSSELL

That There Mason

MARY CHOLMONDELEY

The Hand on the Latch

FRANK R. STOCKTON

The Stories of the Three Burglars

WILLIAM HAMILTON OSBORNE

A Suspicious Character

JOHN A. MOROSO

Angelo

Room No. 3

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

"What door is that? You've opened all the others; why do you pass

that one by?"

"Oh, that! That's only Number 3. A mere closet, gentlemen,"

responded the landlord in a pleasant voice. "To be sure, we

sometimes use it as a sleeping-room when we are hard pushed. Jake,

the clerk you saw below, used it last night. But it's not on our

regular list. Do you want a peep at it?"

"Most assuredly. As you know, it's our duty to see every room in

this house, whether it is on your regular list or not."

"All right. I haven't the key of this one with me. But--yes, I

have. There, gentlemen!" he cried, unlocking the door and holding it

open for them to look inside. "You see it no more answers the young

lady's description than the others do. And I haven't another to show

you. You have seen all those in front, and this is the last one in

the rear. You'll have to believe our story. The old lady never put

foot in this tavern."

The two men he addressed peered into the shadowy recesses before

them, and one of them, a tall and uncommonly good-looking young man

of stalwart build and unusually earnest manner, stepped softly

inside. He was a gentleman farmer living near, recently appointed

deputy sheriff on account of a recent outbreak of horse-stealing in

the neighborhood.

"I observe," he remarked, after a hurried glance about him, "that the

paper on these walls is not at all like that she describes. She was

very particular about the paper; said that it was of a muddy pink

color and had big scrolls on it which seemed to move and crawl about

in whirls as you looked at it. This paper is blue and striped.

Otherwise--

"Let's go below," suggested his companion, who, from the deference

with which his most casual word was received, was evidently a man of

some authority. "It's cold here, and there are several new questions

I should like to put to the young lady. Mr. Quimby,"--this to the

landlord, "I've no doubt you are right, but we'll give this poor girl

another chance. I believe in giving every one the utmost chance

possible."

"My reputation is in your hands, Coroner Golden," was the quiet

reply. Then, as they both turned, "my reputation against the word of

an obviously demented girl."

The words made their own echo. As the third man moved to follow the

other two into the hall, he seemed to catch this echo, for he

involuntarily cast another look behind him as if expectant of some

contradiction reaching him from the bare and melancholy walls he was

leaving. But no such contradiction came. Instead, he appeared to

read confirmation there of the landlord's plain and unembittered

statement. The dull blue paper with its old-fashioned and

uninteresting stripes seemed to have disfigured the walls for years.

It was not only grimy with age, but showed here and there huge

discolored spots, especially around the stovepipe-hole high up on the

left-hand side. Certainly he was a dreamer to doubt such plain

evidences as these. Yet--

Here his eye encountered Quimby's, and pulling himself up short, he

hastily fell into the wake of his comrade now hastening down the

narrow passage to the wider hall in front. Had it occurred to him to

turn again before rounding the corner--but no, I doubt if he would

have learned anything even then. The closing of a door by a careful

hand--the slipping up behind him of an eager and noiseless step--what

is there in these to re-awaken curiosity and fix suspicion? Nothing,

when the man concerned is Jacob Quimby; nothing. Better that he

failed to look back; it left his judgment freer for the question

confronting him in the room below.

Three Forks Tavern has been long forgotten, but at the time of which

I write it was a well-known but little-frequented house, situated

just back of the highway on the verge of the forest lying between the

two towns of Chester and Danton in southern Ohio. It was of ancient

build, and had all the picturesqueness of age and the English

traditions of its original builder. Though so near two thriving

towns, it retained its own quality of apparent remoteness from city

life and city ways. This in a measure was made possible by the

nearness of the woods which almost enveloped it; but the character of

the man who ran it had still more to do with it, his sympathies being

entirely with the old, and not at all with the new, as witness the

old-style glazing still retained in its ancient doorway. This, while

it appealed to a certain class of summer boarders, did not so much

meet the wants of the casual traveler, so that while the house might

from some reason or other be overfilled one night, it was just as

likely to be almost empty the next, save for the faithful few who

loved the woods and the ancient ways of the easy-mannered host and

his attentive, soft-stepping help. The building itself was of wooden

construction, high in front and low in the rear, with gables toward

the highway, projecting here and there above a strip of rude

old-fashioned carving. These gables were new, that is, they were

only a century old; the portion now called the extension, in the

passages of which we first found the men we have introduced to you,

was the original house. Then it may have enjoyed the sunshine and

air of the valley it overlooked, but now it was so hemmed in by yards

and out-buildings as to be considered the most undesirable part of

the house, and Number 3 the most undesirable of its rooms; which

certainly does not speak well for it.

But we are getting away from our new friends and their mysterious

errand. As I have already intimated, this tavern with the curious

name (a name totally unsuggestive, by the way, of its location on a

perfectly straight road) had for its southern aspect the road and a

broad expanse beyond of varied landscape which made the front rooms

cheerful even on a cloudy day; but it was otherwise with those in the

rear and on the north end. They were never cheerful, and especially

toward night were frequently so dark that artificial light was

resorted to as early as three o'clock in the afternoon. It was so

to-day in the remote parlor which these three now entered. A lamp

had been lit, though the daylight still struggled feebly in, and it

was in this conflicting light that there rose up before them the

vision of a woman, who seen at any time and in any place would have

drawn, if not held, the eye, but seen in her present attitude and at

such a moment of question and suspense, struck the imagination with a

force likely to fix her image forever in the mind, if not in the

heart, of a sympathetic observer.

I should like to picture her as she stood there, because the

impression she made at this instant determined the future action of

the man I have introduced to you as not quite satisfied with the

appearances he had observed above. Young, slender but vigorous, with

a face whose details you missed in the fire of her eye and the

wonderful red of her young, fresh but determined mouth, she stood, on

guard as it were, before a shrouded form on a couch at the far end of

the room. An imperative _Keep back!_ spoke in her look, her

attitude, and the silent gesture of one outspread hand, but it was

the _Keep back!_ of love, not of fear, the command of an outraged

soul, conscious of its rights and instinctively alert to maintain

them.

The landlord at sight of the rebuke thus given to their intrusion,

stepped forward with a conciliatory bow.

"I beg pardon," said he, "but these gentlemen, Doctor Golden, the

coroner from Chester, and Mr. Hammersmith, wish to ask you a few more

questions about your mother's death. You will answer them, I am

sure."

Slowly her eyes moved till they met those of the speaker.

"I am anxious to do so," said she, in a voice rich with many

emotions. But seeing the open compassion in the landlord's face, the

color left her cheeks, almost her lips, and drawing back the hand

which she had continued to hold outstretched, she threw a glance of

helpless inquiry about her which touched the younger man's heart and

induced him to say:

"The truth should not be hard to find in a case like this. I'm sure

the young lady can explain. Doctor Golden, are you ready for her

story?"

The coroner, who had been silent up till now, probably from sheer

surprise at the beauty and simple, natural elegance of the woman

caught, as he believed, in a net of dreadful tragedy, roused himself

at this direct question, and bowing with an assumption of dignity far

from encouraging to the man and woman anxiously watching him, replied:

"We will hear what she has to say, of course, but the facts are well

known. The woman she calls mother was found early this morning lying

on her face in the adjoining woods quite dead. She had fallen over a

half-concealed root, and with such force that she never moved again.

If her daughter was with her at the time, then that daughter fled

without attempting to raise her. The condition and position of the

wound on the dead woman's forehead, together with such corroborative

facts as have since come to light, preclude all argument on this

point. But we'll listen to the young woman, notwithstanding; she has

a right to speak, and she shall speak. Did not your mother die in

the woods? No hocus-pocus, miss, but the plain unvarnished truth."

"Sirs,"--the term was general, but her appeal appeared to be directed

solely to the one sympathetic figure before her, "if my mother died

in the wood--and, for all I can say, she may have done so--it was not

till after she had been in this house. She arrived in my company,

and was given a room. I saw the room and I saw her in it. I cannot

be deceived in this. If I am, then my mind has suddenly failed

me;--something which I find it hard to believe."

"Mr. Quimby, did Mrs. Demarest come to the house with Miss Demarest?"

inquired Mr. Hammersmith of the silent landlord.

"She says so," was the reply, accompanied by a compassionate shrug

which spoke volumes. "And I am quite sure she means it," he added,

with kindly emphasis. "But ask Jake, who was in the office all the

evening. Ask my wife, who saw the young lady to her room. Ask

anybody and everybody who was around the tavern last night. I'm not

the only one to say that Miss Demarest came in alone. All will tell

you that she arrived here without escort of any kind; declined

supper, but wanted a room, and when I hesitated to give it to her,

said by way of explanation of her lack of a companion that she had

had trouble in Chester and had left town very hurriedly for her home.

That her mother was coming to meet her and would probably arrive here

very soon. That when this occurred I was to notify her; but if a

gentleman called instead, I was to be very careful not to admit that

any such person as herself was in the house. Indeed, to avoid any

such possibility she prayed that her name might be left off the

finally did, as you can see for yourselves."

"Oh!" came in indignant exclamation from the young woman before them.

"I understand my position now. This man has a bad conscience. He

has something to hide, or he would not take to lying about little

things like that. I never asked him to allow me to leave my name off

the register. On the contrary I wrote my name in it and my mother's

name, too. Let him bring the book here and you will see."

"We have seen," responded the coroner. "We looked in the register

ourselves. Your names are not there."

The flush of indignation which had crimsoned her cheeks faded till

she looked as startling and individual in her pallor as she had the

moment before in her passionate bloom.

"Not there?" fell from her lips in a frozen monotone as her eyes grew

fixed upon the faces before her and her hand went groping around for

some support.

Mr. Hammersmith approached with a chair.

"Sit," he whispered. Then, as she sank slowly into an attitude of

repose, he added gently, "You shall have every consideration. Only

tell the truth, the exact truth without any heightening from your

imagination, and, above all, don't be frightened."

She may have heard his words, but she gave no sign of comprehending

them. She was following the movements of the landlord, who had

slipped out to procure the register, and now stood holding it out

toward the coroner.

"Let her see for herself," he suggested, with a bland, almost

fatherly, air.

Doctor Golden took the book and approached Miss Demarest.

"Here is a name very unlike yours," he pointed out, as her eye fell

on the page he had opened to. "Annette Colvin, Lansing, Michigan."

"That is not my name or writing," said she.

"There is room below it for your name and that of your mother, but

the space is blank, do you see?"

"Yes, yes, I see," she admitted. "Yet I wrote my name in the book!

Or is it all a monstrous dream!"

The coroner returned the book to the landlord.

"Is this your only book?" he asked.

"The only book."

Miss Demarest's eyes flashed. Hammersmith, who had watched this

scene with intense interest, saw, or believed that he saw, in this

flash the natural indignation of a candid mind face to face with

arrant knavery. But when he forced himself to consider the

complacent Quimby he did not know what to think. His aspect of

self-confidence equaled hers. Indeed, he showed the greater poise.

Yet her tones rang true as she cried:

"You made up one plausible story, and you may well make up another.

I demand the privilege of relating the whole occurrence as I remember

it," she continued with an appealing look in the one sympathetic

direction. "Then you can listen to him."

"We desire nothing better," returned the coroner.

"I shall have to mention a circumstance very mortifying to myself,"

she proceeded, with a sudden effort at self-control, which commanded

the admiration even of the coroner. "My one adviser is dead," here

her eyes flashed for a moment toward the silent form behind her. "If

I make mistakes, if I seem unwomanly--but you have asked for the

truth and you shall have it, all of it. I have no father. Since

early this morning I have had no mother. But when I had, I found it

my duty to work for her as well as for myself, that she might have

the comforts she had been used to and could no longer afford. For

this purpose I sought a situation in Chester, and found one in a

family I had rather not name." A momentary tremor, quickly

suppressed, betrayed the agitation which this allusion cost her. "My

mother lived in Danton (the next town to the left). Anybody there

will tell you what a good woman she was. I had wished her to live in

Chester (that is, at first; later, I--I was glad she didn't), but she

had been born in Danton, and could not accustom herself to strange

surroundings. Once a week I went home, and once a week, usually on a

Wednesday, she would come and meet me on the highroad, for a little

visit. Once we met here, but this is a circumstance no one seems to

remember. I was very fond of my mother and she of me. Had I loved

no one else, I should have been happy still, and not been obliged to

face strangers over her body and bare the secrets of my heart to

preserve my good name. There is a man, he seems a thousand miles

away from me now, so much have I lived since yesterday. He--he lived

in the house where I did--was one of the family--always at

table--always before my eyes. He fancied me. I--I might have

fancied him had he been a better man. But he was far from being of

the sort my mother approved, and when he urged his suit too far, I

grew frightened and finally ran away. It was not so much that I

could not trust him," she bravely added after a moment of silent

confusion, "but that I could not trust myself. He had an unfortunate

influence over me, which I hated while I half yielded to it."

"You ran away. When was this?"

"Yesterday afternoon at about six. He had vowed that he would see me

again before the evening was over, and I took that way to prevent a

meeting. There was no other so simple,--or such was my thought at

the time. I did not dream that sorrows awaited me in this quiet

tavern, and perplexities so much greater than any which could have

followed a meeting with him that I feel my reason fail when I

contemplate them."

"Go on," urged the coroner, after a moment of uneasy silence. "Let

us hear what happened after you left your home in Chester."

"I went straight to the nearest telegraph office, and sent a message

to my mother. I told her I was coming home, and for her to meet me

on the road near this tavern. Then I went to Hudson's and had

supper, for I had not eaten before leaving my employer's. The sun

had set when I finally started, and I walked fast so as to reach

Three Forks before dark. If my mother had got the telegram at once,

which I calculated on her doing, as she lived next door to the

telegraph office in Danton, she would be very near this place on my

arrival here. So I began to look for her as soon as I entered the

woods. But I did not see her. I came as far as the tavern door, and

still I did not see her. But farther on, just where the road turns

to cross the railroad-track, I spied her coming, and ran to meet her.

She was glad to see me, but asked many questions which I had some

difficulty in answering. She saw this, and held me to the matter

till I had satisfied her. When this was done it was late and cold,

and we decided to come to the tavern for the night. And we came!

Nothing shall ever make me deny so positive a fact. We came, and

this man received us."

With her final repetition of this assertion, she rose and now stood

upright, with her finger pointing straight at Quimby. Had he cringed

or let his eyes waver from hers by so much as a hair's breadth, her

accusation would have stood and her cause been won. But not a

flicker disturbed the steady patience of his look, and Hammersmith,

who had made no effort to hide his anxiety to believe her story,

showed his disappointment with equal frankness as he asked:

"Who else was in the office? Surely Mr. Quimby was not there alone?"

She reseated herself before answering. Hammersmith could see the

effort she made to recall that simple scene. He found himself trying

to recall it, too--the old-fashioned, smoke-begrimed office, with its

one long window toward the road and the glass-paned door leading into

the hall of entrance. They had come in by that door and crossed to

the bar, which was also the desk in this curious old hostelry. He

could see them standing there in the light of possibly a solitary

lamp, the rest of the room in shadow unless a game of checkers were

on, which evidently was not so on this night. Had she turned her

head to peer into those shadows? It was not likely. She was

supported by her mother's presence, and this she was going to say.

By some strange telepathy that he would have laughed at a few hours

before, he feels confident of her words before she speaks. Yet he

listens intently as she finally looks up and answers:

"There was a man, I am sure there was a man somewhere at the other

end of the office. But I paid no attention to him. I was bargaining

for two rooms and registering my name and that of my mother."

"Two rooms; why two? You are not a fashionable young lady to require

a room alone."

"Gentlemen, I was tired. I had been through a wearing half-hour. I

knew that if we occupied the same room or even adjoining ones that

nothing could keep us from a night of useless and depressing

conversation. I did not feel equal to it, so I asked for two rooms a

short distance apart."

An explanation which could at least be accepted. Mr. Hammersmith

felt an increase of courage and scarcely winced as his colder-blooded

companion continued this unofficial examination by asking:

"Where were you standing when making these arrangements with Mr.

Quimby?"

"Right before the desk."

"And your mother?"

"She was at my left and a little behind me. She was a shy woman. I

usually took the lead when we were together."

"Was she veiled?" the coroner continued quietly.

"I think so. She had been crying--" The bereaved daughter paused.

"But don't you know?"

"My impression is that her veil was down when we came into the room.

She may have lifted it as she stood there. I know that it was lifted

as we went upstairs. I remember feeling glad that the lamps gave so

poor a light, she looked so distressed."

"Physically, do you mean, or mentally?"

Mr. Hammersmith asked this question. It seemed to rouse some new

train of thought in the girl's mind. For a minute she looked

intently at the speaker, then she replied in a disturbed tone:

"Both. I wonder----" Here her thought wavered and she ceased.

"Go on," ordered the coroner impatiently. "Tell your story. It

contradicts that of the landlord in almost every point, but we've

promised to hear it out, and we will."

Rousing, she hastened to obey him.

"Mr. Quimby told the truth when he said that he asked me if I would

have supper, also when he repeated what I said about a gentleman, but

not when he declared that I wished to be told if my mother should

come and ask for me. My mother was at my side all the time we stood

there talking, and I did not need to make any requests concerning

her. When we went to our rooms a woman accompanied us. He says she

is his wife. I should like to see that woman."

"I am here, miss," spoke up a voice from a murky corner no one had

thought of looking in till now.

Miss Demarest at once rose, waiting for the woman to come forward.

This she did with a quick, natural step which insensibly prepared the

mind for the brisk, assertive woman who now presented herself. Mr.

Hammersmith, at sight of her open, not unpleasing face, understood

for the first time the decided attitude of the coroner. If this

woman corroborated her husband's account, the poor young girl, with

her incongruous beauty and emotional temperament, would not have much

show. He looked to see her quailing now. But instead of that she

stood firm, determined, and feverishly beautiful.

"Let her tell you what took place upstairs," she cried. "She showed

us the rooms and carried water afterward to the one my mother

occupied."

"I am sorry to contradict the young lady," came in even tones from

the unembarrassed, motherly looking woman thus appealed to. "She

thinks that her mother was with her and that I conducted this mother

to another room after showing her to her own. I don't doubt in the

least that she has worked herself up to the point of absolutely

believing this. But the facts are these: She came alone and went to

her room unattended by any one but myself. And what is more, she

seemed entirely composed at the time, and I never thought of

suspecting the least thing wrong. Yet her mother lay all that time

in the wood--"

"Silence!"

This word was shot at her by Miss Demarest, who had risen to her full

height and now fairly flamed upon them all in her passionate

indignation. "I will not listen to such words till I have finished

all I have to say and put these liars to the blush. My mother was

with me, and this woman witnessed our good-night embrace, and then

showed my mother to her own room. I watched them going. They went

down the hall to the left and around a certain corner. I stood

looking after them till they turned this corner, then I closed my

door and began to take off my hat. But I wasn't quite satisfied with

the good-night which had passed between my poor mother and myself,

and presently I opened my door and ran down the hall and around the

corner on a chance of finding her room. I don't remember very well

how that hall looked. I passed several doors seemingly shut for the

night, and should have turned back, confused, if at that moment I had

not spied the landlady's figure, your figure, madam, coming out of

one room on your way to another. You were carrying a pitcher, and I

made haste and ran after you and reached the door just before you

turned to shut it. Can you deny that, or that you stepped aside

while I ran in and gave my mother another hug? If you can and do,

then you are a dangerous and lying woman, or I-- But I won't admit

that I'm not all right. It is you, base and untruthful woman, who

for some end I cannot fathom persist in denying facts on which my

honor, if not my life, depends. Why, gentlemen, you, one of you at

least, have heard me describe the very room in which I saw my mother.

It is imprinted on my mind. I didn't know at the time that I took

especial notice of it, but hardly a detail escaped me. The paper on

the wall--"

"We have been looking through the rooms," interpolated the coroner.

"We do not find any papered with the muddy pink you talk about."

She stared, drew back from them all, and finally sank into a chair.

"You do not find-- But you have not been shown them all."

"I think so."

"You have not. There is such a room. I could not have dreamed it."

Silence met this suggestion.

Throwing up her hands like one who realizes for the first time that

the battle is for life, she let an expression of her despair and

desolation rush in frenzy from her lips:

"It's a conspiracy. The whole thing is a conspiracy. If my mother

had had money on her or had worn valuable jewelry, I should believe

her to have been a victim of this lying man and woman. As it is, I

don't trust them. They say that my poor mother was found lying ready

dressed and quite dead in the wood. That may be true, for I saw men

bringing her in. But if so, what warrant have we that she was not

lured there, slaughtered, and made to seem the victim of accident by

this unscrupulous man and woman? Such things have been done; but for

a daughter to fabricate such a plot as they impute to me is past

belief, out of Nature and impossible. With all their wiles, they

cannot prove it. I dare them to do so; I dare any one to do so."

Then she begged to be allowed to search the house for the room she so

well remembered. "When I show you that," she cried, with ringing

assurance, "you will believe the rest of my story."

"Shall I take the young lady up myself?" asked Mr. Quimby. "Or will

it be enough if my wife accompanies her?"

"We will all accompany her," said the coroner.

"Very good," came in hearty acquiescence.

"It's the only way to quiet her," he whispered in Mr. Hammersmith's

ear.

The latter turned on him suddenly.

"None of your insinuations," he cried. "She's as far from insane as

I am myself. We shall find the room."

"You, too," fell softly from the other's lips as he stepped "back

into the coroner's wake. Mr. Hammersmith gave his arm to Miss

Demarest, and the landlady brought up the rear.

"Upstairs," ordered the trembling girl. "We will go first to the

room I occupied."

As they reached the door, she motioned them all back, and started

away from them down the hall. Quickly they followed. "It was around

a corner," she muttered broodingly, halting at the first turning.

"That is all I remember. But we'll visit every room."

"We have already," objected the coroner, but meeting Mr.

Hammersmith's warning look, he desisted from further interference.

"I remember its appearance perfectly. I remember it as if it were my

own," she persisted, as door after door was thrown back and as

quickly shut again at a shake of her head. "Isn't there another

hall? Might I not have turned some other corner?"

"Yes, there is another hall," acquiesced the landlord, leading the

way into the passage communicating with the extension.

"Oh!" she murmured, as she noted the increased interest in both the

coroner and his companion; "we shall find it here."

"Do you recognize the hall?" asked the coroner as they stepped

through a narrow opening into the old part.

"No, but I shall recognize the room."

"Wait!" It was Hammersmith who called her back as she was starting

forward. "I should like you to repeat just how much furniture this

room contained and where it stood."

She stopped, startled, and then said:

"It was awfully bare; a bed was on the left--"

"On the left?"

"She said the left," quoth the landlord, "though I don't see that it

matters; it's all fancy with her."

"Go on," kindly urged Hammersmith.

"There was a window. I saw the dismal panes and my mother standing

between them and me. I can't describe the little things."

"Possibly because there were none to describe," whispered Hammersmith

in his superior's ear.

Meanwhile the landlord and his wife awaited their advance with

studied patience. As Miss Demarest joined him, he handed her a bunch

of keys, with the remark:

"None of these rooms are occupied to-day, so you can open them

without hesitation."

She stared at him and ran quickly forward. Mr. Hammersmith followed

speedily after. Suddenly both paused. She had lost the thread of

her intention before opening a single door.

"I thought I could go straight to it," she declared. "I shall have

to open all the doors, as we did in the other hall."

"Let me help you," proffered Mr. Hammersmith. She accepted his aid,

and the search recommenced with the same results as before. Hope

sank to disappointment as each door was passed. The vigor of her

step was gone, and as she paused heartsick before the last and only

remaining door, it was with an ashy face she watched Mr. Hammersmith

stoop to insert the key.

He, on his part, as the door fell back, watched her for some token of

awakened interest. But he watched in vain. The smallness of the

room, its bareness, its one window, the absence of all furniture save

the solitary cot drawn up on the right (not on the left, as she had

said), seemed to make little or no impression on her.

"The last! the last! and I have not found it. Oh, sir," she moaned,

catching at Mr. Hammersmith's arm, "am I then mad? Was it a dream?

Or is this a dream? I feel that I no longer know." Then, as the

landlady officiously stepped up, she clung with increased frenzy to

Mr. Hammersmith, crying, with positive wildness, "This is the dream!

The room I remember is a real one and my story is real. Prove it, or

my reason will leave me. I feel it going--going--"

"Hush!" It was Hammersmith who sought thus to calm her. "Your story

is real and I will prove it so. Meanwhile trust your reason. It

will not fail you."

He had observed the corners of the landlord's hitherto restrained

lips settle into a slightly sarcastic curl as the door of this room

closed for the second time.

"The girl's beauty has imposed on you."

"I don't think so. I should be sorry to think myself so weak. I

simply credit her story more than I do that of Quimby."

"But his is supported by several witnesses. Hers has no support at

all."

"That is what strikes me as so significant. This man Quimby

understands himself. Who are his witnesses? His wife and his head

man. There is nobody else. In the half-hour which has just passed I

have searched diligently for some disinterested testimony supporting

his assertion, but I have found none. No one knows anything. Of the

three persons occupying rooms in the extension last night, two were

asleep and the third overcome with drink. The maids won't talk.

They seem uneasy, and I detected a sly look pass from the one to the

other at some question I asked, but they won't talk. There's a

conspiracy somewhere. I'm as sure of it as that I am standing here."

"Nonsense! What should there be a conspiracy about? You would make

this old woman an important character. Now we know that she wasn't.

Look at the matter as it presents itself to an unprejudiced mind. A

young and susceptible girl falls in love with a man, who is at once a

gentleman and a scamp. She may have tried to resist her feelings,

and she may not have. Your judgment and mine would probably differ

on this point. What she does not do is to let her mother into her

confidence. She sees the man--runs upon him, if you will, in places

or under circumstances she cannot avoid--till her judgment leaves her

and the point of catastrophe is reached. Then, possibly, she

awakens, or what is more probable, seeks to protect herself from the

penetration and opposition of his friends by meetings less open that

those in which they had lately indulged. She says that she left the

house to escape seeing him again last night. But this is not true.

On the contrary, she must have given him to understand where she was

going, for she had an interview with him in the woods before she came

upon her mother. He acknowledges to the interview. I have just had

a talk with him over the telephone."

"Then you know his name?"

"Yes, of course, she had to tell me. It's young Maxwell. I

suspected it from the first."

"Maxwell!" Mr. Hammersmith's cheek showed an indignant color. Or

was it a reflection from the setting sun? "You called him a scamp a

few minutes ago. A scamp's word isn't worth much."

"No, but it's evidence when on oath, and I fancy he will swear to the

interview."

"Well, well, say there was an interview."

"It changes things, Mr. Hammersmith. It changes things. It makes

possible a certain theory of mine which accounts for all the facts."

"It does!"

"Yes. I don't think this girl is really responsible. I don't

believe she struck her mother or is deliberately telling a tissue of

lies to cover up some dreadful crime. I consider her the victim of a

mental hallucination, the result of some great shock. Now what was

the shock? I'll tell you. This is how I see it, how Mr. Quimby sees

it, and such others in the house as have ventured an opinion. She

was having this conversation with her love in the woods below here

when her mother came in sight. Surprised, for she had evidently not

expected her mother to be so prompt, she hustled her lover off and

hastened to meet the approaching figure. But it was too late. The

mother had seen the man, and in the excitement of the discovery and

the altercation which undoubtedly followed, made such a sudden move,

possibly of indignant departure, that her foot was caught by one of

the roots protruding at this point and she fell her whole length and

with such violence as to cause immediate death. Now, Mr.

Hammersmith, stop a minute and grasp the situation. If, as I believe

at this point in the inquiry, Miss Demarest had encountered a

passionate opposition to her desires from this upright and thoughtful

mother, the spectacle of this mother lying dead before her, with all

opposition gone and the way cleared in an instant to her wishes, but

cleared in a manner which must haunt her to her own dying day, was

enough to turn a brain already heated with contending emotions.

Fancies took the place of facts, and by the time she reached this

house had so woven themselves into a concrete form that no word she

now utters can be relied on. This is how I see it, Mr. Hammersmith,

and it is on this basis I shall act."

Hammersmith made an effort and, nodding slightly, said in a

restrained tone:

"Perhaps you are justified. I have no wish to force my own ideas

upon you; they are much too vague at present. I will only suggest

that this is not the first time the attention of the police has been

drawn to this house by some mysterious occurrence. You remember the

Stevens case? There must have been notes to the amount of seven

thousand dollars in the pile he declared had been taken from him some

time during the day and night he lodged here."

"Stevens! I remember something about it. But they couldn't locate

the theft here. The fellow had been to the fair in Chester all day

and couldn't swear that he had seen his notes after leaving the

grounds."

"I know. But he always looked on Quimby as the man. Then there is

the adventure of little Miss Thistlewaite."

"I don't remember that."

"It didn't get into the papers; but it was talked about in the

neighborhood. She is a quaint one, full of her crotchets, but

clear--clear as a bell where her interests are involved. She took a

notion to spend a summer here--in this house, I mean. She had a room

in one of the corners overlooking the woods, and professing to prefer

Nature to everything else, was happy enough till she began to miss

things--rings, pins, a bracelet and, finally, a really valuable

chain. She didn't complain at first--the objects were trivial, and

she herself somewhat to blame for leaving them lying around in her

room, often without locking the door. But when the chain went, the

matter became serious, and she called Mr. Quimby's attention to her

losses. He advised her to lock her door, which she was careful to do

after that, but not with the expected result. She continued to miss

things, mostly jewelry of which she had a ridiculous store. Various

domestics were dismissed, and finally one of the permanent boarders

was requested to leave, but still the thefts went on till, her

patience being exhausted, she notified the police and a detective was

sent: I have always wished I had been that detective. The case ended

in what was always considered a joke. Another object disappeared

while he was there, and it having been conclusively proved to him

that it could not have been taken by way of the door, he turned his

attention to the window which it was one of her freaks always to keep

wide open. The result was curious. One day he spied from a

hiding-place he had made in the bushes a bird flying out from that

window, and following the creature till she alighted in her nest he

climbed the tree and searched that nest. It was encrusted with

jewels. The bird was a magpie and had followed its usual habits,

but--the chain was not there, nor one or two other articles of

decided value. Nor were they ever found. The bird bore the blame;

the objects missing were all heavy and might have been dropped in its

flight, but I have always thought that the bird had an accomplice, a

knowing fellow who understood what's what and how to pick out his

share."

The coroner smiled. There was little conviction and much sarcasm in

that smile. Hammersmith turned away. "Have you any instructions for

me?" he said.

"Yes, you had better stay here. I will return in the morning with my

jury. It won't take long after that to see this thing through."

The look he received in reply was happily hidden from him.

III

"Yes, I'm going to stay here to-night. As it's a mere formality, I

shall want a room to sit in, and if you have no objection I'll take

Number 3 on the rear corridor."

"I'm sorry, but Number 3 is totally unfit for use, as you've already

seen."

"Oh, I'm not particular. Put a table in and a good light, and I'll

get along with the rest. I have something to do. Number 3 will

answer."

The landlord shifted his feet, cast a quick scrutinizing look at the

other's composed face, and threw back his head with a quick laugh.

"As you will. I can't make you comfortable on such short notice, but

that's your lookout. I've several other rooms vacant."

"I fancy that room," was all the reply he got.

Mr. Quimby at once gave his orders. They were received by Jake with

surprise.

Fifteen minutes later Hammersmith prepared to install himself in

these desolate quarters. But before doing so he walked straight to

the small parlor where he had last seen Miss Demarest and, knocking,

asked for the privilege of a word with her. It was not her figure,

however, which appeared in the doorway, but that of the landlady.

"Miss Demarest is not here," announced that buxom and smooth-tongued

woman. "She was like to faint after you gentlemen left the room, and

I just took her upstairs to a quiet place by herself."

"On the rear corridor?"

"Oh, no, sir; a nice front room; we don't consider money in a case

like this."

"Will you give me its number?"

Her suave and steady look changed to one of indignation.

"You're asking a good deal, aren't you? I doubt if the young lady--"

"The number, if you please," he quietly put in.

"Thirty-two," she snapped out. "She will have every care," she

hastened to assure him as he turned away.

"I've no doubt. I do not intend to sleep to-night; if the young lady

is worse, you will communicate the fact to me. You will find me in

Number 3."

He had turned back to make this reply, and was looking straight at

her as the number dropped from his lips. It did not disturb her set

smile, but in some inscrutable way all meaning seemed to leave that

smile, and she forgot to drop her hand which had been stretched out

in an attempted gesture.

"Number 3," he repeated. "Don't forget, madam."

The injunction seemed superfluous. She had not dropped her hand when

he wheeled around once more in taking the turn at the foot of the

staircase.

Jake and a very sleepy maid were on the floor above when he reached

it. He paid no attention to Jake, but he eyed the girl somewhat

curiously. She was comparatively a new domestic in the tavern,

having been an inmate there for only three weeks. He had held a few

minutes' conversation with her during the half-hour of secret inquiry

in which he had previously indulged and he remembered some of her

careful answers, also the air of fascination with which she had

watched him all the time they were together. He had made nothing of

her then, but the impression had remained that she was the one

hopeful source of knowledge in the house. Now she looked dull and

moved about in Jake's wake like an automaton. Yet Hammersmith made

up his mind to speak to her as soon as the least opportunity offered.

"Where is 32?" he asked as he moved away from them in the opposite

direction from the course they were taking.

"I thought you were to have room Number 3," blurted out Jake.

"I am. But where is 32?"

"Round there," said she. "A lady's in there now. The one--"

"Come on," urged Jake. "Huldah, you may go now. I'll show the

gentleman his room."

Huldah dropped her head, and began to move off, but not before

Hammersmith had caught her eye.

"Thirty-two," he formed with his lips, showing her a scrap of paper

which he held in his hand.

He thought she nodded, but he could not be sure. Nevertheless, he

ventured to lay the scrap down on a small table he was passing, and

when he again looked back, saw that it was gone and Huldah with it.

But whither, he could not be quite sure. There was always a risk in

these attempts, and he only half trusted the girl. She might carry

it to 32, and she might carry it to Quimby. In the first case, Miss

Demarest would know that she had an active and watchful friend in the

house; in the other, the dubious landlord would but receive an open

instead of veiled intimation that the young deputy had his eye on him

and was not to be fooled by appearances and the lack of evidence to

support his honest convictions.

They had done little more than he had suggested to make Number 3

habitable. As the door swung open under Jake's impatient hand, the

half-lighted hollow of the almost empty room gaped uninvitingly

before them, with just a wooden-bottomed chair and a rickety table

added to the small cot-bed which had been almost its sole furnishing

when he saw it last. The walls, bare as his hand, stretched without

relief from base-board to ceiling, and the floor from door to window

showed an unbroken expanse of unpainted boards, save for the narrow

space between chair and table, where a small rug had been laid. A

cheerless outlook for a tired man, but it seemed to please

Hammersmith. There was paper and ink on the table, and the lamp

which he took care to examine held oil enough to last till morning.

With a tray of eatables, this ought to suffice, or so his manner

conveyed, and Jake, who had already supplied the eatables, was

backing slowly out when his eye, which seemingly against his will had

been traveling curiously up and down the walls, was caught by that of

Hammersmith, and he plunged from the room, with a flush visible even

in that half light.

It was a trivial circumstance, but it fitted in with Hammersmith's

trend of thought at the moment, and when the man was gone he stood

for several minutes with his own eye traveling up and down those

dusky walls in an inquiry which this distant inspection did not seem

thoroughly to satisfy, for in another instant he had lifted a glass

of water from the tray and, going to the nearest wall, began to

moisten the paper at one of the edges. When it was quite wet, he

took out his penknife, but before using it, he looked behind him,

first at the door, and then at the window. The door was shut; the

window seemingly guarded by an outside blind; but the former was not

locked, and the latter showed, upon closer inspection, a space

between the slats which he did not like. Crossing to the door, he

carefully turned the key, then proceeding to the window, he

endeavored to throw up the sash in order to close the blinds more

effectually. But he found himself balked in the attempt. The cord

had been cut and the sash refused to move under his hand.

Casting a glance of mingled threat and sarcasm out into the night, he

walked back to the wall and, dashing more water over the spot he had

already moistened, began to pick at the loosened edges of the paper

which were slowly falling away. The result was a disappointment; how

great a disappointment he presently realized, as his knife-point

encountered only plaster under the peeling edges of the paper. He

had hoped to find other paper under the blue--the paper which Miss

Demarest remembered--and not finding it, was conscious of a sinking

of the heart which had never attended any of his miscalculations

before. Were his own feelings involved in this matter? It would

certainly seem so.

Astonished at his own sensations, he crossed back to the table, and

sinking into the chair beside it, endeavored to call up his common

sense, or at least shake himself free from the glamour which had

seized him. But this especial sort of glamour is not so easily

shaken off. Minutes passed--an hour, and little else filled his

thoughts than the position of this bewitching girl and the claims she

had on his sense of justice. If he listened, it was to hear her

voice raised in appeal at his door. If he closed his eyes, it was to

see her image more plainly on the background of his consciousness.

The stillness into which the house had sunk aided this absorption and

made his battle a losing one. There was naught to distract his mind,

and when he dozed, as he did for a while after midnight, it was to

fall under the conjuring effect of dreams in which her form dominated

with all the force of an unfettered fancy. The pictures which his

imagination thus brought before him were startling and never to be

forgotten. The first was that of an angry sea in the blue light of

an arctic winter. Stars flecked the zenith and shed a pale lustre on

the moving ice-floes hurrying toward a horizon of skurrying clouds

and rising waves. On one of those floes stood a woman alone, with

face set toward her death.

The scene changed. A desert stretched out before him. Limitless,

with the blazing colors of the arid sand topped by a cloudless sky,

it revealed but one suggestion of life in its herbless; waterless,

shadowless solitude. She stood in the midst of this desert, and as

he had seen her sway on the ice-floe, so he saw her now stretching

unavailing arms to the brazen heavens and sink--No! it was not a

desert, it was not a sea, ice-bound or torrid, it was a toppling

city, massed against impenetrable night one moment, then shown to its

awful full the next by the sudden tearing through of

lightning-flashes. He saw it all--houses, churches, towers, erect

and with steadfast line, a silhouette of quiet rest awaiting dawn;

then at a flash, the doom, the quake, the breaking down of outline,

the caving in of walls, followed by the sickening collapse in which

life, wealth, and innumerable beating human hearts went down into the

unseen and unknowable. He saw and he heard, but his eyes clung to

but one point, his ears listened for but one cry. There at the

extremity of a cornice, clinging to a bending beam, was the figure

again--the woman of the ice-floe and the desert. She seemed nearer

now. He could see the straining muscles of her arm, the white

despair of her set features. He wished to call aloud to her not to

look down--then, as the sudden darkness yielded to another

illuminating gleam, his mind changed and he would fain have begged

her to look, slip, and end all, for subtly, quietly, ominously

somewhere below her feet, he had caught the glimpsing of a feathery

line of smoke curling up from the lower debris. Flame was there; a

creeping devil which soon--

Horror! it was no dream! He was awake, he, Hammersmith, in this

small solitary hotel in Ohio, and there was fire, real fire in the

air, and in his ears the echo of a shriek such as a man hears but few

times in his life, even if his lot casts him continually among the

reckless and the suffering. Was it _hers_? Had these dreams been

forerunners of some menacing danger? He was on his feet, his eyes

staring at the floor beneath him, through the cracks of which wisps

of smoke were forcing their way up. The tavern was not only on fire,

_but on fire directly under him_. This discovery woke him

effectually. He bounded to the door; it would not open. He wrenched

at the key; but it would not turn, it was hampered in the lock.

Drawing back, he threw his whole weight against the panels, uttering

loud cries for help. The effort was useless. No yielding in the

door, no rush to his assistance from without. Aroused now to his

danger--reading the signs of the broken cord and hampered lock only

too well--he desisted from his vain attempts and turned desperately

toward the window. Though it might be impossible to hold up the sash

and crawl under it at the same time, his only hope of exit lay there,

as well as his only means of surviving the inroad of smoke which was

fast becoming unendurable. He would break the sash and seek escape

that way. They had doomed him to death, but he could climb roofs

like a cat and feared nothing when once relieved from this smoke.

Catching up the chair, he advanced toward the window.

But before reaching it he paused. It was not only he they sought to

destroy, but the room. There was evidence of crime in the room. In

that moment of keenly aroused intelligence he felt sure of it. What

was to be done? How could he save the room, and, by these means,

save himself and her? A single glance about assured him that he

could not save it. The boards under his feet were hot. Glints of

yellow light streaking through the shutters showed that the lower

story had already burst into flame. The room must go and with it

every clue to the problem which was agitating him. Meanwhile, his

eyeballs were smarting, his head growing dizzy. No longer sure of

his feet, he staggered over to the wall and was about to make use of

its support in his effort to reach the window, when his eyes fell on

the spot from which he had peeled the paper, and he came to a sudden

standstill. A bit of pink was showing under one edge of the blue.

Dropping the chair which he still held, he fumbled for his knife,

found it, made a dash at that wall, and for a few frenzied moments

worked at the plaster till he had hacked off a piece which he thrust

into his pocket. Then seizing the chair again, he made for the

window and threw it with all his force against the panes. They

crashed and the air came rushing in, reviving him enough for the

second attempt. This not only smashed the pane, but loosened the

shutters, and in one instant two sights burst upon his view--the face

of a man in an upper window of the adjoining barn and the sudden

swooping up from below of a column of deadly smoke which seemed to

cut off all hope of his saving himself by the means he had calculated

on. Yet no other way offered. It would be folly to try the door

again. This was the only road, threatening as it looked, to possible

safety for himself and her. He would take it, and if he succumbed in

the effort, it should be with a final thought of her who was fast

becoming an integral part of his own being.

Meanwhile he had mounted to the sill and taken another outward look.

This room, as I have already intimated, was in the rear of an

extension running back from the center of the main building. It

consisted of only two stories, surmounted by a long, slightly-peaked

roof. As the ceilings were low in this portion of the house, the

gutter of this roof was very near the top of the window. To reach it

was not a difficult feat for one of his strength and agility, and if

only the smoke would blow aside--Ah, it is doing so! A sudden change

of wind had come to his rescue, and for the moment the way is clear

for him to work himself out and up on to the ledge above. But once

there, horror makes him weak again. A window, high up in the main

building overlooking the extension, had come in sight, and in it

sways a frantic woman ready to throw herself out. She screamed as he

measured with his eye the height of that window from the sloping roof

and thence to the ground, and he recognized the voice. It was the

same he had heard before, but it was not _hers_. She would not be up

so high, besides the shape and attitude, shown fitfully by the light

of the now leaping flames, were those of a heavier, and less-refined

woman. It was one of the maids--it was _the_ maid Huldah, the one

from whom he had hoped to win some light on this affair. Was she

locked in, too? Her frenzy and mad looking behind and below her

seemed to argue that she was. What deviltry! and, ah! what a

confession of guilt on the part of the vile man who had planned this

abominable end for the two persons whose evidence he dreaded.

Helpless with horror, he became a man again in his indignation. Such

villainy should not succeed. He would fight not only for his own

life, but for this woman's. Miss Demarest was doubtless safe. Yet

he wished he were sure of it; he could work with so much better

heart. Her window was not visible from where he crouched. It was on

the other side of the house. If she screamed, he would not be able

to hear her. He must trust her to Providence. But his dream! his

dream! The power of it was still upon him; a forerunner of fate, a

picture possibly of her doom. The hesitation which this awful

thought caused him warned him that not in this way could he make

himself effective. The woman he saw stood in need of his help, and

to her he must make his way. The bustle which now took place in the

yards beneath, the sudden shouts and the hurried throwing up of

windows all over the house showed that the alarm had now become

general. Another moment, and the appalling cry--the most appalling

which leaves human lips--of fire! fire! rang from end to end of the

threatened building. It was followed by women's shrieks and men's

curses and then--by flames.

"She will hear, she will wake now," he thought, with his whole heart

pulling him her way. But he did not desist from his intention to

drop his eyes from the distraught figure entrapped between a locked

door and a fall of thirty feet. He could reach her if he kept his

nerve. A slow but steady hitch along the gutter was bringing him

nearer every instant. Would she see him and take courage? No! her

eyes were on the flames which were so bright now that he could

actually see them glassed in her eyeballs. Would a shout attract

her? The air was full of cries as the yards filled with escaping

figures, but he would attempt it at the first lull--now--while her

head was turned his way. Did she hear him? Yes. She is looking at

him.

"Don't jump," he cried. "Tie your sheet to the bed-post. Tie it

strong and fasten the other one to it and throw down the end. I will

be here to catch it. Then you must come down hand over hand."

She threw up her arms, staring down at him in mortal terror; then, as

the whole air grew lurid, nodded and tottered back. With incredible

anxiety he watched for her reappearance. His post was becoming

perilous. The fire had not yet reached the roof, but it was rapidly

undermining its supports, and the heat was unendurable. Would he

have to jump to the ground in his own despite? Was it his duty to

wait for this girl, possibly already overcome by her fears and lying

insensible? Yes; so long as he could hold out against the heat, it

was his duty, but--Ah! what was that? Some one was shouting to him.

He had been seen at last, and men, half-clad but eager, were rushing

up the yard with a ladder. He could see their faces. How they

glared in the red light. Help and determination were there, and

perhaps when she saw the promise of this support, it would give nerve

to her fingers and--

But it was not to be. As he watched their eager approach, he saw

them stop, look back, swerve and rush around the corner of the house.

Some one had directed them elsewhere. He could see the pointing

hand, the baleful face. Quimby had realized his own danger in this

prospect of Hammersmith's escape, and had intervened to prevent it.

It was a murderer's natural impulse, and did not surprise him, but it

added another element of danger to his position, and if this woman

delayed much longer--but she is coming; a blanket is thrown out, then

a dangling end of cloth appears above the sill. It descends.

Another moment he has crawled up the roof to the ridge and grasped it.

"Slowly now!" he shouts. "Take time and hold on tight. I will guide

you." He feels the frail support stiffen. She has drawn it into her

hands; now she is on the sill, and is working herself off. He

clutched his end firmly, steadying himself as best he might by

bestriding the ridge of the roof. The strain becomes greater, he

feels her weight, she is slipping down, down. Her hands strike a

knot; the jerk almost throws him off his balance. He utters a word

of caution, lost in the growing roar of the flames whose hungry

tongues have begun to leap above the gutter. She looks down, sees

the approaching peril, and hastens her descent. He is all astrain,

with heart and hand nerved for the awful possibilities of the coming

moments when--ping! Something goes whistling by his ear, which for

the instant sets his hair bristling on his head, and almost paralyzes

every muscle. A bullet! The flame is not threatening enough! Some

one is shooting at him from the dark.

Well! death which comes one way cannot come another, and a bullet is

more merciful than flame. The thought steadies Hammersmith; besides

he has nothing to do with what is taking place behind his back. His

duty is here, to guide and support this rapidly descending figure now

almost with his reach. And he fulfills this duty, though that deadly

"ping" is followed by another, and his starting eyes behold the hole

made by the missile in the clapboard just before him.

She is down. They stand toppling together on the slippery ridge with

no support but the rapidly heating wall down which she had come. He

looks one way, then another. Ten feet either way to the gutter! On

one side leap the flames; beneath the other crouches their secret

enemy. They cannot meet the first and live; needs must they face the

latter. Bullets do not always strike the mark, as witness the two

they had escaped. Besides, there are friends as well as enemies in

the yard on this side. He can hear their encouraging cries. He will

toss down the blanket; perhaps there will be hands to hold it and so

break her fall, if not his.

With a courage which drew strength from her weakness, he carried out

this plan and saw her land in safety amid half a dozen upstretched

arms. Then he prepared to follow her, but felt his courage fail and

his strength ooze without knowing the cause. Had a bullet struck

him? He did not feel it. He was conscious of the heat, but of no

other suffering; yet his limbs lacked life, and it no longer seemed

possible for him to twist himself about so as to fall easily from the

gutter.

"Come on! Come on!" rose in yells from below, but there was no

movement in him.

"We can't wait. The wall will fall," rose affrightedly from below.

But he simply clung and the doom of flame and collapsing timbers was

rushing mercilessly upon him when, in the glare which lit up the

whole dreadful scenery, there rose before his fainting eyes the sight

of Miss Demarest's face turned his way from the crowd below, with all

the terror of a woman's bleeding heart behind it. The joy which this

recognition brought cleared his brain and gave him strength to

struggle with his lethargy. Raising himself on one elbow, he slid

his feet over the gutter, and with a frantic catch at its frail

support, hung for one instant suspended, then dropped softly into the

blanket which a dozen eager hands held out for him.

As he did so, a single gasping cry went up from the hushed throng.

He knew the voice. His rescue had relieved one heart. His own beat

tumultuously and the blood throbbed in his veins as he realized this.

The next thing he remembered was standing far from the collapsing

building, with a dozen men and boys grouped about him. A woman at

his feet was clasping his knees in thankfulness, another sinking in a

faint at the edge of the shadow, but he saw neither, for the blood

was streaming over his eyes from a wound not yet accounted for, and

as he felt the burning flow, he realized a fresh duty.

"Where is Quimby?" he demanded loudly. "He made this hole in my

forehead. He's a murderer and a thief, and I order you all in the

name of the law to assist me in arresting him."

With the confused cry of many voices, the circle widened. Brushing

the blood from his brow, he caught at the nearest man, and with one

glance toward the tottering building, pointed to the wall where he

and the girl Huldah had clung.

"Look!" he shouted, "do you see that black spot? Wait till the smoke

blows aside. There! now! the spot just below the dangling sheet.

It's a bullet-hole. It was made while I crouched there. Quimby held

the gun. He had his reasons for hindering our escape. The girl can

tell you--"

"Yes, yes," rose up from the ground at his feet. "Quimby is a wicked

man. He knew that I knew it and he locked my door when he saw the

flames coming. I'm willing to tell now. I was afraid before."

They stared at her with all the wonder of uncomprehending minds as

she rose with a resolute air to confront them; but as the full

meaning of her words penetrated their benumbed brains, slowly, man by

man, they crept away to peer about in the barns, and among the

clustering shadows for the man who had been thus denounced.

Hammersmith followed them, and for a few minutes nothing but chase

was in any man's mind. That part of the building in which lay hidden

the room of shadows shook, tottered, and fell, loading the heavens

with sparks and lighting up the pursuit now become as wild and

reckless as the scene itself. To Miss Demarest's eyes, just

struggling back to sight and hearing from the nethermost depths of

unconsciousness, it looked like the swirling flight of spirits lost

in the vortex of hell. For one wild moment she thought that she

herself had passed the gates of life and was one of those unhappy

souls whirling over a gulf of flame. The next moment she realized

her mistake. A kindly voice was in her ear, a kindly hand was

pressing a half-burned blanket about her.

"Don't stare so," the voice said. "It is only people routing out

Quimby. They say he set fire to the tavern himself, to hide his

crime and do away with the one man who knew about it. I know that he

locked me in because I--Oh, see! they've got him! they've got him!

and with a gun in his hand!"

The friendly hand fell; both women started upright panting with

terror and excitement. Then one of them drew back, crying in a tone

of sudden anguish, "Why, no! It's Jake, Jake!"

Daybreak! and with it Doctor Golden, who at the first alarm had

ridden out post-haste without waiting to collect his jury. As he

stepped to the ground before the hollow shell and smoking pile which

were all that remained to mark the scene of yesterday's events, he

looked about among the half-clad, shivering men and women peering

from the barns and stables where they had taken refuge, till his eyes

rested on Hammersmith standing like a sentinel before one of the

doors.

"What's this? what's this?" he cried, as the other quickly

approached. "Fire, with a man like you in the house?"

"Fire because I was in the house. They evidently felt obliged to get

rid of me somehow. It's been a night of great experiences for me.

When they found I was not likely to perish in the flames they

resorted to shooting. I believe that my forehead shows where one

bullet passed. Jake's aim might be improved. Not that I am anxious

for it."

"Jake? Do you mean the clerk? Did he fire at you?"

"Yes, while I was on the roof engaged in rescuing one of the women."

"The miserable cur! You arrested him, of course, as soon as you

could lay your hands on him?"

"Yes. He's back of me in this outhouse."

"And Quimby? What about Quimby?"

"He's missing."

"And Mrs. Quimby?"

"Missing, too. They are the only persons unaccounted for."

"Lost in the fire?"

"We don't think so. He was the incendiary and she, undoubtedly, his

accomplice. They would certainly look out for themselves. Doctor

Golden, it was not for insurance money they fired the place; it was

to cover up a crime."

The coroner, more or less prepared for this statement by what

Hammersmith had already told him, showed but little additional

excitement as he dubiously remarked:

"So you still hold to that idea."

Hammersmith glanced about him and, catching more than one curious eye

turned their way from the crowd now rapidly collecting in all

directions, drew the coroner aside and in a few graphic words related

the night's occurrences and the conclusions these had forced upon

him. Doctor Golden listened and seemed impressed at last, especially

by one point.

"You saw Quimby," he repeated; "saw his face distinctly looking

toward your room from one of the stable windows?"

"I can swear to it. I even caught his expression. It was malignant

in the extreme, quite unlike that he usually turns upon his guests."

"Which window was it?"

Hammersmith pointed it out.

"You have been there? Searched the room and the stable?"

"Thoroughly, just as soon as it was light enough to see."

"And found--"

"Nothing; not even a clue."

"The man is lying dead in that heap. She, too, perhaps. We'll have

to put the screws on Jake. A conspiracy like this must be unearthed.

Show me the rascal."

"He's in a most careless mood. _He_ doesn't think his master and

mistress perished in the fire."

"Careless, eh? Well, we'll see. I know that sort."

But when a few minutes later he came to confront the clerk he saw

that his task was not likely to prove quite so easy as his former

experience had led him to expect. Save for a slight nervous

trembling of limb and shoulder--surely not unnatural after such a

night--Jake bore himself with very much the same indifferent ease he

had shown the day before.

Doctor Golden surveyed him with becoming sternness.

"At what time did this fire start?" he asked.

Jake had a harsh voice, but he mellowed it wonderfully as he replied:

"Somewhere about one. I don't carry a watch, go I don't know the

exact time."

"The exact time isn't necessary. Near one answers well enough. How

came you to be completely dressed at near one in a country tavern

like this?"

"I was on watch. There was death in the house."

"Then you were in the house?"

"Yes." His tongue faltered, but not his gaze; that was as direct as

ever. "I was in the house, but not at the moment the fire started.

I had gone to the stable to get a newspaper. My room is in the

stable, the little one high in the cock-loft. I did not find the

paper at once and when I did I stopped to read a few lines. I'm a

slow reader, and by the time I was ready to cross back to the house,

smoke was pouring out of the rear windows, and I stopped short,

horrified! I'm mortally afraid of fire."

"You have shown it. I have not heard that you raised the least

alarm."

"I'm afraid you're right. I lost my head like a fool. You see, I've

never lived anywhere else for the last ten years, and to see my home

on fire was more than I could stand. You wouldn't think me so weak

to look at these muscles."

Baring his arm, he stared down at it with a forlorn shake of his

head. The coroner glanced at Hammersmith. What sort of fellow was

this! A giant with the air of a child, a rascal with the smile of a

humorist. Delicate business, this; or were they both deceived and

the man just a good-humored silly?

Hammersmith answered the appeal by a nod toward an inner door. The

coroner understood and turned back to Jake with the seemingly

irrelevant inquiry:

"Where did you leave Mr. Quimby when you went to the cock-loft?"

"In the house."

"Asleep?"

"No, he was making up his accounts."

"In the office?"

"Yes."

"And that was where you left him?"

"Yes, it was."

"Then, how came he to be looking out of your window just before the

fire broke out?"

"He?" Jake's jaw fell and his enormous shoulders drooped; but only

for a moment. With something between a hitch and a shrug, he drew

himself upright and with some slight display of temper cried out,

"Who says he was there?"

The coroner answered him. "The man behind you. He saw him."

Jake's hand closed in a nervous grip. Had the trigger been against

his finger at that moment it would doubtless have been snapped with

some satisfaction, so the barrel had been pointing at Hammersmith.

"Saw him distinctly," the coroner repeated. "Mr. Quimby's face is

not to be mistaken."

"If he saw him," retorted Jake, with unexpected cunning, "then the

flames had got a start. One don't see in the dark. They hadn't got

much of a start when I left. So he must have gone up to my room

after I came down."

"It was before the alarm was given; before Mr. Hammersmith here had

crawled out of his room window."

"I can't help that, sir. It was after I left the stable. You can't

mix me up with Quimby's doings."

"Can't we? Jake, you're no lawyer and you don't know how to manage a

lie. Make a clean breast of it. It may help you and it won't hurt

Quimby. Begin with the old lady's coming. What turned Quimby

against her? What's the plot?"

"I don't know of any plot. What Quimby told you is true. You

needn't expect me to contradict it!"

A leaden doggedness had taken the place of his whilom good nature.

Nothing is more difficult to contend with. Nothing is more dreaded

by the inquisitor. Hammersmith realized the difficulties of the

situation and repeated the gesture he had previously made toward the

door leading into an adjoining compartment. The coroner nodded as

before and changed the tone of his inquiry.

"Jake," he declared, "you are in a more serious position than you

realize. You may be devoted to Quimby, but there are others who are

not. A night such as you have been through quickens the conscience

of women if it does not that of men. One has been near death. The

story of such a woman is apt to be truthful. Do you want to hear it?

I have no objections to your doing so."

"What story? I don't know of any story. Women have easy tongues;

they talk even when they have nothing to say."

"This woman has something to say, or why should she have asked to be

confronted with you? Have her in, Mr. Hammersmith. I imagine that a

sight of this man will make her voluble."

A sneer from Jake; but when Hammersmith, crossing to the door I've

just mentioned, opened it and let in Huldah, this token of bravado

gave way to a very different expression and he exclaimed half

ironically, half caressingly:

"Why, she's my sweetheart! What can she have to say except that she

was mighty fortunate not to have been burned up in the fire last

night?"

Doctor Golden and the detective crossed looks in some anxiety. They

had not been told of this relation between the two, either by the

girl herself or by the others. Gifted with a mighty close mouth, she

had nevertheless confided to Hammersmith that she could tell things

and would, if he brought her face to face with the man who tried to

shoot him while he was helping her down from the roof. Would her

indignation hold out under the insinuating smile with which the

artful rascal awaited her words? It gave every evidence of doing so,

for her eye flashed threateningly and her whole body showed the

tension of extreme feeling as she came hastily forward, and pausing

just beyond the reach of his arm, cried out:

"You had a hand in locking me in. You're tired of me. If you're

not, why did you fire those bullets my way? I was escaping and--"

Jake thrust in a quick word. "That was Quimby's move--locking your

door. He had some game up. I don't know what it was. I had nothing

to do with it."

This denial seemed to influence her. She looked at him and her

breast heaved. He was good to look at; he must have been more than

that to one of her restricted experience. Hammersmith trembled for

the success of their venture. Would this blond young giant's sturdy

figure and provoking smile prevail against the good sense which must

tell her that he was criminal to the core, and that neither his

principle nor his love were to be depended on? No, not yet. With a

deepening flush, she flashed out:

"You hadn't? You didn't want me dead? Why, then, those bullets?

You might have killed me as well as Mr. Hammersmith when you fired!"

"Huldah!" Astonishment and reproach in the tone and something more

than either in the look which accompanied it. Both were very artful

and betrayed resources not to be expected from one of his ordinarily

careless and good-humored aspect. "You haven't heard what I've said

about that?"

"What could you say?"

"Why, the truth, Huldah. I saw you on the roof. The fire was near.

I thought that neither you nor the man helping you could escape. A

death of that kind is horrible. I loved you too well to see your

suffer. My gun was behind the barn door. I got it and fired out of

mercy."

She gasped. So, in a way, did the two officials. The plea was

specious, and its likely effect upon her so evident.

For answer, he fumbled in his pocket and drew out a small object

which he held up before her between his fat forefinger and thumb. It

was a ring, a thin, plain hoop of gold worth possibly a couple of

dollars, but which in her eyes seemed to posses an incalculable

value, for she had no sooner seen it than her whole face flushed and

a look of positive delight supplanted the passionately aggrieved one

with which she had hitherto faced him.

"You had bought _that_?"

He smiled and returned it to his pocket.

"For you," he simply said.

The joy and pride with which she regarded him, despite the protesting

murmur of the discomfited Hammersmith, proved that the wily Jake had

been too much for them.

"You see!" This to Hammersmith. "Jake didn't mean any harm, only

kindness to us both. If you will let him go, I'll be more thankful

than when you helped me down off the roof. We're wanting to be

married. Didn't you see him show me the ring?"

It was for the coroner to answer.

"We'll let him go when we're assured that he means all that he says.

I haven't as good an opinion of him as you have. I think he's

deceiving you and that you are a very foolish girl to trust him. Men

don't fire on the women they love, for any reason. You'd better tell

me what you have against him."

"I haven't anything against him now."

"But you were going to tell us something--"

"I guess I was fooling."

"People are not apt to fool who have just been in terror of their

lives."

Her eyes sought the ground. "I'm just a hard-working girl," she

muttered almost sullenly. "What should I know about that man

Quimby's dreadful doings?"

"Dreadful? You call them dreadful?" It was Doctor Golden who spoke.

"He locked me in my room," she violently declared. "That wasn't done

for fun."

"And is that all you can tell us? Don't look at Jake. Look at me."

"But I don't know what to say. I don't even know what you want."

"I'll tell you. Your work in the house has been upstairs work,

hasn't it?"

"Yes, sur. I did up rooms--some of them," she added cautiously.

"What rooms? Front rooms, rear rooms, or both?"

"Rooms in front; those on the third floor."

"But you sometimes went into the extension?"

"I've been down the hall."

"Haven't you been in any of the rooms there,--Number 3, for instance?"

"No, sir; my work didn't take me there."

"But you've heard of the room?"

"Yes, sir. The girls sometimes spoke of it. It had a bad name, and

wasn't often used. No girl liked to go there. A man was found dead

in it once. They said he killed his own self."

"Have you ever heard any one describe this room?"

"No, sir."

"Tell what paper was on the wall?"

"No, sir."

"Perhaps Jake here can help us. He's been in the room often."

"The paper was blue; you know that; you saw it yourselves yesterday,"

blurted forth the man thus appealed to.

"Always blue? Never any other color that you remember?"

"No; but I've been in the house only ten years."

"Oh, is that all! And do you mean to say that this room has not been

redecorated in ten years?"

"How can I tell? I can't remember every time a room is repapered."

"You ought to remember this one."

"Why?"

"Because of a very curious circumstance connected with it."

"I don't know of any circumstance."

"You heard what Miss Demarest had to say about a room whose walls

were covered with muddy pink scrolls."

"Oh, she!" His shrug was very expressive. Huldah continued to look

down.

"Miss Demarest seemed to know what she was talking about," pursued

the coroner in direct contradiction of the tone he had taken the day

before. "Her description was quite vivid. It would be strange now

if those walls had once been covered with just such paper as she

described."

An ironic stare, followed by an incredulous smile from Jake; dead

silence and immobility on the part of Huldah.

"Was it?" shot from Doctor Golden's lips with all the vehemence of

conscious authority.

There was an instant's pause, during which Huldah's breast ceased its

regular rise and fall; then the clerk laughed sharply and cried with

the apparent lightness of a happy-go-lucky temperament:

"I should like to know if it was. I'd think it a very curious

quin--quin-- What's the word? quincedence, or something like that."

"The deepest fellow I know," grumbled the baffled coroner into

Hammersmith's ear, as the latter stepped his way, "or just the most

simple." Then added aloud: "Lift up my coat there, please."

Hammersmith did so. The garment mentioned lay across a small table

which formed the sole furnishing of the place, and when Hammersmith

raised it, there appeared lying underneath several small pieces of

plaster which Doctor Golden immediately pointed out to Jake.

"Do you see these bits from a papered wall?" he asked. "They were

torn from that of Number 3, between the breaking out of the fire and

Mr. Hammersmith's escape from the room. Come closer; you may look at

them, but keep your fingers off. You see that the coincidence you

mentioned holds."

Jake laughed again loudly, in a way he probably meant to express

derision; then he stood silent, gazing curiously down at the pieces

before him. The blue paper peeling away from the pink made it

impossible for him to deny that just such paper as Miss Demarest

described had been on the wall prior to the one they had all seen and

remembered.*

* Hammersmith's first attempt to settle this fact must have failed

from his having chosen a spot for his experiment where the old paper

had been stripped away before the new was put on.

"Well, I vum!" Jake finally broke out, turning and looking from one

face to another with a very obvious attempt to carry off the matter

jovially. "She must have a great eye; a--a--(another hard word!

What is it now?) Well! no matter. One of the kind what sees through

the outside of things to what's underneath. I always thought her

queer, but not so queer as that. I'd like to have that sort of power

myself. Wouldn't you, Huldah?"

The girl, whose eye, as Hammersmith was careful to note, had hardly

dwelt for an instant on these bits, not so long by any means as a

woman's natural curiosity would seem to prompt, started as attention

was thus drawn to herself and attempted a sickly smile.

But the coroner had small appreciation for this attempted display of

humor, and motioning to Hammersmith to take her away, he subjected

the clerk to a second examination which, though much more searching

and rigorous than the first, resulted in the single discovery that

for all his specious love-making he cared no more for the girl than

for one of his old hats. This the coroner confided to Hammersmith

when he came in looking disconsolate at his own failure to elicit

anything further from the resolute Huldah.

"But you can't make her believe that now," whispered Hammersmith.

"Then we must trick him into showing her his real feelings."

"How would you set to work? He's warned, she's warned, and life if

not love is at stake."

"It don't look very promising," muttered Doctor Golden, "but--"

He was interrupted by a sudden sound of hubbub without.

"It's Quimby, Quimby!" declared Hammersmith in his sudden excitement.

But again he was mistaken. It was not the landlord, but his wife,

wild-eyed, disheveled, with bits of straw in her hair from some

sheltering hayrick and in her hand a heavy gold chain which, as the

morning sun shone across it, showed sparkles of liquid clearness at

short intervals along its whole length.

Diamonds! Miss Thistlewaite's diamonds, and the woman who held them

was gibbering like an idiot!

The effect on Jake was remarkable. Uttering a piteous cry, he

bounded from their hands and fell at the woman's feet.

"Mother Quimby!" he moaned. "Mother Quimby!" and sought to kiss her

hand and wake some intelligence in her eye.

Meanwhile the coroner and Hammersmith looked on, astonished at these

evidences of real feeling. Then their eyes stole behind them, and

simultaneously both started back for the outhouse they had just left.

Huldah was standing in the doorway, surveying the group before her

with trembling, half-parted lips.

"Jealous!" muttered Hammersmith. "Providence has done our little

trick for us. She will talk now. Look! She's beckoning to us."

"Speak quickly. You'll never regret it, Huldah. He's no mate for

you, and you ought to know it. You have seen this paper covered with

the pink scrolls before?"

The coroner had again drawn aside his coat from the bits of plaster.

"Yes," she gasped, with quick glances at her lover through the open

doorway. "He never shed tears for me!" she exclaimed bitterly. "I

didn't know he could for anybody. Oh, I'll tell what I've kept quiet

here," and she struck her breast violently. "I wouldn't keep the

truth back now if the minister was waiting to marry us. He loves

that old woman and he doesn't love me. Hear him call her 'mother.'

Are mothers dearer than sweethearts? Oh, I'll tell! I don't know

anything about the old lady, but I do know that room 3 was repapered

the night before last, and secretly, by him. I didn't see him do it,

nobody did, but this is how I know: Some weeks ago I was hunting for

something in the attic, when I stumbled upon some rolls of old wall

paper lying in a little cubby-hole under the eaves. The end of one

of the rolls was torn and lay across the floor. I couldn't help

seeing it or remembering its color. It was like this, blue and

striped. Exactly like it," she repeated, "just as shabby and

old-looking. The rain had poured in on it, and it was all moldy and

stained. It smelt musty. I didn't give two thoughts to it then, but

when after the old lady's death I heard one of the girls say

something in the kitchen about a room being blue now which only a

little while ago was pink, I stole up into the attic to see if those

rolls were still there and found them every one gone. Oh, what is

happening now?"

"One of the men is trying to take the diamonds from the woman and she

won't let him. Her wits are evidently gone--frightened away by the

horrors of the night--or she wouldn't try to cling to what has

branded her at once as a thief."

The word seemed to pierce the girl. She stared out at her former

mistress, who was again being soothed by the clerk, and murmured

hoarsely:

"A thief! and he don't seem to mind, but is just as good to her! Oh,

oh, I once served a term myself for--for a smaller thing than that

and I thought that was why-- Oh, sir, oh, sir, there's no mistake

about the paper. For I went looking about in the barrels and where

they throw the refuse, for bits to prove that this papering had been

done in the night. It seemed so wonderful to me that any one, even

Jake, who is the smartest man you ever saw, could do such a job as

that and no one know. And though I found nothing in the barrels, I

did in the laundry stove. It was full of burned paper, and some of

it showed color, and it was just that musty old blue I had seen in

the attic."

She paused with a terrified gasp; Jake was looking at her from the

open door.

"Oh, Jake!" she wailed out, "why weren't you true to me? Why did you

pretend to love me when you didn't?"

He gave her a look, then turned on his heel. He was very much

subdued in aspect and did not think to brush away the tear still

glistening on his cheek.

"I've said my last word to you," he quietly declared, then stood

silent a moment, with slowly laboring chest and an air of deepest

gloom. But, as his eye stole outside again, they saw the spirit melt

within him and simple human grief take the place of icy resolution.

"She was like a mother to me," he murmured. "And now they say she'll

never be herself again as long as she lives." Suddenly his head rose

and he faced the coroner.

"You're right," said he. "It's all up with me. No home, no

sweetheart, no missus. _She_ [there was no doubt as to whom he meant

by that tremulous _she_] was the only one I've ever cared for and

she's just shown herself a thief. I'm no better. This is our story."

I will not give it in his words, but in my own. It will be shorter

and possibly more intelligible.

The gang, if you may call it so, consisted of Quimby and these two,

with a servant or so in addition. Robbery was its aim; a discreet

and none too frequent spoliation of such of their patrons as lent

themselves to their schemes. Quimby was the head, his wife the soul

of this business, and Jake their devoted tool. The undermining of

the latter's character had been begun early; a very dangerous

undermining, because it had for one of its elements good-humor and

affectionate suggestion. At fourteen he was ready for any crime, but

he was mercifully kept out of the worst till he was a full-grown man.

Then he did his part. The affair of the old woman was an

unpremeditated one. It happened in this wise: Miss Demarest's story

had been true in every particular. Her mother was with her when she

came to the house, and he, Jake, was the person sitting far back in

the shadows at the time the young lady registered. There was nothing

peculiar in the occurrence or in their behavior except the decided

demand which Miss Demarest made for separate rooms. This attracted

his attention, for the house was pretty full and only one room was

available in the portion reserved for transients. What would Quimby

do? He couldn't send two women away, and he was entirely too

conciliatory and smooth to refuse a request made so peremptorily.

Quimby did nothing. He hemmed, hawed, and looked about for his wife.

She was in the inner office back of him, and, attracted by his uneasy

movements, showed herself. A whispered consultation followed, during

which she cast a glance Jake's way. He understood her instantly and

lounged carelessly forward. "Let them have Number 3," he said.

"It's all fixed for the night. I can sleep anywhere, on the settle

here or even on the floor of the inner office."

He had whispered these words, for the offer meant more than appeared.

Number 3 was never given to guests. It was little more than a closet

and was not even furnished. A cot had been put in that very

afternoon, but only to meet a special emergency. A long-impending

conference was going to be held between him and his employers

subsequent to closing up time, and he had planned this impromptu

refuge to save himself a late walk to the stable. At his offer to

pass the same over to the Demarests, the difficulty of the moment

vanished. Miss Demarest was shown to the one empty room in front,

and the mother--as being the one less likely to be governed by

superstitious fears if it so happened that some rumor of the

undesirability of the haunted Number 3 should have reached them--to

the small closet so hastily prepared for the clerk. Mrs. Quimby

accompanied her, and afterward visited her again for the purpose of

carrying her a bowl and some water. It was then she encountered Miss

Demarest, who, anxious for a second and more affectionate good-night

from her mother, had been wandering the halls in a search for her

room. There was nothing to note in this simple occurrence, and Mrs.

Quimby might have forgotten all about it if Miss Demarest had not

made a certain remark on leaving the room. The bareness and

inhospitable aspect of the place may have struck her, for she stopped

in the doorway and, looking back, exclaimed: "What ugly paper!

Magenta, too, the one color my mother hates." This Mrs. Quimby

remembered, for she also hated magenta, and never went into this room

if she could help it.

The business which kept them all up that night was one totally

disconnected with the Demarests or any one else in the house. A

large outstanding obligation was coming due which Quimby lacked the

money to meet. Something must be done with the stolen notes and

jewelry which they had accumulated in times past and had never found

the will or courage to dispose of. A choice must be made of what was

salable. But what choice? It was a question that opened the door to

endless controversy and possibly to a great difference of opinion;

for in his way Quimby was a miser of the worst type and cared less

for what money would do than for the sight and feeling of the money

itself, while Mrs. Quimby was even more tenacious in her passion for

the trinkets and gems which she looked upon as her part of the booty.

Jake, on the contrary, cared little for anything but the good of the

couple to whom he had attached himself. He wished Quimby to be

satisfied, but not at Mrs. Quimby's expense. He was really fond of

the woman and he was resolved that she should have no cause to

grieve, even if he had to break with the old man. Little did any of

them foresee what the night really held for them, or on what a jagged

and unsuspected rock their frail bark was about to split.

Shutting-up time came, and with it the usual midnight quiet. All the

doors had been locked and the curtains drawn over the windows and

across the glass doors of the office. They were determined to do

what they had never done before, lay out the loot and make a

division. Quimby was resolved to see the diamonds which his wife had

kept hidden for so long, and she, the securities, concerning the

value of which he had contradicted himself so often. Jake's presence

would keep the peace; they had no reason to fear any undue urging of

his claims. All this he knew, and he was not therefore surprised,

only greatly excited, when, after a last quiet look and some

listening at the foot of the stairs, Mr. Quimby beckoned him into the

office and, telling him to lock the door behind him, stepped around

the bar to summon his wife. Jake never knew how it happened. He

flung the door to and locked it, as he thought, but he must have

turned the key too quickly, for the bolt of the lock did not enter

the jamb, as they afterward found. Meanwhile they felt perfectly

secure. The jewels were brought out of Mrs. Quimby's bedroom and

laid on the desk. The securities were soon laid beside them. They

had been concealed behind a movable brick at the side of the

fireplace. Then the discussion began, involving more or less heat

and excitement.

How long this lasted no one ever knew. At half-past eleven no change

of attitude had taken place either in Quimby or his wife. At twelve

the only difference marked by Jake was the removal of the securities

to Quimby's breast pocket, and of the diamond-studded chain to Mrs.

Quimby's neck. The former were too large for the pocket, the latter

too brilliant for the dark calico background they blazed against.

Jake, who was no fool, noted both facts, but had no words for the

situation. He was absorbed, and he saw that Quimby was absorbed, in

watching her broad hand creeping over those diamonds and huddling

them up in a burning heap against her heart. There was fear in the

action, fierce and overmastering fear, and so there was in her eyes

which, fixed and glassy, stared over their shoulders at the wall

behind, as though something had reached out from that wall and struck

at the very root of her being. What did it mean? There was nothing

in the room to affright her. Had she gone daft? Or--

Suddenly they both felt the blood congeal in their own veins; each

turned to each a horrified face, then slowly and as if drawn by a

power supernatural and quite outside of their own will, their two

heads turned in the direction she was looking, and they beheld

standing in their midst a sceptre--no, it was the figure of a living,

breathing woman, with eyes fastened on those jewels,--those

well-known, much-advertised jewels! So much they saw in that instant

flash, then nothing! For Quimby, in a frenzy of unreasoning fear,

had taken the chair from under him and had swung it at the figure. A

lamp had stood on the bar top. It was caught by the backward swing

of the chair, overturned and quenched. The splintering of glass

mingled: its small sound with an ominous thud in the thick darkness.

It was the end of all things; the falling of an impenetrable curtain

over a horror half sensed, yet all the greater for its mystery.

The silence--the terror--the unspeakable sense of doom which gripped

them all was not broken by a heart-beat. All listened for a stir, a

movement where they could see nothing. But the stillness remained

unbroken. The silence was absolute. The figure which they had

believed themselves to have seen had been a dream, an imagination of

their over-wrought minds. It could not be otherwise. The door had

been locked, entrance was impossible; yet doubt held them powerless.

The moments were making years of themselves. To each came in a flash

a review of every earthly incident they had experienced, every wicked

deed, every unholy aspiration. Quimby gritted his teeth. It was the

first sound which had followed that thud and, slight as it was, it

released them somewhat from their awful tension. Jake felt that he

could move now, and was about to let forth his imprisoned breath when

he felt the touch of icy fingers trailing over his cheek, and started

back with a curse. It was Mrs. Quimby feeling about for him in the

impenetrable darkness, and in another moment he could hear her

smothered whisper:

"Are you there, Jake?"

"Yes; where are you?"

"Here," said the woman, with, an effort to keep her teeth from

striking together.

"For God's sake, a light!" came from the hollow darkness beyond.

It was Quimby's voice at last. Jake answered:

"No light for me. I'll stay where I am till daybreak."

"Get a light, you fool!" commanded Quimby, but not without a tremble

in his usually mild tone.

Hard breathing from Jake, but no other response. Quimby seemed to

take a step nearer, for his voice was almost at their ears now.

"Jake, you can have anything I've got so as you get a light now."

"There ain't nothing to light here. You broke the lamp."

Quiet for a moment, then Quimby muttered hoarsely:

"If you ain't scared out of your seven senses, you can go down cellar

and bring up that bit of candle 'longside the ale-barrels."

Into the cellar! Not Jake. The moving of the rickety table which

his fat hand had found and rested on spoke for him.

Another curse from Quimby. Then the woman, though with some

hesitation, said with more self-control than could be expected:

"I'll get it," and they heard her move away from it toward the

trap-door behind the bar.

The two men made no objection. To her that cold, black cellar might

seem a refuge from the unseen horror centered here. It had not

struck them so. It had its own possibilities, and Jake wondered at

her courage, as he caught the sound of her groping advance and the

sudden clatter and clink of bottles as the door came up and struck

the edge of the bar. There was life and a suggestion of home in that

clatter and clink, and all breathed easier for a moment, but only for

a moment. The something lying there behind them, or was it almost

under their feet, soon got its hold again upon their fears, and Jake

found himself standing stock-still, listening both ways for that

dreaded, or would it be welcome, movement on the floor behind, and to

the dragging sound of Mrs. Quimby's skirt and petticoat as she made

her first step down those cellar-stairs. What an endless time it

took! He could rush down there in a minute, but she--she could not

have reached the third step yet, for that always creaked. Now it did

creak. Then there was no sound for some time, unless it was the

panting of Quimby's breath somewhere over by the bar. Then the stair

creaked again. She must be nearly up.

"Here's matches and the candle," came in a hollow voice from the

trap-stairs.

A faint streak appeared for an instant against the dark, then

disappeared. Another; but no lasting light. The matches were too

damp to burn.

"Jake, ain't you got a match?" appealed the voice of Quimby in

half-choked accents.

After a bit of fumbling a small blaze shot up from where Jake stood.

Its sulphurous smell may have suggested to all, as it did to one, the

immeasurable distance of heaven at that moment, and the awful

nearness of hell. They could see now, but not one of them looked in

the direction where all their thoughts lay. Instead of that, they

rolled their eyes on each other, while the match burned slowly out;

Mrs. Quimby from the trap, her husband from the bar, and Jake.

Suddenly he found words, and his cry rang through the room:

"The candle! the candle! this is my only match. Where is the candle?"

Quimby leaped forward and with shaking hand held the worn bit of

candle to the flame. It failed to ignite. The horrible, dreaded

darkness was about to close upon them again before--before-- But

another hand had seized the candle. Mrs. Quimby has come forward,

and as the match sends up its last flicker, thrusts the wick against

the flame and the candle flares up. It is lighted.

Over it they give each other one final appealing stare. There's no

help for it now; they must look. Jake's head turned first, then Mrs.

Quimby, and then that of the real aggressor.

A simultaneous gasp from them all betrays the worst. It had been no

phantom called into being by their overtaxed nerves. A woman lay

before them, face downward on the hard floor. A woman dressed in

black, with hat on head and a little satchel clutched in one stiff,

outstretched hand. Miss Demarest's mother! The little old lady who

had come into the place four hours before!

With a muttered execration, Jake stepped over to her side and

endeavored to raise her; but he instantly desisted, and looking up at

Quimby and his wife, moved his lips with the one fatal word which

ends all hope:

"Dead!"

They listened appalled. "Dead?" echoed the now terrified Quimby.

"Dead?" repeated his no less agitated wife.

Jake was the least overcome of the three. With another glance at the

motionless figure, he rose, and walking around the body, crossed to

the door and seeing what he had done to make entrance possible,

cursed himself and locked it properly. Meanwhile, Mrs. Quimby, with

her eyes on her husband, had backed slowly away till she had reached

the desk, against which she now stood with fierce and furious eyes,

still clutching at her chain.

Quimby watched her fascinated. He had never seen her look like this

before. What did it portend? They were soon to know.

"Coward!" fell from her lips, as she stared with unrelenting hate at

her husband. "An old woman who was not even conscious of what she

saw! I'll not stand for this killing, Jacob. You may count me out

of this and the chain, too. If you don't--" a threatening gesture

finished the sentence and the two men looking at her knew that they

had come up against a wall.

"Susan!" Was that Quimby speaking? "Susan, are you going back on me

now?"

She pointed at the motionless figure lying in its shrouding black

like an ineffaceable blot on the office floor, then at the securities

showing above the edge of his pocket.

"Were we not close enough to discovery, without drawing the attention

of the police by such an unnecessary murder? She was walking in her

sleep. I remember her eyes as she advanced toward me; there was no

sight in them."

"You lie!" It was the only word which Quimby found to ease the shock

which this simple statement caused him. But Jake saw from the nature

of the glance he shot at his poor old victim that her words had

struck home. His wife saw it, too, but it did not disturb the set

line of her determined mouth.

"You'll let me keep the chain," she said, "and you'll use your wits,

now that you have used your hand, to save yourself and myself from

the charge of murder."

Quimby, who was a man of great intelligence when his faculties were

undisturbed by anger or shock, knelt and turned his victim carefully

over so that her face was uppermost.

"It was not murder," he uttered in an indescribable tone after a few

minutes of cautious scrutiny. "The old lady fell and struck her

forehead. See! the bruise is scarcely perceptible. Had she been

younger--"

"A sudden death from any cause in this house at just this time is

full of danger for us," coldly broke in his wife.

The landlord rose to his feet, walked away to the window, dropped his

head, thought for a minute, and then slowly came back, glanced at the

woman again, at her dress, her gloved hands, and her little satchel.

"She didn't die in this house," fell from his lips in his most oily

accents. "She fell in the woods; the path is full of bared roots,

and there she must be found to-morrow morning. Jake, are you up to

the little game?"

Jake, who was drawing his first full breath, answered with a calm

enough nod, whereupon Quimby bade his wife to take a look outside and

see if the way was clear for them to carry the body out.

She did not move. He fell into a rage; an unusual thing for him.

"Bestir yourself! do as I bid you," he muttered.

Her eyes held his; her face took on the look he had learned to dread.

Finally she spoke:

"And the daughter! What about the daughter?"

Quimby stood silent; then with a sidelong leer, and in a tone smooth

as oil, but freighted with purpose, "The mother first; we'll look

after the daughter later."

Mrs. Quimby shivered; then as her hand spread itself over the

precious chain sparkling with the sinister gleam of serpent's eyes on

her broad bosom, she grimly muttered:

"How? I'm for no more risks, I tell you."

Jake took a step forward. He thought his master was about to rush

upon her. But he was only gathering up his faculties to meet the new

problem she had flung at him.

"The girl's a mere child; we shall have no difficulty with her," he

muttered broodingly. "Who saw these two come in?"

Then it came out that no one but themselves had been present at their

arrival. Further consultation developed that the use to which Number

3 had been put was known to but one of the maids, who could easily be

silenced. Whereupon Quimby told his scheme. Mrs. Quimby was

satisfied, and he and Jake prepared to carry it out.

The sensations of the next half-hour, as told by Jake, would make

your flesh creep. They did not dare to carry a lamp to light the

gruesome task, and well as they knew the way, the possibilities of a

stumble or a fall against some one of the many trees they had to pass

filled them with constant terror. They did stumble once, and the low

cry Jake uttered caused them new fears. Was that a window they heard

flying up? No; but something moved in the bushes. They were sure of

this and guiltily shook in their shoes; but nothing advanced out of

the shadows, and they went on.

But the worst was when they had to turn their backs upon the body

left lying face downward in the cold, damp woods. Men of no

compassion, unreached by ordinary sympathies, they felt the furtive

skulking back, step by step, along ways commonplace enough in the

daytime, but begirt with terrors now and full of demoniac suggestion.

The sight of a single thread of light marking the door left ajar for

them by Mrs. Quimby was a beacon of hope which was not even disturbed

by the sight of her wild figure walking in a circle round and round

the office, the stump of candle dripping unheeded over her fingers,

and her eyes almost as sightless as those of the form left in the

woods.

"Susan!" exclaimed her husband, laying hand on her.

She paused at once. The presence of the two men had restored her

self-possession.

But all was not well yet. Jake drew Quimby's attention to the

plain black and white.

"Oh, that's nothing!" exclaimed the landlord, and, taking out his

knife, he ripped the leaf out, together with the corresponding one in

the back. "The devil's on our side all right, or why did she pass

over the space at the bottom of the page and write their two names at

the top of the next one?"

He started, for his wife had clutched his arm.

"Yes, the devil's on our side thus far," said she, "but here he

stops. I have just remembered something that will upset our whole

plan and possibly hang us. Miss Demarest visited her mother in

Number 3 and noticed the room well, and particularly the paper. Now

if she is able to describe that paper, it might not be so easy for us

to have our story believed."

For a minute all stood aghast, then Jake quietly remarked: "It is now

one by the clock. If you can find me some of that old blue paper I

once chucked under the eaves in the front attic, I will engage to

have it on those four walls before daylight. Bring the raggedest

rolls you can find. If it shouldn't be dry to the touch when they

come to see it to-morrow, it must look so stained and old that no one

will think of laying hand on it. I'll go make the paste."

As Jake was one of the quickest and most precise of workers at

anything he understood, this astonishing offer struck the other two

as quite feasible. The paper was procured, the furniture moved back,

and a transformation made in the room in question which astonished

even those concerned in it. Dawn rose upon the completed work and,

the self-possession of all three having been restored with the

burning up of such scraps as remained after the four walls were

covered, they each went to their several beds for a half-hour of

possible rest. Jake's was in Number 3. He has never said what that

half-hour was to him!

The rest we know. The scheme did not fully succeed, owing to the

interest awakened in one man's mind by the beauty and seeming truth

of Miss Demarest. Investigation followed which roused the landlord

to the danger threatening them from the curiosity of Hammersmith, and

it being neck or nothing with him, he planned the deeper crime of

burning up room and occupant before further discoveries could be

made. What became of him in the turmoil which followed, no one could

tell, not even Jake. They had been together in Jake's room before

the latter ran out with his gun, but beyond that the clerk knew

nothing. Of Mrs. Quimby he could tell more. She had not been taken

into their confidence regarding the fire, some small grains of

humanity remaining in her which they feared might upset their scheme.

She had only been given some pretext for locking Huldah in her room,

and it was undoubtedly her horror at her own deed when she saw to

what it had committed her which unsettled her brain and made her a

gibbering idiot for life.

Or was it some secret knowledge of her husband's fate, unknown to

others. We cannot tell, for no sign nor word of Jacob Quimby ever

came to dispel the mystery of his disappearance.

And this is the story of Three Forks Tavern and the room numbered 3.

The Gray Lady

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

Was it a spectre?

For days I could not answer this question. I am no believer in

spiritual manifestations, yet-- But let me tell my story.

I was lodging with my wife on the first floor of a house in

Twenty-seventh Street. I had taken the apartments for three months,

and we had already lived in them two and found them sufficiently

comfortable. The back room we used as a bedroom, and as we received

but few friends, the two great leaves of old mahogany connecting the

rooms, usually stood wide open.

One morning, my wife being ill, I left her lying in bed and stepped

into the parlor preparatory to going out for breakfast. It was

late--nine o'clock probably--and I was hastening to leave, when I

heard a sound behind me--or did I merely feel a presence?--and,

turning, saw a strange and totally unknown woman coming toward me

from my wife's room.

As I had just left that room, and as there was no other way of

entrance save through a door we always kept locked, I was so

overpowered by my astonishment that I never thought of speaking or

moving until she had passed me. Then I found voice, and calling out

"Madam!" endeavored to stop her.

But the madam, if madam she was, passed on as quietly, as

mechanically even, as if I had not raised my voice, and before I

could grasp the fact that she was melting from before me flitted

through the hall to the front door and so out, leaving behind on the

palm of my hand the "feel" of her wool dress, which I had just

managed to touch.

Not understanding her or myself or the strange thrill awakened by

this contact, I tore open the front door and looked out, expecting,

of course, to see her on the steps or on the sidewalk in front. But

there was no one of her appearance visible, and I came back

questioning whether I was the victim of a hallucination or just an

everyday fool. To satisfy myself on this important question I looked

about for the hallboy, with the intention of asking him if he had

seen any such person go out, but that young and inconsequent scamp

was missing from his post as usual and there was no one within sight

to appeal to.

There was nothing to do but to re-enter my rooms, where my attention

was immediately arrested by the sight of my wife sitting up in bed

and surveying me with a look of unmistakable astonishment.

"Who was that woman?" she asked. "And how came she in here?"

So she had seen her too.

"What woman, Lydia? I have not let in any woman. Did you think

there was a woman in this room?"

"Not in that room," she answered hoarsely, "but in this one. I saw

her just now passing through the folding doors. Wilbur, I am

frightened. See how my hands shake. Do you think I am sick enough

to imagine things?"

I knew she was not, but I did not say so. I thought it would be

better for her to think herself under some such delusion.

"You were dozing," said I. "If you had seen a woman here you could

tell me how she looked."

"And I can," my wife broke in excitedly. "She was like the ghosts we

read of, only that her dress and the veil or drapery she wore were

all gray. Didn't you see her? You must have seen her. She went

right by you--a gray woman, all gray; a lady, Wilbur, and slightly

lame. Could I have dreamed all that?"

"You must have!" I protested, shaking the door leading directly into

the hall so she might see it was locked, and even showing her the key

to it lying in its accustomed place behind the bureau cushion. Yet I

was in no satisfied condition myself, for she had described with the

greatest accuracy the very person I had myself seen. Had we been

alike the victims of a spiritual manifestation?

This was Tuesday. On Friday my question seemed to receive an answer.

I had been downtown, as usual, and on returning found a crowd

assembled in front of my lodging-house. A woman had been run over

and was being carried into our rooms. In the glimpse I caught of her

I saw that she was middle-aged and was wrapped in a long black cloak.

Later this cloak fell off, as her hat had done long before, and I

perceived that her dress was black and decent.

She was laid on our bed and every attention paid her. But she had

been grievously injured about the head and gradually but surely sank

before our eyes. Suddenly she roused and gave a look about her. It

was a remarkable one--a look of recognition and almost of delight.

Then she raised one hand and, pointing with a significant gesture

into the empty space before her, sank back and died.

It was a sudden ending, and, anxious to see its effect upon my wife,

who was standing on the other side of the bed, I glanced her way with

some misgiving. She showed more feeling than I had anticipated.

Indeed her countenance was a study, and when, under the influence of

my scrutiny, she glanced my way, I saw that something of deeper

import than this unexpected death in our rooms lay at the bottom of

her uneasy look.

What that was I was soon to know, for catching up from amid the folds

of the woman's gray-lined cloak a long gray veil which had fallen at

the bedside, she disposed it softly about the woman's face, darting

me a look full of significance.

"You remember the vision I had the morning when I was sick?" she

whispered softly in my ear.

I nodded, secretly thrilled to my very heart's core.

"Well, it was a vision of this woman. If she were living and on her

feet and wrapped, as I have shown you, in this veil, you would behold

a living picture of the person I saw passing out of this room that

morning."

"I shall not dispute you," I answered. Alas! I had myself perceived

the likeness the instant the veil had fallen about the pinched but

handsome features!

"A forewarning," whispered my wife; "a forewarning of what has this

day happened under our roof. It was a wraith we saw. Wilbur, I

shall not spend another night in these rooms."

And we did not. I was as anxious to leave as she was. Yet I am not

a superstitious man. As proof of it, after the first effect of these

events had left me I began to question my first impressions and feel

tolerably ashamed of my past credulity. Though the phenomenon we had

observed could not to all appearance be explained by any natural

hypothesis; though I had seen, and my wife had seen, a strange woman

suddenly become visible in a room which a moment before had held no

one but ourselves, and into which no live woman could have entered

without our knowledge, something--was it my natural good

sense?--recoiled before a supernatural explanation of this, and I

found myself forced to believe that our first visitor had been as

real as the last; in other words, the same woman.

But could I prove it? Could the seemingly impossible be made

possible and the unexplainable receive a solution satisfying to a

rational mind? I determined to make an effort to accomplish this, if

only to relieve the mind of my wife, who had not recovered her

equanimity as readily as myself.

Starting with the assumption above mentioned--that the woman who had

died in our presence was the same who had previously found an

unexplainable entrance into our rooms--I first inquired if the black

cloak lined with gray did not offer a solution to some of my previous

difficulties. It was a long cloak, enveloping her completely. When

worn with the black side out she would present an inconspicuous

appearance, but with the gray side out and the effect of this

heightened by a long gray veil hung over her hat, she would look like

the gray lady I had first seen. Now, a cloak can be turned in an

instant, and if she had chosen to do this in flitting through my door

I would naturally find only a sedate, black-clothed woman passing up

the street, when, rousing from the apathy into which her appearance

had thrown me, I rushed to the front door and looked out. Had I seen

such a woman? I seemed to remember that I had.

Thus much, then, was satisfactory, but to account for her entrance

into our rooms was not so easy. Had she slipped by me in coming in

as she had on going out? The parlor door was open, for I had been

out to get the paper. Could she have glided in by me unperceived and

thus found her way into the bedroom from which I afterward saw her

issue? No, for I had stood facing the front hall door all the time.

Through the bedroom door, then? But that was, as I have said,

locked. Here, then, was a mystery; but it was one worth solving.

My first step was to recall all that I had heard of the actual woman

who had been buried from our rooms. Her name, as ascertained in the

cheap boarding-house to which she was traced, was Helmuth, and she

was, so far as any one knew, without friends or relatives in the

city. To those who saw her daily she was a harmless, slightly

demented woman with money enough to live above want, but not enough

to warrant her boasting talk about the rich things she was going to

buy some day and the beautiful presents she would soon be in a

position to give away. The money found on her person was sufficient

to bury her, but no papers were in her possession nor any letters

calculated to throw light upon her past life.

Her lameness had been caused by paralysis, but the date of her attack

was not known.

Finding no clue in this to what I wished to learn, I went back to our

old rooms, which had not been let since our departure, and sought for

one there, and, strangely enough, found it. I thought I knew

everything there was to be known about the apartment we had lived in

two months, but one little fact had escaped me which, under the

scrutiny that I now gave it, became apparent. This was simply that

the key which opened the hall door of the bedroom and which we had

seldom if ever used was not as old a key as that of the corresponding

door in the parlor, and this fact, small as it was, led me to make

inquiries.

The result was that I learned something about the couple who had

preceded us in the use of these rooms. They were of middle age and

of great personal elegance but uncertain pay, the husband being

nothing more nor less than a professional gambler. Their name was

L'Hommedieu.

When I first heard of them I thought that Mrs. L'Hommedieu might be

the Mrs. Helmuth in whose history I was so interested, but from all I

could learn she was a very different sort of person. Mrs.

L'Hommedieu was gay, dashing, and capable of making a show out of

flimsy silk a shopgirl would hesitate to wear. Yet she looked

distinguished and wore her cheap jewelry with more grace than many a

woman her diamonds. I would, consequently, have dropped this inquiry

if some one had not remarked upon her having had a paralytic stroke

after leaving the house. This, together with the fact that the key

to the rear door, which I had found replaced by a new one, had been

taken away by her and never returned, connected her so indubitably

with my mysterious visitor that I resolved to pursue my

investigations into Mrs. L'Hommedieu's past.

For this purpose I sought out a quaint little maiden lady living on

the top floor who, I was told, knew more about the L'Hommedieus than

any one in the building. Miss Winterburn, whose acquaintance I had

failed to make while residing in the house, was a fluttering, eager,

affable person whose one delight was, as I soon found, to talk about

the L'Hommedieus. Of the story she related I give as much of it as

possible in her own words.

"I was never their equal," said she, "but Mrs. L'Hommedieu was

lonely, and, having no friends in town, was good enough to admit me

to her parlor now and then and even to allow me to accompany her to

the theater when her husband was away on one of his mysterious

visits. I never liked Mr. L'Hommedieu, but I did like her. She was

so different from me, and, when I first knew her, so gay and so full

of conversation. But after a while she changed and was either

feverishly cheerful or morbidly sad, so that my visits caused me more

pain than pleasure. The reason for these changes in her was patent

to everybody. Though her husband was a handsome man, he was as

unprincipled as he was unfortunate. He gambled. This she once

admitted to me, and while at long intervals he met with some luck he

more often returned dispirited and with that hungry, ravaging look

you expect to see in a wolf cheated of its prey.

"I used to be afraid he would strike her after some one of these

disappointments, but I do not think he ever did. She had a

determined character of her own, and there have been times when I

have thought he was as much afraid of her as she was of him. I

became sure of this after one night. Mrs. L'Hommedieu and myself

were having a little supper together in the front parlor you have so

lately occupied. It was a very ordinary supper, for the

L'Hommedieus' purse had run low, and Mrs. L'Hommedieu was not the

woman to spend much at any time on her eating. It was palatable,

however, and I would have enjoyed it greatly if Mrs. L'Hommedieu had

shown more appetite. But she ate scarcely anything and seemed very

anxious and unhappy, though she laughed now and then with sudden

gusts of mirth too hysterical to be real. It was not late, and yet

we were both very much surprised when there came a knock at the door,

followed by the entrance of a visitor.

"Mrs. L'Hommedieu, who was always _la grande dame_, rose without

apparent embarrassment to meet the gentleman who entered, though I

knew she could not help but feel keenly the niggardly appearance of

the board she left with such grace. The stranger--he was certainly a

stranger; this I could see by the formality of her manner--was a

gentleman of urbane bearing and a general air of prosperity.

"I remember every word that passed.

"'My name is Lafarge,' said he. 'I am, or rather have been, under

great obligations to your husband, and I have come to discharge my

debt. Is he at home?'

"Mrs. L'Hommedieu's eye, which had sparkled at his name, dropped

suddenly as he put the final question.

"'I am sorry,' she returned after a moment of embarrassment, 'but my

husband is very seldom home evenings. If you will come about noon

some day--'

"'Thank you,' said he, with a bright smile, 'but I will finish my

business now and with you, seeing that Mr. L'Hommedieu is not at

home. Years ago--I am sure you have heard your husband mention my

name--I borrowed quite a sum of money from him, which I have never

paid. You recall the amount, no doubt?'

"'I have heard Mr. L'Hommedieu say it was a thousand dollars,' she

replied, with a sudden fluttering of her hands indicative of great

excitement.

"'That is the sum,' he allowed, either not noticing me or thinking me

too insignificant to be considered. 'I regret to have kept him so

long out of it, but I have not forgotten to add the interest in

making out this statement of my indebtedness, and if you will look

over this paper and acknowledge its correctness I will leave the

equivalent of my debt here and now, for I sail for Europe to-morrow

morning and wish to have all my affairs in order before leaving.'

"Mrs. L'Hommedieu, who looked ready to faint from excess of feeling,

summoned up her whole strength, looking so beautiful as she did so

that one forgot the ribbons on her sleeves were no longer fresh and

that the silk dress she wore hung in the very limpest of folds.

"'I am obliged to you,' she said in a tone from which she strove in

vain to suppress all eagerness. 'And if I can speak for Mr.

L'Hommedieu he will be as grateful for your remembrance of us as for

the money you so kindly offer to return to him.'

"'The stranger bowed low and took out a folded paper, which he handed

to her. He was not deceived, I am sure, by her grand airs, and knew

as well as I did that no woman ever stood in greater need of money.

But nothing in his manner betrayed this knowledge.

"'It is a bond I give you,' he now explained. 'As you will see, it

has coupons attached to it which you can cash at any time. It will

prove as valuable to you as so much ready money and possibly more

convenient.'

"And with just this hint, which I took as significant of his complete

understanding of her position, he took her receipt and politely left

the house.

"Once alone with me, who am nobody, her joy had full vent. I have

never seen any one so lost in delight as she was for a few minutes.

To have this money thrust upon her just at a moment when actual want

seemed staring her in the face was too much of a relief for her to

conceal either the misery she had been under or the satisfaction she

now enjoyed. Under the gush of her emotions her whole history came

out, but as you have often heard the like I will not repeat it,

especially as it was all contained in the cry with which a little

later she thrust the bond into my hand.

"'He must not see it! He must not! It would go like all the rest,

and I should again be left without a cent. Take it and keep it, for

I have no means of concealing it here. He is too suspicious.'

"But this was asking more than I was willing to grant. Seeing how I

felt, she took the paper back and concealed it in her bosom with a

look I had rather not have seen. 'You will not charge yourself with

such a responsibility,' said she. 'But I can trust you not to tell

him?'

"'Yes,' I nodded, feeling sick of the whole business.

"'Then--But here the door was violently flung open and Mr.

L'Hommedieu burst into the room in a state of as much excitement as

his wife, only his was the excitement of desperation.

"Gone! Gone!' he cried, ignoring me as completely as Mr. Lafarge had

done. 'Not a dollar left; not even my studs! See!' And he pointed

to his shirt-front hanging apart in a way I would never have looked

for in this reckless but fastidious gentleman. 'Yet if I had had a

dollar more or even a ring worth a dollar or so, I might have--

Theresa, have you any money at all? A coin now might save us.'

"Mrs. L'Hommedieu, who had turned alarmingly pale, drew up her fine

figure and resolutely confronted him. 'No!' said she, and shifting

her gaze she turned it meaningly upon me.

"He misunderstood this movement. Thinking it simply a reminder of my

presence, he turned, with his false but impressive show of courtesy,

and made me a low bow. Then he forgot me utterly again, and, facing

his wife, growled out:

"'Where are you going to get breakfast then? You don't look like a

woman who expects to starve!'

"It was a fatal remark, for, do what she would, she could not prevent

a slight smile of disdain, and, seeing it, he kept his eye riveted on

her face till her uneasiness became manifest. Instantly his

suspicion took form, and, surveying her still more fixedly, he espied

a corner of the precious envelope protruding slightly above her

corsage. To snatch it out, open it, and realize its value was the

work of a moment. Her cry of dismay and his shout of triumph rang

out simultaneously, and never have I seen such an ebullition of

opposing passions as I was made witness to as his hand closed over

this small fortune and their staring eyes met in the moral struggle

they had now entered upon for its ultimate possession.

"She was the first to speak. 'It was given to me; it was meant for

me. If I keep it both of us will profit by it, but if you--'

"He did not wait for her to finish. 'Where did you get it?' he

cried. 'I can break the bank with what I can raise on this bond at

the club. Darraugh's in town. You know what that means. Luck's in

the air, and with a hundred dollars-- But I've no time to talk. I

came for a dollar, a fifty-cent piece, a dime even, and go back with

a bond worth--'

"But she was already between him and the door. 'You will never carry

that bond out of this house,' she whispered in the tone which goes

further than a cry. 'I have not held it in my hand to see it follow

every other good thing I have had in life. I will not, Henry. Take

that bond and sink it as you have all the rest and I fall at your

feet a dead woman. I will never survive the destruction of my last

hope.'

"He was cowed--for a moment, that is; she looked so superb and so

determined. Then all that was mean and despicable in his thinly

veneered nature came to the surface, and, springing forward with an

oath, he was about to push her aside, when, without the moving of a

finger on her part, he reeled back, recovered himself, caught at a

chair, missed it, and fell heavily to the floor.

"'My God, I thank thee!' was the exclamation with which she broke

from the trance of terror into which she had been thrown by his

sudden attempt to pass her; and without a glance at his face, which

to me looked like the face of a dead man, she tore the paper from his

hand and stood looking about her with a wild and searching gaze, in

the desperate hope that somehow the walls would open and offer her a

safe place of concealment for the precious sheet of paper.

"Meanwhile I had crept near the prostrate man. He was breathing, but

was perfectly unconscious.

"'Don't you mean to do something for him?' I asked. 'He may die.'

"She met my question with the dazed air of one suddenly awakened.

'No, he'll not die; but he'll not come to for some minutes, and this

must be hidden first. But where? where? I cannot trust it on my

person or in any place a man like him would search. I must devise

some means--ah!'

"With this final exclamation she had dashed into the other room. I

did not see where she went--I did not want to--but I soon realized

she was working somewhere in a desperate hurry. I could hear her

breath coming in quick, short pants as I bent over her husband,

waiting for him to rouse and hating my inaction even while I

succumbed to it.

"Suddenly she was back in the parlor again, and to my surprise passed

immediately to the little table in the corner where we had sat at

supper. We had had for our simple refreshment that homeliest of all

dishes, boiled milk thickened with flour. There was still some left

in a bowl, and taking this away with her she called back hoarsely:

"'Pray that he does not come to till I have finished. It will be the

best prayer you ever made.'

"She told me afterward that he was subject to these attacks and that

she had long ceased to be alarmed by them. But to me the sight of

that man lying there so helpless was horrible, and, though I hated

him and pitied her, I scarcely knew what to wish. While battling

with my desire to run and the feeling of loyalty which held me

kneeling at that man's side, I heard her speak again, this time in an

even and slightly hard tone: 'Now you may dash a glass of cold water

in his face. I am prepared to meet him now. Happily his memory

fails after these attacks. I may succeed in making him believe that

the bond he saw was one of his fancies.'

"'Had you not better throw the water yourself?' I suggested, getting

up and meeting her eye very quietly.

"She looked at me in wonder, then moved calmly to the table, took the

glass, and dashed a few drops of water into her husband's face.

Instantly he began to stir, seeing which I arose without haste, but

without any unnecessary delay, and quickly took my leave. I could

bear no more that night.

"Next morning I awoke in a fright. I had dreamed that he had come to

my room in search of the bond. But it was only her knock at the door

and her voice asking if she might enter at this early hour. It was

such a relief I gladly let her in, and she entered with her best air

and flung herself on my little lounge with the hysterical cry:

"'He has sent me up. I told him I ought not to intrude at such an

inconvenient hour; that you would not have had your breakfast.' (How

carelessly she spoke! How hard she tried to keep the hungry note out

of her voice!) 'But he insisted on my coming up. I know why. He

searched me before I left the room, and now he wants to search the

room itself.'

"'Then he did remember?' I began.

"'Yes, he remembers now. I saw it in his eyes as soon as he awoke.

But he will not find the bond. That is safe, and some day when I

have escaped his vigilance long enough to get it back again I will

use it so as to make him comfortable as well as myself. I am not a

selfish woman."

"I did not think she was, and felt pity for her, and so after

dressing and making her a cup of tea, I sat down with her, and we

chatted for an hour or so quite comfortably. Then she grew so

restless and consulted the clock so often that I tried to soothe her

by remarking that it was not an easy task he had set himself, at

which she laughed in a mysterious way, but failed to grow less

anxious till our suspense was cut short by the appearance of the

janitor with a message from Mr. L'Hommedieu.

"'Mr. L'Hommedieu's compliments,' said he, 'and he hopes Mrs.

L'Hommedieu will make herself comfortable and not think of coming

down. He is doing everything that is necessary and will soon be

through. You can rest quite easy, ma'am.'

"'What does he mean?' marveled the poor woman as the janitor

disappeared. 'Is he spending all this time ransacking the rooms? I

wish I dared disobey him. I wish I dared go down.'

"But her courage was not equal to an open disregard of his wishes,

and she had to subdue her impatience and wait for a summons that did

not come till near two o'clock. Then Mr. L'Hommedieu himself

appeared with her hat and mantle on his arm.

"'My dear,' said he as she rose, haggard with excitement, to meet

him, 'I have brought your wraps with me that you may go directly from

here to our new home. Shall I assist you to put them on? You do not

look as well as usual, and that is why I have undertaken this thing

all myself--to save you, my dear; to save you each and every

exertion.'

"I had flung out my arms to catch her, for I thought she was going to

faint, but she did not, though I think it would have been better for

her if she had.

"'We are going to leave this house?' she asked, speaking very slowly

and with a studied lack of emotion that imposed upon nobody.

"'I have said so,' he smiled. 'The dray has already taken away the

half of our effects, and the rest will follow at Mrs. Latimer's

convenience.'

"'Ah, I understand!' she replied, with a gasp of relief significant

of her fear that by some superhuman cunning he had found the bond she

thought so safely concealed. 'I was wondering how Mrs. Latimer came

to allow us to leave.' (I tell you they always talked as if I were

not present.) 'Our goods are left as a surety, it seems.'

"'Half of our goods,' he blandly corrected. 'Would it interest you

to know which half?'

"The cunning of this insinuation was matched by the imperturbable

shrug with which she replied, 'So a bed has been allowed us and some

clothes I am satisfied,' at which he bit his lips, vexed at her

self-control and his own failure to break it.

"'You have not asked where we are going,' he observed, as with

apparent solicitude he threw her mantle over her shoulders.

"The air of lassitude with which she replied bespoke her feeling on

that point. 'I have little curiosity,' she said. 'You know I can be

happy anywhere.' And, turning toward me, she moved her lips in a way

I interpreted to mean: 'Go below with me. See me out.'

"'Say what you have to say to Miss Winterburn aloud,' he dryly

suggested.

"'I have nothing to say to Miss Winterburn but thanks,' was her cold

reply, belied, however, by the trembling of her fingers as she

essayed to fit on her gloves.

"'And those I will receive below!' I cried, with affected gaiety. 'I

am going down with you to the door.' And resolutely ignoring his

frown I tripped down before them. On the last stair I felt her steps

lagging. Instantly I seemed to comprehend what was required of me,

and, rushing forward, I entered the front parlor. He followed close

behind me, for how could he know I was not in collusion with her to

regain the bond? This gave her one minute by herself in the rear,

and in that minute she secured the key which would give her future

access to the spot where her treasure lay hidden.

"The rest of the story I must give you mainly from hearsay. You must

understand by this time what Mr. L'Hommedieu's scheme was in moving

so suddenly. He knew that it would be impossible for him, by the

most minute and continuous watchfulness, to prevent his wife from

recovering the bond while they continued to inhabit the rooms in

which, notwithstanding his failure to find it, he had reason to

believe it still lay concealed. But once in other quarters it would

be comparatively easy for him to subject her to a surveillance which

not only would prevent her from returning to this house without his

knowledge, but would lead her to give away her secret by the very

natural necessity she would be under of going to the exact spot where

her treasure lay hid.

"It was a cunning plot and showed him to be as able as he was

unscrupulous. How it worked I will now proceed to tell you. It must

have been the next afternoon that the janitor came running up to

me--I suppose he had learned by this time that I had more than

ordinary interest in these people--to say that Mrs. L'Hommedieu had

been in the house and had been so frightened by a man who had

followed her that she had fainted dead away on the floor. Would I go

down to her?

"I had rather have gone anywhere else, unless it was to prison; but

duty cannot be shirked, and I followed the man down. But we were too

late. Mrs. L'Hommedieu had recovered and gone away, and the person

who had frightened her was also gone, and only the hallboy remained

to give any explanations.

"This was what he had to say:

"'The man it was who went first. As soon as the lady fell he skipped

out. I don't think he meant no good here--'

"'Did she drop here in the hall?' I asked, unable to restrain my

intense anxiety.

"'Oh, no, ma'am! They was in the back room yonder, which she got in

somehow. The man followed her in, sneaking and sneaking like an eel

or a cop, and she fell right against--'

"'Don't tell me where?' I cried. 'I don't want to know where!' And

I was about to return upstairs when I heard a quick, sharp voice

behind me and realized that Mr. L'Hommedieu had come in and was

having some dispute with the janitor.

"Common prudence led me to listen. He wanted, as was very natural,

to enter the room where his wife had just been surprised, but the

janitor, alarmed by the foregoing very irregular proceedings, was

disposed to deny his right to do so.

"'The furniture is held as a surety,' said he, 'and I have orders--'

"But Mr. L'Hommedieu had a spare dollar, and before many minutes had

elapsed I heard him go into that room and close the door. Of the

next ten minutes and the suspense I felt I need not speak. When he

came out again, he looked as if the ground would not hold him.

"'I have done some mischief, I fear,' he airily said as he passed the

janitor. 'But I'll pay for it. Don't worry. I'll pay for it and

the rent, too, to-morrow. You may tell Mrs. Latimer so.' And he was

gone, leaving us all agape in the hallway.

"A minute later we all crept to that room and looked in. Now that he

had got the bond I for one was determined to know where she had hid

it. There was no mistaking the spot. A single glance was enough to

show us the paper ripped off from a portion of the wall, revealing a

narrow gap behind the baseboard large enough to hold the bond. It

was near--"

"Wait!" I put in as I remembered where the so-called Mrs. Helmuth had

pointed just before she died. "Wasn't it at the left of the large

folding doors and midway to the wall?"

"How came you to know?" she asked. "Did Mrs. Latimer tell you?" But

as I did not answer she soon took up the thread of her narrative

again, and, sighing softly, said:

The next day came and went, but no L'Hommedieu appeared; another, and

I began to grow seriously uneasy; a third, and a dreadful thing

happened. Late in the afternoon Mrs. L'Hommedieu, dressed very

oddly, came sliding in at the front door, and with an appealing smile

at the hallboy, who wished but dared not ask her for the key which

made these visits possible, glided by to her old rooms, and, finding

the door unlocked, went softly in. Her appearance is worth

description, for it shows the pitiful efforts she made at disguise,

in the hope, I suppose, of escaping the surveillance she was

evidently conscious of being under. She was in the habit of wearing

on cool days a black circular with a gray lining. This she had

turned inside out so that the gray was uppermost; while over her neat

black bonnet she had flung a long veil, also gray, which not only hid

her face, but gave her appearance an eccentric look as different as

possible from her usual aspect. The hallboy, who had never seen her

save in showy black or bright colors, said she looked like a ghost in

the daytime, but it was all done for a purpose, I am sure, and to

escape the attention of the man who had followed her before. Alas,

he might have followed her this time without addition to her

suffering! Scarcely had she entered the room where her treasure had

been left than she saw the torn paper and gaping baseboard, and,

uttering a cry so piercing it found its way even to the stolid heart

of the hallboy, she tottered back into the hall, where she fell into

the arms of her husband, who had followed her in from the street in a

state of frenzy almost equal to her own.

"The janitor, who that minute appeared on the stairway, says that he

never saw two such faces. They looked at each other and were

speechless. He was the first to hang his head.

"'It is gone, Henry,' she whispered. 'It is gone. You have taken

it.'

"He did not answer.

"'And it is lost! You have risked it, and it is lost?'

"He uttered a groan. 'You should have given it to me that night.

There was luck in the air then. Now the devil is in the cards and--'

"Her arms went up with a shriek. 'My curse be upon you, Henry

L'Hommedieu!' And whether it was the look with which she uttered

this imprecation, or whether there was some latent love left in his

heart for this long-suffering and once beautiful woman, he shrank at

her words, and stumbling like a man in the darkness, uttered a

heart-rending groan, and rushed from the house. We never saw him

again.

"As for her, she fell this time under a paralytic attack which robbed

her of her faculties. She was taken to a hospital, where I

frequently visited her, but either from grief or the effect of her

attack she did not know me, nor did she ever recognize any of us

again. Mrs. Latimer, who is a just woman, sold her furniture and,

after paying her self out of the proceeds, gave the remainder to the

hospital nurses for the use of Mrs. L'Hommedieu, so that when she

left them she had something with which to start life anew. But where

she went or how she managed to get along in her enfeebled condition I

do not know. I never heard of her again."

"Then you did not see the woman who died in these rooms?" I asked.

The effect of these words was magical and led to mutual explanations.

She had not seen that woman, having encountered all the sorrow she

wished to in that room. Nor was there any one else in the home at

this time likely to recognize Mrs. L'Hommedieu, the janitor and

hallboy both being new and Mrs. Latimer one of those proprietors who

are only seen on rent day. For the rest, Mrs. L'Hommedieu's

defective memory, which had led her to haunt the house and room where

the bond had once been hidden, accounted not only for her first

visit, but the last, which had ended so fatally. The cunning she

showed in turning her cloak and flinging a veil over her had was the

cunning of a partially clouded mind. It was a reminiscence of the

morning when her terrible misfortune occurred. My habit of taking

the key out of the lock of that unused door made the use of her own

key possible, and her fear of being followed caused her to lock the

door behind her. My wife, who must have fallen into a doze on my

leaving her, did not see her enter, but detected her just as she was

trying to escape through the folding doors. My presence in the

parlor probably added to her embarrassment, and she fled, turning her

cloak as she did so.

How simple it seemed now that we knew the facts; but how obscure,

and, to all appearance, unexplainable, before the clue was given to

the mystery!

The Thief

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

"And now, if you have all seen the coin and sufficiently admired it,

you may pass it back. I make a point of never leaving it off the

shelf for more than fifteen minutes."

The half dozen or more guests seated about the hoard of the genial

speaker, glanced casually at each other as though expecting to see

the object mentioned immediately produced.

But no coin appeared.

"I have other amusements waiting," suggested their host, with a smile

in which even his wife could detect no signs of impatience. "Now let

Robert put it back into the cabinet."

Robert was the butler.

Blank looks, negative gestures, but still no coin.

"Perhaps it is in somebody's lap," timidly ventured one of the

younger women. "It doesn't seem to be on the table."

Immediately all the ladies began lifting their napkins and shaking

out the gloves which lay under them, in an effort to relieve their

own embarrassment and that of the gentlemen who had not even so

simple a resource as this at their command.

"It can't be lost," protested Mr. Sedgwick, with an air of perfect

confidence. "I saw it but a minute ago in somebody's hand. Darrow,

you had it; what did you do with it?"

"Passed it along."

"Well, well, it must be under somebody's plate or doily." And he

began to move about his own and such dishes as were within reach of

his hand.

Each guest imitated him, lifting glasses and turning over spoons till

Mr. Sedgwick himself bade them desist. "It's slipped to the floor,"

he nonchalantly concluded. "A toast to the ladies, and we will give

Robert the chance of looking for it."

As they drank this toast, his apparently careless, but quietly

astute, glance took in each countenance about him. The coin was very

valuable and its loss would be keenly felt by him. Had it slipped

from the table some one's eye would have perceived it, some hand

would have followed it. Only a minute or two before, the attention

of the whole party had been concentrated upon it. Darrow had held it

up for all to see, while he discoursed upon its history. He would

take Darrow aside at the first opportunity and ask him-- But--it!

how could he do that? These were his intimate friends. He knew them

well, more than well, with one exception, and he-- Well, he was the

handsomest of the lot and the most debonair and agreeable. A little

more gay than usual to-night, possibly a trifle too gay, considering

that a man of Mr. Blake's social weight and business standing sat at

the board; but not to be suspected, no, not to be suspected, even if

he was the next man after Darrow and had betrayed something like

confusion when the eyes of the whole table turned his way at the

former's simple statement of "I passed it on." Robert would find the

coin; he was a fool to doubt it; and if Robert did not, why, he would

simply have to pocket his chagrin, and not let a triviality like this

throw a shadow over his hospitality.

All this, while he genially lifted his glass and proposed the health

of the ladies. The constraint of the preceding moment was removed by

his manner, and a dozen jests caused as many merry laughs. Then he

pushed back his chair.

"And now, some music!" he cheerfully cried, as with lingering glances

and some further pokings about of the table furniture, the various

guests left their places and followed him into the adjoining room.

But the ladies were too nervous and the gentlemen not sufficiently

sure of their voices to undertake the entertainment of the rest at a

moment of such acknowledged suspense; and notwithstanding the

exertions of their host and his quiet but much discomfited wife, it

soon became apparent that but one thought engrossed them all, and

that any attempt at conversation must prove futile so long as the

curtains between the two rooms remained open and they could see

Robert on his hands and knees searching the floor and shoving aside

the rugs.

Darrow, who was Mr. Sedgwick's brother-in-law and almost as much at

home in the house as Sedgwick himself, made a move to draw these

curtains, but something in his relative's face stopped him and he

desisted with some laughing remark which did not attract enough

attention, even, to elicit any response.

"I hope his eyesight is good," murmured one of the young girls,

edging a trifle forward. "Mayn't I help him look? They say at home

that I am the only one in the house who can find anything."

Mr. Sedgwick smiled indulgently at the speaker (a round-faced,

round-eyed, merry-hearted girl whom in days gone by he had dandled on

his knees), but answered quite quickly for him:

"Robert will find it if it is there." Then, distressed at this

involuntary disclosure of his thought, added in his whole-hearted

way: "It's such a little thing, and the room is so big and a round

object rolls unexpectedly far, you know. Well, have you got it?" he

eagerly demanded, as the butler finally showed himself in the door.

"No, sir; and it's not in the dining-room. I have cleared the table

and thoroughly searched the floor."

Mr. Sedgwick knew that he had. He had no doubts about Robert.

Robert had been in his employ for years and had often handled his

coins and, at his order, sometimes shown them.

"Very well," said he, "we'll not bother about it any more to-night;

you may draw the curtains."

But here the clear, almost strident voice of the youngest man of the

party interposed.

"Wait a minute," said he. "This especial coin is the great treasure

of Mr. Sedgwick's valuable collection. It is unique in this country,

and not only worth a great deal of money, but cannot be duplicated at

any cost. There are only three of its stamp in the world. Shall we

let the matter pass, then, as though it were of small importance? I

feel that we cannot; that we are, in a measure, responsible for its

disappearance. Mr. Sedgwick handed it to us to look at, and while it

was going through our hands it vanished. What must he think? What

has he every right to think? I need not put it into words; you know

what you would think, what you could not help but think, if the

object were yours and it was lost in this way. Gentlemen--I leave

the ladies entirely out of this--I do not propose that he shall have

further opportunity to associate me with this very natural doubt. I

demand the privilege of emptying my pockets here and now, before any

of us have left his presence. I am a connoisseur in coins myself and

consequently find it imperative to take the initiative in this

matter. As I propose to spare the ladies, let us step back into the

dining-room. Mr. Sedgwick, pray don't deny me; I'm thoroughly in

earnest, I assure you."

The astonishment created by this audacious proposition was so great,

and the feeling it occasioned so intense, that for an instant all

stood speechless. Young Hammersley was a millionaire himself, and

generous to a fault, as all knew. Under no circumstances would any

one even suspect him of appropriating anything, great or small, to

which he had not a perfect right. Nor was he likely to imagine for a

moment that any one would. That he could make such a proposition

then, based upon any such plea, argued a definite suspicion in some

other quarter, which could not pass unrecognized. In vain Mr.

Sedgwick raised his voice in frank and decided protest, two of the

gentlemen had already made a quick move toward Robert, who still

stood, stupefied by the situation, with his hand on the cord which

controlled the curtains.

"He is quite right," remarked one of these, as he passed into the

dining-room. "I shouldn't sleep a wink to-night if this question

remained unsettled." The other, the oldest man present, the

financier of whose standing and highly esteemed character I have

already spoken, said nothing, but followed in a way to show that his

mind was equally made up.

The position in which Mr. Sedgwick found himself placed was far from

enviable. With a glance at the two remaining gentlemen, he turned

towards the ladies now standing in a close group at the other end of

the room. One of them was his wife, and he quivered internally as he

noted the deep red of her distressed countenance. But it was the

others he addressed, singling out, with the rare courtesy which was

his by nature, the one comparative stranger, Barrow's niece, a

Rochester girl, who could not be finding this, her first party in

Boston, very amusing.

"I hope you will appreciate the dilemma in which I have been placed

by these gentlemen," he began, "and will pardon--"

But here he noticed that she was not in the least attending; her eyes

were on the handsome figure of Hugh Clifford, her uncle's neighbor at

table, who in company with Mr. Hammersley was still hesitating in the

doorway. As Mr. Sedgwick stopped his useless talk, the two passed in

and the sound of her fluttering breath as she finally turned a

listening ear his way, caused him to falter as he repeated his

assurances and begged her indulgence.

She answered with some conventional phrase which he forgot while

crossing the room. But the remembrance of her slight satin-robed

figure, drawn up in an attitude whose carelessness was totally belied

by the anxiety of her half-averted glance, followed him into the

presence of the four men awaiting him. Four? I should say five, for

Robert was still there, though in a corner by himself, ready, no

doubt, to share any attempt which the others might make to prove

their innocence.

"The ladies will await us in the music-room," announced the host on

entering; and then paused, disconcerted by the picture suddenly

disclosed to his eye. On one side stood the two who had entered

first, with their eyes fixed in open sternness on young Clifford,

who, quite alone on the rug, faced them with a countenance of such

pronounced pallor that there seemed to be nothing else in the room.

As his features were singularly regular and his almost perfect mouth

accentuated by a smile as set as his figure was immobile, the effect

was so startling that not only Mr. Sedgwick, but every other person

present, no doubt, wished that the plow had never turned the furrow

which had brought this wretched coin to light.

However, the affair had gone too far now for retreat, as was shown by

Mr. Blake, the elderly financier whom all were ready to recognize as

the chief guest there. With an apologetic glance at Mr. Hammersley,

the impetuous young millionaire who had first proposed this

embarrassing procedure, he advanced to an empty side-table and began,

in a quiet, business-like way, to lay on it the contents of his

various pockets. As the pile rose, the silence grew, the act in

itself was so simple, the motive actuating it so serious and out of

accord with the standing of the company and the nature of the

occasion. When all was done, he stepped up to Mr. Sedgwick, with his

arms raised and held out from his body.

"Now accommodate me," said he, "by running your hands up and down my

chest. I have a secret pocket there which should be empty at this

time."

Mr. Sedgwick, fascinated by his look, did as he was bid, reporting

shortly:

"You are quite correct. I find nothing there."

Mr. Blake stepped back. As he did so, every eye, suddenly released

from his imposing figure, flashed towards the immovable Clifford, to

find him still absorbed by the action and attitude of the man who had

just undergone what to him doubtless appeared a degrading ordeal.

Pale before, he was absolutely livid now, though otherwise unchanged.

To break the force of what appeared to be an open, if involuntary,

self-betrayal, another guest stepped forward; but no sooner had he

raised his hand to his vest-pocket than Clifford moved, and in a

high, strident voice totally unlike his usual tones remarked:

"This is all--all--very interesting and commendable, no doubt. But

for such a procedure to be of any real value it should be entered

into by all. Gentlemen"--his rigidity was all gone now and so was

his pallor--"I am unwilling to submit myself to what, in my eyes, is

an act of unnecessary humiliation. Our word should be enough. I

have not the coin----" Stopped by the absolute silence, he cast a

distressed look into the faces about him, till it reached that of Mr.

Sedgwick, where it lingered, in an appeal to which that gentleman,

out of his great heart, instantly responded.

"One should take the word of the gentleman he invites to his house.

We will excuse you, and excuse all the others from the unnecessary

ceremony which Mr. Blake has been good enough to initiate."

But this show of favor was not to the mind of the last-mentioned

gentleman, and met with instant reproof.

"Not so fast, Sedgwick. I am the oldest man here and I did not feel

it was enough simply to state that this coin was not on my person.

As to the question of humiliation, it strikes me that humiliation

would lie, in this instance, in a refusal for which no better excuse

can be given than the purely egotistical one of personal pride."

At this attack, the fine head of Clifford rose, and Darrow,

remembering the girl within, felt instinctively grateful that she was

not here to note the effect it gave to his person.

"I regret to differ," said he. "To me no humiliation could equal

that of demonstrating in this open manner the fact of one's not being

a thief."

Mr. Blake gravely surveyed him. Tor some reason the issue seemed no

longer to lie between Clifford and the actual loser of the coin, but

between him and his fellow guest, this uncompromising banker.

"A thief!" repeated the young man, in an indescribable tone full of

bitterness and scorn.

Mr. Blake remained unmoved; he was a just man but strict, hard to

himself, hard to others. But he was not entirely without heart.

Suddenly his expression lightened. A certain possible explanation of

the other's attitude had entered his mind.

"Young men sometimes have reasons for their susceptibilities which

the old forget. If you have such--if you carry a photograph, believe

that we have no interest in pictures of any sort to-night and

certainly would fail to recognize them."

A smile of disdain flickered across the young man's lip. Evidently

it was no discovery of this kind that he feared.

"I carry no photographs," said he; and, bowing low to his host, he

added in a measured tone which but poorly hid his profound agitation,

"I regret to have interfered in the slightest way with the pleasure

of the evening. If you will be so good as to make my excuses to the

ladies, I will withdraw from a presence upon which I have made so

poor an impression."

Mr. Sedgwick prized his coin and despised deceit, but he could not

let a guest leave him in this manner. Instinctively he held out his

hand. Proudly young Clifford dropped his own into it; but the lack

of mutual confidence was felt and the contact was a cold one. Half

regretting his impulsive attempt at courtesy, Mr. Sedgwick drew back,

and Clifford was already at the door leading into the hall, when

Hammersley, who by his indiscreet proposition had made all this

trouble for him, sprang forward and caught him by the arm.

"Don't go," he whispered. "You're done for if you leave like this.

I--I was a brute to propose such an asinine thing, but having done so

I am bound to see you out of the difficulty. Come into the adjoining

room--there is nobody there at present--and we will empty our pockets

together and find this lost article if we can. I may have pocketed

it myself, in a fit of abstraction."

Did the other hesitate? Some thought so; but, if he did, it was but

momentarily.

"I cannot," he muttered; "think what you will of me, but let me go."

And dashing open the door he disappeared from their sight just as

light steps and the rustle of skirts were heard again in the

adjoining room.

"There are the ladies. What shall we say to them?" queried Sedgwick,

stepping slowly towards the intervening curtains.

"Tell them the truth," enjoined Mr. Blake, as he hastily repocketed

his own belongings. "Why should a handsome devil like that be

treated with any more consideration than another? He has a secret if

he hasn't a coin. Let them know this. It may save some one a future

heartache."

The last sentence was muttered, but Mr. Sedgwick heard it. Perhaps

that was why his first movement on entering the adjoining room was to

cross over to the cabinet and shut and lock the heavily paneled door

which had been left standing open. At all events, the action drew

general attention and caused an instant silence, broken the next

minute by an ardent cry:

"So your search was futile?"

It came from the lady least known, the interesting young stranger

whose personality had made so vivid an impression upon him.

"Quite so," he answered, hastily facing her with an attempted smile.

"The gentlemen decided not to carry matters to the length first

proposed. The object was not worth it. I approved their decision.

This was meant for a joyous occasion. Why mar it by unnecessary

unpleasantness?"

She had given him her full attention while he was speaking, but her

eye wandered away the moment he had finished and rested searchingly

on the other gentlemen. Evidently she missed a face she had expected

to find there, for her color changed and she drew back behind the

other ladies with the light, unmusical laugh women, sometimes use to

hide a secret emotion.

It brought Mr. Darrow forward.

"Some were not willing to subject themselves to what they considered

an unnecessary humiliation," he curtly remarked. "Mr. Clifford--"

"There! let us drop it," put in his brother-in-law. "I've lost my

coin and that's the end of it. I don't intend to have the evening

spoiled for a thing like that. Music! ladies, music and a jolly air!

No more dumps." And with as hearty a laugh as he could command in

face of the somber looks he encountered on every side, he led the way

back into the music-room.

Once there the women seemed to recover their spirits; that is, such

as remained. One had disappeared. A door opened from this room into

the main hall and through this a certain young lady had vanished

before the others had had time to group themselves about the piano.

We know who this lady was; possibly, we know, too, why her hostess

did not follow her.

Meanwhile, Mr. Clifford had gone upstairs for his coat and was

lingering there, the prey of some very bitter reflections. Though he

had encountered nobody on the stairs, and neither heard nor saw any

one in the halls, he felt confident that he was not unwatched. He

remembered the look on the butler's face as he tore himself away from

Hammersley's restraining hand, and he knew what that fellow thought

and also was quite able to guess what that fellow would do, if his

suspicions were farther awakened. This conviction brought an odd and

not very open smile to his face, as he finally turned to descend the

one flight which separated him from the front door he was so ardently

desirous of closing behind him for ever.

A moment and he would be down; but the steps were many and seemed to

multiply indefinitely as he sped below. Should his departure be

noted, and some one advance to detain him! He fancied he heard a

rustle in the open space under the stairs. Were any one to step

forth, Robert or-- With a start, he paused and clutched the

banister. Some one had stepped forth; a woman! The swish of her

skirts was unmistakable. He felt the chill of a new dread. Never in

his short but triumphant career had he met coldness or disapproval in

the eye of a woman. Was he to encounter it now? If so, it would go

hard with him. He trembled as he turned his head to see which of the

four it was. If it should prove to be his hostess-- But it was not

she; it was Darrow's young friend, the pretty inconsequent girl he

had chatted with at the dinner-table, and afterwards completely

forgotten in the events which had centered all his thoughts upon

himself. And she was standing there, waiting for him! He would have

to pass her,--notice her,--speak.

But when the encounter occurred and their eyes met, he failed to find

in hers any sign of the disapproval he feared, but instead a

gentlewomanly interest which he might interpret deeply, or otherwise,

according to the measure of his need.

That need seemed to be a deep one at this instant, for his

countenance softened perceptibly as he took her quietly extended hand.

"Good-night," she said; "I am just going myself," and with an

entrancing smile of perfect friendliness, she fluttered past him up

the stairs.

It was the one and only greeting which his sick heart could have

sustained without flinching. Just this friendly farewell of one

acquaintance to another, as though no change had taken place in his

relations to society and the world. And she was a woman and not a

thoughtless girl! Staring after her slight, elegant figure, slowly

ascending the stair, he forgot to return her cordial greeting. What

delicacy, and yet what character there was in the poise of her

spirited head! He felt his breath fail him, in his anxiety for

another glance from her eye, for some sign, however small, that she

had carried the thought of him up those few, quickly mounted steps.

Would he get it? She is at the bend of the stair; she pauses--turns,

a nod--and she is gone.

With an impetuous gesture, he dashed from the house.

In the drawing-room the noise of the closing door was heard, and a

change at once took place in the attitude and expression of all

present. The young millionaire approached Mr. Sedgwick and

confidentially remarked:

"There goes your precious coin. I'm sure of it. I even think I can

tell the exact place in which it is hidden. His hand went to his

left coat-pocket once too often."

"That's right. I noticed the action also," chimed in Mr. Darrow, who

had stepped up, unobserved. "And I noticed something else. His

whole appearance altered from the moment this coin came on the scene.

An indefinable half-eager, half-furtive look crept into his eye as he

saw it passed from hand to hand. I remember it now, though it didn't

make much impression upon me at the time."

"And I remember another thing," supplemented Hammersley in his

anxiety to set himself straight with these men of whose entire

approval he was not quite sure. "He raised his napkin to his mouth

very frequently during the meal and held it there longer than is

usual, too. Once he caught me looking at him, and for a moment he

flushed scarlet, then he broke out with one of his witty remarks and

I had to laugh like everybody else. If I am not mistaken, his napkin

was up and his right hand working behind it, about the time Mr.

Sedgwick requested the return of his coin."

"The idiot! Hadn't he sense enough to know that such a loss wouldn't

pass unquestioned? The gem of the collection; known all over the

country, and he's not even a connoisseur."

"No; I've never even heard him mention numismatics."

"Mr. Darrow spoke of its value. Perhaps that was what tempted him.

I know that Clifford's been rather down on his luck lately."

"He? Well, he don't look it. There isn't one of us so well set up.

Pardon me, Mr. Hammersley, you understand what I mean. He perhaps

relies a little bit too much on his fine clothes."

"He needn't. His face is his fortune--all the one he's got, I hear

it said. He had a pretty income from Consolidated Silver, but that's

gone up and left him in what you call difficulties. If he has debts

besides--"

But here Mr. Darrow was called off. His niece wanted to see him for

one minute in the hall. When he came back it was to make his adieu

and hers. She had been taken suddenly indisposed and his duty was to

see her immediately home. This broke up the party, and amid general

protestations the various guests were taking their leave when the

whole action was stopped by a smothered cry from the dining-room, and

the precipitate entrance of Robert, asking for Mr. Sedgwick.

"What's up? What's happened?" demanded that gentleman, hurriedly

advancing towards the agitated butler.

"Found!" he exclaimed, holding up the coin between his thumb and

forefinger. "It was standing straight up between two leaves of the

table. It tumbled and fell to the floor as Luke and I were taking

them out."

Silence which could be felt for a moment. Then each man turned and

surveyed his neighbor, while the women's voices rose in little cries

that were almost hysterical.

"I knew that it would be found, and found here," came from the

hallway in rich, resonant tones. "Uncle, do not hurry; I am feeling

better," followed in unconscious naïveté, as the young girl stepped

in, showing a countenance in which were small signs of indisposition

or even of depressed spirits.

Mr. Darrow, with a smile of sympathetic understanding, joined the

others now crowding about the butler.

"I noticed the crack between these two leaves when I pushed about the

plates and dishes," he was saying. "But I never thought of looking

in it for the missing coin. I'm sure I'm very sorry that I didn't."

Mr. Darrow, to whom these words had recalled a circumstance he had

otherwise, completely forgotten, anxiously remarked: "That must have

happened shortly after it left my hand. I recall now that the lady

sitting between me and Clifford gave it a twirl which sent it

spinning over the bare table-top. I don't think she realized the

notion. She was listening--we all were--to a flow of bright

repartee, going on below us, and failed to follow the movements of

the coin. Otherwise, she would have spoken. But what a marvel that

it should have reached that crack in just the position to fall in!"

"It wouldn't happen again, not if we spun it there for a month of

Sundays."

"But Mr. Clifford!" put in an agitated voice.

"Yes, it has been rather hard on him. But he shouldn't have such

keen sensibilities. If he had emptied out his pockets cheerfully and

at the first intimation, none of this unpleasantness would have

happened. Mr. Sedgwick, I congratulate you upon the recovery of this

valuable coin, and am quite ready to offer my services if you wish to

make Mr. Clifford immediately acquainted with Robert's discovery."

"Thank you, but I will perform that duty myself," was Mr. Sedgwick's

quiet rejoinder, as he unlocked the door of his cabinet and carefully

restored the coin to its proper place.

When he faced back, he found his guests on the point of leaving.

Only one gave of any intention of lingering.

This was the elderly financier who had shown such stern resolve in

the treatment of Mr. Clifford's so-called sensibilities. He had

confided his wife to the care of Mr. Darrow, and now met Mr. Sedgwick

with this remark:

"I'm going to ask a favor of you. If, as you have intimated, it is

your intention to visit Mr. Clifford to-night, I should like to go

with you. I don't understand this young man and his unaccountable

attitude in this matter, and it is very important that I should.

Have you any objection to my company? My motor is at the door, and

we can settle the affair in twenty minutes."

"None," returned his host, a little surprised, however, at the

request. "His pride does seem a little out of place, but he was

among comparative strangers, and seemed to feel his honor greatly

impugned by Hammersley's unfortunate proposition. I'm sorry way down

to the ground for what has occurred, and cannot carry him our

apologies too soon."

"No, you cannot," retorted the other shortly. And so seriously did

he utter this that no time was lost by Mr. Sedgwick, and as soon as

they could get into their coats, they were in the motor and on their

way to the young man's apartment.

Their experience began at the door. A man was lolling there who told

them that Mr. Clifford had changed his quarters; where he did not

know. But upon the production of a five-dollar bill, he remembered

enough about it to give them a number and street where possibly they

might find him. In a rush, they hastened there; only to hear the

same story from the sleepy elevator boy anticipating his last trip up

for the night.

"Mr. Clifford left a week ago; he didn't tell me where he was going."

Nevertheless the boy knew; that they saw, and another but smaller

bill came into requisition and awoke his sleepy memory.

The street and number which he gave made the two well-to-do men

stare. But they said nothing, though the looks they cast back at the

second-rate quarters they were leaving, so far below the elegant

apartment house they had visited first, were sufficiently expressive.

The scale of descent from luxury to positive discomfort was proving a

rapid one and prepared them for the dismal, ill-cared-for, altogether

repulsive doorway before which they halted next. No attendant waited

here; not even an elevator boy; the latter for the good reason that

there was no elevator. An uninviting flight of stairs was before

them; and on the few doors within sight a simple card showed the name

of the occupant.

Mr. Sedgwick glanced at his companion.

"Shall we go up?" he asked.

Mr. Blake nodded. "We'll find him," said he, "if it takes all night."

"Surely he cannot have sunk lower than this."

"Remembering his get-up, I do not think so. Yet who knows? Some

mystery lies back of his whole conduct. Dining in your home, with

this to come back to! I don't wonder--"

But here a thought struck him. Pausing with his foot on the stair,

he turned a flushed countenance towards Mr. Sedgwick. "I've an

idea," said he. "Perhaps--" He whispered the rest.

Mr. Sedgwick stared and shook his shoulders. "Possibly," said he,

flushing slightly in his turn. Then, as they proceeded up, "I feel

like a brute, anyway. A sorry night's business all through, unless

the end proves better than the beginning."

"We'll start from the top. Something tells me that we shall find him

close under the roof. Can you read the names by such a light?"

"Barely; but I have matches."

And now there might have been witnessed by any chance home-comer the

curious sight of two extremely well-dressed men pottering through the

attic hall of this decaying old domicile, reading the cards on the

doors by means of a lighted match.

And vainly. On none of the cards could be seen the name they sought.

"We're on the wrong track," protested Mr. Blake. "No use keeping

this up," but found himself stopped, when about to turn away, by a

gesture of Sedgwick's.

"There's a light under the door you see there untagged," said he.

"I'm going to knock."

He did so. There was a sound within and then utter silence.

He knocked again. A man's step was heard approaching the door, then

again the silence.

Mr. Sedgwick made a third essay, and then the door was suddenly

pulled inward and in the gap they saw the handsome face and graceful

figure of the young man they had so lately encountered amid palatial

surroundings. But how changed! how openly miserable! and when he saw

who his guests were, how proudly defiant of their opinion and

presence.

"You have found the coin," he quietly remarked. "I appreciate your

courtesy in coming here to inform me of it. Will not that answer,

without further conversation? I am on the point of retiring

and--and--"

Even the hardihood of a very visible despair gave way for an instant

as he met Mr. Sedgwick's eye. In the break which followed, the older

man spoke.

"Pardon us, but we have come thus far with a double purpose. First,

to tender our apologies, which you have been good enough to accept;

secondly, to ask, in no spirit of curiosity, I assure you, a question

that I seem to see answered, but which I should be glad to hear

confirmed by your lips. May we not come in?"

The question was put with a rare smile such as sometimes was seen on

this hard-grained handler of millions, and the young man, seeing it,

faltered back, leaving the way open for them to enter. The next

minute he seemed to regret the impulse, for backing against a

miserable table they saw there, he drew himself up with an air as

nearly hostile as one of his nature could assume.

"I know of no question," said he, "which I feel at this very late

hour inclined to answer. A man who has been tracked as I must have

been for you to find me here, is hardly in a mood to explain his

poverty or the mad desire for former luxuries which took him to the

house of one friendly enough, he thought, to accept his presence

without inquiry as to the place he lived in or the nature or number

of the reverses which had brought him to such a place as this."

"I do not--believe me--" faltered Mr. Sedgwick, greatly embarrassed

and distressed. In spite of the young man's attempt to hide the

contents of the table, he had seen the two objects lying there--a

piece of bread or roll, and a half-cocked revolver.

Mr. Blake had seen them, too, and at once took the word out of his

companion's mouth.

"You mistake us," he said coldly, "as well as the nature of our

errand. We are here from no motive of curiosity, as I have before

said, nor from any other which might offend or distress you. We--or

rather I am here on business. I have a position to offer to an

intelligent, upright, enterprising young man. Your name has been

given me. It was given me before this dinner, to which I went--if

Mr. Sedgwick will pardon my plain speaking--chiefly for the purpose

of making your acquaintance. The result was what you know, and

possibly now you can understand my anxiety to see you exonerate

yourself from the doubts you yourself raised by your attitude of

resistance to the proposition made by that headlong, but

well-meaning, young man of many millions, Mr. Hammersley. I wanted

to find in you the honorable characteristics necessary to the man who

is to draw an eight thousand dollars a year salary under my eye. I

still want to do this. If then you are willing to make this whole

thing plain to me--for it is not plain--not wholly plain, Mr.

Clifford--then you will find in me a friend such as few young fellows

can boast of, for I like you--I will say that--and where I like--"

The gesture with which he ended the sentence was almost superfluous,

in face of the change which had taken place in the aspect of the man

he addressed. Wonder, doubt, hope, and again incredulity were lost

at last in a recognition of the other's kindly intentions toward

himself, and the prospects which they opened out before him. With a

shame-faced look, and yet with a manly acceptance of his own

humiliation that was not displeasing to his visitors, he turned about

and pointing to the morsel of bread lying on the table before them,

he said to Mr. Sedgwick:

"Do you recognize that? It is from your table, and--and--it is not

the only piece I had hidden in my pockets. I had not eaten in

twenty-four hours when I sat down to dinner this evening. I had no

prospect of another morsel for to-morrow and--and--I was afraid of

eating my fill--there were ladies--and so--and so--"

They did not let him finish. In a flash they had both taken in the

room. Not an article which could be spared was anywhere visible.

His dress-suit was all that remained to him of former ease and

luxury. That he had retained, possibly for just such opportunities

as had given him a dinner to-night. Mr. Blake understood at last,

and his iron lip trembled.

"Have you no friends?" he asked. "Was it necessary to go hungry?"

"Could I ask alms or borrow what I could not pay? It was a position

I was after, and positions do not come at call. Sometimes they come

without it," he smiled with the dawning of his old-time grace on his

handsome face, "but I find that one can see his resources go, dollar

by dollar, and finally, cent by cent, in the search for employment no

one considers necessary to a man like me. Perhaps if I had had less

pride, had been willing to take you or any one else into my

confidence, I might not have sunk to these depths of humiliation; but

I had not the confidence in men which this last half hour has given

me, and I went blundering on, hiding my needs and hoping against hope

for some sort of result to my efforts. This pistol is not mine. I

did borrow this, but I did not mean to use it, unless nature reached

the point where it could stand no more. I thought the time had come

to-night when I left your house, Mr. Sedgwick, suspected of theft.

It seemed the last straw; but--but--a woman's look has held me back.

I hesitated and--now you know the whole," said he; "that is, if you

can understand why it was more possible for me to brave the contumely

of such a suspicion than to open my pockets and disclose the crusts I

had hidden there."

"I can understand," said Mr. Sedgwick; "but the opportunity you have

given us for doing so must not be shared by others. We will

undertake your justification, but it must be made in our own way and

after the most careful consideration; eh, Mr. Blake?"

"Most assuredly; and if Mr. Clifford will present himself at my

office early in the morning, we will first breakfast and then talk

business."

Young Clifford could only hold out his hand, but when, his two

friends gone, he sat in contemplation of his changed prospects, one

word and one only left his lips, uttered in every inflection of

tenderness, hope, and joy. "Edith! Edith! Edith!"

It was the name of the sweet young girl who had shown her faith in

him at the moment when his heart was lowest and despair at its

culmination.

Midnight in Beauchamp Row

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

It was the last house in Beauchamp Row, and it stood several rods

away from its nearest neighbor. It was a pretty house in the

daytime, but owing to its deep, sloping roof and small bediamonded

windows it had a lonesome look at night, notwithstanding the crimson

hall-light which shone through the leaves of its vine-covered doorway.

Ned Chivers lived in it with his six months' married bride, and as he

was both a busy fellow and a gay one there were many evenings when

pretty Letty Chivers sat alone until near midnight.

She was of an uncomplaining spirit, however, and said little, though

there were times when both the day and evening seemed very long and

married life not altogether the paradise she had expected.

On this evening--a memorable evening for her, the 24th of December,

1911--she had expected her husband to remain with her, for it was not

only Christmas eve, but the night when, as manager of a large

manufacturing concern, he brought up from New York the money with

which to pay off the men on the next working day, and he never left

her when there was any unusual amount of money in the house. But

with the first glimpse she had of his figure coming up the road she

saw that for some reason it was not to be thus to-night, and,

indignant, alarmed almost, at the prospect of a lonesome evening

under such circumstances, she ran hastily down to the gate to meet

him, crying:

"Oh, Ned, you look so troubled I know you have only come home for a

hurried supper. But you cannot leave me to-night. Tennie" (their

only maid) "has gone for a holiday, and I never can stay in this

house alone with all that." She pointed to the small bag he carried,

which, as she knew, was filled to bursting with bank notes.

He certainly looked troubled. It is hard to resist the entreaty in a

young bride's uplifted face. But this time he could not help

himself, and he said:

"I am dreadfully sorry, but I must ride over to Fairbanks to-night.

Mr. Pierson has given me an imperative order to conclude a matter of

business there, and it is very important that it should be done. I

should lose my position if I neglected the matter, and no one but

Hasbrouck and Suffern knows that we keep the money in the house. I

have always given out that I intrusted it to Hale's safe over night."

"But I cannot stand it," she persisted. "You have never left me on

these nights. That is why I let Tennie go. I will spend the evening

at The Larches, or, better still, call in Mr. and Mrs. Talcott to

keep me company."

But her husband did not approve of her going out or of her having

company. The Larches was too far away, and as for Mr. and Mrs.

Talcott, they were meddlesome people, whom he had never liked;

besides, Mrs. Talcott was delicate, and the night threatened storm.

Let her go to bed like a good girl, and think nothing about the

money, which he would take care to put away in a very safe place.

"Or," said he, kissing her downcast face, "perhaps you would rather

hide it yourself; women always have curious ideas about such things."

"Yes, let me hide it," she entreated. "The money, I mean, not the

bag. Every one knows the bag. I should never dare to leave it in

that." And begging him to unlock it, she began to empty it with a

feverish haste that rather alarmed him, for he surveyed her anxiously

and shook his head as if he dreaded the effects of this excitement

upon her.

But as he saw no way out of the difficulty, he confined himself to

using such soothing words as were at his command, and then, humoring

her weakness, helped her to arrange the bills in the place she had

chosen, and restuffing the bag with old receipts till it acquired its

former dimensions, he put a few bills on top to make the whole look

natural, and, laughing at her white face, relocked the bag and put

the key back in his pocket.

"There, dear; a notable scheme and one that should relieve your mind

entirely!" he cried. "If any one should attempt burglary in my

absence and should succeed in getting into a house as safely locked

as this will be when I leave it, then trust to their being satisfied

when they see this booty, which I shall hide where I always hide

it--in the cupboard over my desk."

"And when will you be back?" she questioned, trembling in spite of

herself at these preparations.

"By one o'clock if possible. Certainly by two."

"And our neighbors go to bed at ten," she murmured. But the words

were low, and she was glad he did not hear them, for if it was his

duty to obey the orders he had received, then it was her duty to meet

the position in which it left her as bravely as she could.

At supper she was so natural that his face rapidly brightened, and it

was with quite an air of cheerfulness that he rose at last to lock up

the house and make such preparations as were necessary for his dismal

ride over the mountains to Fairbanks. She had the supper dishes to

wash up in Tennie's absence, and as she was a busy little housewife

she found herself singing a snatch of song as she passed back and

forth from dining-room to kitchen. He heard it, too, and smiled to

himself as he bolted the windows on the ground floor and examined the

locks of the three lower doors, and when he finally came into the

kitchen with his greatcoat on to give her his final kiss, he had but

one parting injunction to urge, and this was for her to lock and bolt

the front door after him and then forget the whole matter till she

heard his double knock at midnight.

She smiled and held up her ingenuous face.

"Be careful of yourself," she begged of him. "I hate this dark ride

for you, and on such a night too." And she ran with him to the door

to look out.

"It is certainly very dark," he responded, "but I'm to have one of

Brown's safest horses. Do not worry about me. I shall do well

enough, and so will you, too, or you are not the plucky little woman

I have always thought you."

She laughed, but there was a choking sound in her voice that made him

look at her again. But at sight of his anxiety she recovered

herself, and pointing to the clouds said earnestly:

"It's going to snow. Be careful as you ride by the gorge, Ned; it is

very deceptive there in a snowstorm."

But he vowed that it would not snow before morning and giving her one

final embrace he dashed down the path toward Brown's livery stable.

"Oh, what is the matter with me?" she murmured to herself as his

steps died out in the distance. "I never knew I was such a coward."

And she paused for a moment, looking up and down the road, as if in

despite of her husband's command she had the desperate idea of

running away to some neighbor.

But she was too loyal for that, and smothering a sigh she retreated

into the house. As she did so the first flakes fell of the storm

that was not to have come till morning.

It took her an hour to get her kitchen in order, and nine o'clock

struck before she was ready to sit down. She had been so busy she

had not noticed how the wind had increased or how rapidly the snow

was falling. But when she went to the front door for another glance

up and down the road she started back, appalled at the fierceness of

the gale and at the great pile of snow that had already accumulated

on the doorstep.

Too delicate to breast such a wind, she saw herself robbed of her

last hope of any companionship, and sighing heavily she locked and

bolted the door for the night and went back into her little

sitting-room, where a great fire was burning. Here she sat down, and

determined, since she must pass the evening alone, to do it as

cheerfully as possible, she began to sew. "Oh, what a Christmas

eve!" she thought, as a picture of other homes rose before her

eyes--homes in which husbands sat by wives and brothers by sisters;

and a great wave of regret poured over her and a longing for

something, she hardly dared say what, lest her unhappiness should

acquire a sting that would leave traces beyond the passing moment.

The room in which she sat was the only one on the ground floor except

the dining-room and kitchen. It therefore was used both as parlor

and sitting-room, and held not only her piano, but her husband's desk.

Communicating with it was the tiny dining-room. Between the two,

however, was an entry leading to a side entrance. A lamp was in this

entry, and she had left it burning, as well as the one in the

kitchen, that the house might look cheerful and as if the whole

family were at home.

She was looking toward this entry and wondering what made it seem so

dismally dark to her, when there came a faint sound from the door at

its further end.

Knowing that her husband must have taken peculiar pains with the

fastenings of this door, as it was the one toward the woods and

therefore most accessible to wayfarers, she sat where she was, with

all her faculties strained to listen. But no further sound came from

that direction, and after a few minutes of silent terror she was

allowing herself to believe that she had been deceived by her fears

when she suddenly heard the same sound at the kitchen door, followed

by a muffled knock.

Frightened now in good earnest, but still alive to the fact that the

intruder was as likely to be a friend as foe, she stepped to the

door, and with her hand on the lock stooped and asked boldly enough

who was there. But she received no answer, and more affected by this

unexpected silence than by the knock she had heard, she recoiled

farther and farther till not only the width of the kitchen, but the

dining-room also, lay between her and the scene of her alarm, when to

her utter contusion the noise shifted again to the side of the house,

and the door she thought so securely fastened swung violently open as

if blown in by a fierce gust, and she saw precipitated into the entry

the burly figure of a man covered with snow and shaking with the

violence of the storm that seemed at once to fill the house.

Her first thought was that it was her husband come back, but before

she could clear her eyes from the snow which had rushed tumultuously

in, he had thrown off his outer covering and she found herself face

to face with a man in whose powerful frame and cynical visage she saw

little to comfort her and much to surprise and alarm.

"Ugh!" was his coarse and rather familiar greeting. "A hard night,

missus! Enough to drive any man indoors. Pardon the liberty, but I

couldn't wait for you to lift the latch; the wind drove me right in."

"Was--was not the door locked?" she feebly asked, thinking he must

have staved it in with his foot, which was certainly well fitted for

such a task.

"Not much," he chuckled. "I s'pose you're too hospitable for that."

And his eyes passed from her face to the comfortable firelight

shining through the sitting-room.

"Is it refuge you want?" she demanded, suppressing as much as

possible all signs of fear.

"Sure, missus--what else! A man can't live in a gale like that,

specially after a tramp of twenty miles or more. Shall I shut the

door for you?" he asked, with a mixture of bravado and good nature

that frightened her more and more.

"I will shut it," she replied, with a half notion of escaping this

sinister stranger by a flight through the night.

But one glance into the swirling snowstorm deterred her, and making

the best of the alarming situation, she closed the door, but did not

lock it, being now more afraid of what was inside the house than of

anything left lingering without.

The man, whose clothes were dripping with water, watched her with a

cynical smile, and then, without any invitation, entered the

dining-room, crossed it, and moved toward the kitchen fire.

"Ugh! ugh! But it is warm here!" he cried, his nostrils dilating

with an animal-like enjoyment, that in itself was repugnant to her

womanly delicacy. "Do you know, missus, I shall have to stay here

all night? Can't go out in that gale again; not such a fool." Then

with a sly look at her trembling form and white face he insinuatingly

added, "All alone, missus?"

The suddenness with which this was put, together with the leer that

accompanied it, made her start. Alone? Yes, but should she

acknowledge it? Would it not be better to say her husband was

upstairs? The man evidently saw the struggle going on in her mind,

for he chuckled to himself and called out quite boldly:

"Never mind, missus; it's all right. Just give me a bit of cold meat

and a cup of tea or something, and we'll be very comfortable

together. You're a slender slip of a woman to be minding a house

like this. I'll keep you company if you don't mind, leastwise until

the storm lets up a bit, which ain't likely for some hours to come.

Rough night, missus, rough night."

"I expect my husband home at any time," she hastened to say. And

thinking she saw a change in the man's countenance at this she put on

quite an air of sudden satisfaction and bounded toward the front of

the house. "There! I think I hear him now," she cried.

Her motive was to gain time, and if possible to obtain the

opportunity of shifting the money from the place where she had first

put it into another and safer one. "I want to be able," she thought,

"to swear that I have no money with me in this house. If I can only

get it into my apron I will drop it outside the door into the snow

bank. It will be as safe there as in the vaults it came from." And

dashing into the sitting-room she made a feint of dragging down a

shawl from a screen, while she secretly filled her skirt with the

bills which had been put between some old pamphlets on the

bookshelves.

She could hear the man grumbling in the kitchen, but he did not

follow her front, and taking advantage of the moment's respite from

his none too encouraging presence she unbarred the door and

cheerfully called out her husband's name.

The ruse was successful. She was enabled to fling the notes where

the falling flakes would soon cover them from sight, and feeling more

courageous, now that the money was out of the house, she went slowly

back, saying she had made a mistake, and that it was the wind she had

heard.

The man gave a gruff but knowing guffaw and then resumed his watch

over her, following her steps as she proceeded to set him out a meal,

with a persistency that reminded her of a tiger just on the point of

springing. But the inviting look of the viands with which she was

rapidly setting the table soon distracted his attention, and allowing

himself one grunt of satisfaction, he drew up a chair and set himself

down to what to him was evidently a most savory repast.

"No beer? No ale? Nothing o' that sort, eh? Don't keep a bar?" he

growled, as his teeth closed on a huge hunk of bread.

She shook her head, wishing she had a little cold poison bottled up

in a tight-looking jug.

"Nothing but tea," she smiled, astonished at her own ease of manner

in the presence of this alarming guest.

"Then let's have that," he grumbled, taking the bowl she handed him,

with an odd look that made her glad to retreat to the other side of

the room.

"Jest listen to the howling wind," he went on between the huge

mouthfuls of bread and cheese with which he was gorging himself.

"But we're very comfortable, we two! We don't mind the storm, do we?"

Shocked by his familiarity and still more moved by the look of

mingled inquiry and curiosity with which his eyes now began to wander

over the walls and cupboards, she hurried to the window overlooking

her nearest neighbor, and, lifting the shade, peered out. A swirl of

snowflakes alone confronted her. She could neither see her

neighbors, nor could she be seen by them. A shout from her to them

would not be heard. She was as completely isolated as if the house

stood in the center of a desolate western plain.

"I have no trust but in God," she murmured as she came from the

window. And, nerved to meet her fate, she crossed to the kitchen.

It was now half-past ten. Two hours and a half must elapse before

her husband could possibly arrive.

She set her teeth at the thought and walked resolutely into the room.

"Are you done?" she asked.

"I am, ma'am," he leered. "Do you want me to wash the dishes? I

kin, and I will." And he actually carried his plate and cup to the

sink, where he turned the water upon them with another loud guffaw.

"If only his fancy would take him into the pantry," she thought, "I

could shut and lock the door upon him and hold him prisoner till Ned

gets back."

But his fancy ended its flight at the sink, and before her hopes had

fully subsided he was standing on the threshold of the sitting-room

door.

"It's pretty here," he exclaimed, allowing his eye to rove again over

every hiding-place within sight. "I wonder now--" He stopped. His

glance had fallen on the cupboard over her husband's desk.

"Well?" she asked, anxious to break the thread of his thought, which

was only too plainly mirrored in his eager countenance.

He started, dropped his eyes, and, turning, surveyed her with a

momentary fierceness. But, as she did not let her own glance quail,

but continued to meet his gaze with what she meant for an

ingratiating smile, he subdued this outward manifestation of passion,

and, chuckling to hide his embarrassment, began backing into the

entry, leering in evident enjoyment of the fears he caused.

However, once in the hall he hesitated for a long time; then slowly

made for the garment he had dropped on entering, and stooping, drew

from underneath its folds a wicked-looking stick. Giving a kick to

the coat, which sent it into a remote corner, he bestowed upon her

another smile, and still carrying the stick, went slowly and

reluctantly away into the kitchen.

"Oh, God Almighty, help me!" was her prayer.

There was nothing left for her now but to endure, so throwing herself

into a chair, she tried to calm the beating of her heart and summon

up courage for the struggle which she felt was before her. That he

had come to rob and only waited to take her off her guard she now

felt certain, and rapidly running over in her mind all the expedients

of self-defense, possible to one in her situation, she suddenly

remembered the pistol which Ned kept in his desk.

Oh, why had she not thought of it before! Why had she let herself

grow mad with terror when here, within reach of her hand, lay such a

means of self-defense? With a feeling of joy (she had always hated

pistols before and scolded Ned when he bought this one) she started

to her feet and slid her hand into the drawer. But it came back

empty. Ned had taken the weapon away with him.

For a moment, a surge of the bitterest feeling she had ever

experienced passed over her; then she called reason to her aid and

was obliged to acknowledge that the act was but natural, and that

from his standpoint he was much more likely to need it than herself.

But the disappointment, coming so soon after hope, unnerved her, and

she sank hack in her chair, giving herself up for lost.

How long she sat there with her eyes on the door through which she

momentarily expected her assailant to reappear, she never knew. She

was conscious only of a sort of apathy that made movement difficult

and even breathing a task. In vain she tried to change her thoughts.

In vain she tried to follow her husband in fancy over the

snow-covered roads and into the gorge of the mountains. Imagination

failed her at this point Do what she would, all was misty to her

mind's eye, and she could not see that wandering image. There was

blankness between his form and her, and no life or movement anywhere

but here in the scene of her terror.

Her eyes were on a strip of rug covering the entry floor, and so

strange was the condition of her mind that she found herself

mechanically counting the tassels finishing off its edge, growing

wroth over one that was worn, till she hated that sixth tassel and

mentally determined that if she ever outlived this night she would

strip them all off and be done with them.

The wind had lessened, but the air had grown cooler and the snow made

a sharp sound where it struck the panes. She felt it falling, though

she had cut off all view of it. It seemed to her that a pall was

settling over the world and that she would soon be smothered under

its folds.

Meanwhile no sound came from the kitchen. A dreadful sense of doom

was creeping upon her--a sense growing in intensity till she found

herself watching for the shadow of that lifted stick on the wall of

the entry and almost imagined she saw the tip of it appearing.

But it was the door which again blew in, admitting another man of so

threatening an aspect that she succumbed instantly before him and

forgot all her former fears in this new terror.

The second intruder was a negro of powerful frame and lowering

aspect, and as he came forward and stood in the doorway there was

observable in his fierce and desperate countenance no attempt at the

insinuation of the other, only a fearful resolution that made her

feel like a puppet before him, and drove her, almost without her

volition, to her knees.

"Money? Is it money you want?" was her desperate greeting. "If so,

here's my purse and here are my rings and watch. Take them and go."

But the stolid wretch did not even stretch out his hands. His eyes

went beyond her, and the mingled anxiety and resolve which he

displayed would have cowed a stouter heart than that of this poor

woman.

"Keep de trash," he growled. "I want de company's money. You've got

it--two thousand dollars. Show me where it is, that's all, and I

won't trouble you long after I close on it."

"But it's not in the house," she cried. "I swear it is not in the

house. Do you think Mr. Chivers would leave me here alone with two

thousand dollars to guard?"

But the negro, swearing that she lied, leaped into the room, and

tearing open the cupboard above her husband's desk, seized the bag

from the corner where they had put it.

"Hie brought it in this," he muttered, and tried to force the bag

open, but finding this impossible he took out a heavy knife and cut a

big hole in its side. Instantly there fell out the pile of old

receipts with which they had stuffed it, and seeing these he stamped

with rage, and flinging them at her in one great handful, rushed to

the drawers below, emptied them, and, finding nothing, attacked the

bookcase.

"The money is somewhere here. You can't fool me," he yelled. "I saw

the spot your eyes lit on when I first came into the room. Is it

behind these books?" he growled, pulling them out and throwing them

helter-skelter over the floor. "Women is smart in the hiding

business. Is it behind these books, I say?"

They had been, or rather had been placed between the books, but she

had taken them away, as we know, and he soon began to realize that

his search was bringing him nothing. Leaving the bookcase he gave

the books one kick, and seizing her by the arm, shook her with a

murderous glare on his strange and distorted features.

"Where's the money?" he hissed. "Tell me, or you are a goner."

He raised his heavy fist. She crouched and all over, when, with a

rush and cry, a figure dashed between them and he fell, struck down

by the very stick she had so long been expecting to see fall upon her

own head. The man who had been her terror for hours had at the

moment of need acted as her protector.

* * * * * * * *

She must have fainted, but if so, her unconsciousness was but

momentary, for when she woke again to her surroundings she found the

tramp still standing over her adversary.

"I hope you don't mind, ma'am," he said, with an air of humbleness

she certainly had not seen in him before, "but I think the man's

dead." And he stirred with his foot the heavy figure before him.

"Oh, no, no, no!" she cried. "That would be too fearful. He's

shocked, stunned; you cannot have killed him."

But the tramp was persistent. "I'm 'fraid I have," he said. "I done

it before. I'm powerful strong in the biceps. But I couldn't see a

man of that color frighten a lady like you. My supper was too warm

in me, ma'am. Shall I throw him outside the house?"

"Yes," she said, and then, "No; let us first be sure there is no life

in him." And, hardly knowing what she did, she stooped down and

peered into the glassy eyes of the prostrate man.

Suddenly she turned pale--no, not pale, but ghastly, and cowering

back, shook so that the tramp, into whose features a certain

refinement had passed since he had acted as her protector, thought

she had discovered life in those set orbs, and was stooping down to

make sure that this was so, when he saw her suddenly lean forward

and, impetuously plunging her hand into the negro's throat, tear open

the shirt and give one look at his bared breast.

It was white.

"O God! O God!" she moaned, and lifting the head in her two hands

she gave the motionless features a long and searching look. "Water!"

she cried. "Bring water." But before the now obedient tramp could

respond, she had torn off the woolly wig disfiguring the dead man's

head, and seeing the blond curls beneath had uttered such a shriek

that it rose above the gale and was heard by her distant neighbors.

It was the head and hair of her husband.

* * * * * * * *

They found out afterwards that he had contemplated this theft for

months; that each and every precaution necessary to the success of

this most daring undertaking had been made use of and that but for

the unexpected presence in the house of the tramp, he would doubtless

not only have extorted the money from his wife, but have so covered

up the deed by a plausible alibi as to have retained her confidence

and that of his employers.

Whether the tramp killed him out of sympathy for the defenseless

woman or in rage at being disappointed in his own plans has never

been determined. Mrs. Chivers herself thinks he was actuated by a

rude sort of gratitude.

The Little Steel Coils

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

"A lady to see you, sir."

I looked up and was at once impressed by the grace and beauty of the

person thus introduced to me.

"Is there anything I can do to serve you?" I asked, rising.

She cast me a childlike look full of trust and candor as she seated

herself in the chair I had pointed out.

"I believe so; I hope so," she earnestly assured me. "I--I am in

great trouble. I have just lost my husband--but it is not that. It

is the slip of paper I found on my dresser, and which--which--"

She was trembling violently and her words were fast becoming

incoherent. I calmed her and asked her to relate her story just as

it had happened; and after a few minutes of silent struggle she

succeeded in collecting herself sufficiently to respond with some

degree of connection and self-possession.

"I have been married six months. My name is Lucy Holmes. For the

last few weeks my husband and I have been living in an apartment

house on Fifty-ninth Street, and, as we had not a care in the world,

we were very happy till Mr. Holmes was called away on business to

Philadelphia. This was two weeks ago. Five days later I received an

affectionate letter from him, in which he promised to come back the

next day; and the news so delighted me that I accepted an invitation

to the theatre from some intimate friends of ours. The next morning

I naturally felt fatigued and rose late; but I was very cheerful, for

I expected my husband at noon. And now comes the perplexing mystery.

In the course of I dressing myself I stepped to my bureau, and seeing

a small newspaper slip attached to the cushion by a pin, I drew it

off and read it. It was a death notice, and my hair rose and my

limbs failed me as I took in its fatal and incredible words.

"'Died this day at the Colonnade, James Forsythe De Witt Holmes. New

York papers, please copy.'

"James Forsythe De Witt Holmes was my husband, and his last letter,

which was at that very moment lying beside the cushion, had been

dated from the Colonnade. Was I dreaming or under the spell of some

frightful hallucination which led me to misread the name on the slip

of paper before me? I could not determine. My head, throat, and

chest seemed bound about with iron, so that I could neither speak nor

breathe with freedom, and, suffering thus, I stood staring at this

demoniacal bit of paper which in an instant had brought the shadow of

death upon my happy life. Nor was I at all relieved when a little

later I flew with the notice into a neighbor's apartment, and praying

her to read it to me, found that my eyes had not deceived me and that

the name was indeed my husband's and the notice one of death.

"Not from my own mind but from hers came the first suggestion of

comfort.

"'It cannot be your husband who is meant,' said she; 'but some one of

the same name. Your husband wrote to you yesterday, and this person

must have been dead at least two days for the printed notice of his

decease to have reached New York. Some one has remarked the striking

similarity of names, and wishing to startle you, cut the slip out and

pinned it on your cushion.'

"I certainly knew of no one inconsiderate enough to do this, but the

explanation was so plausible, I at once embraced it and sobbed aloud

in my relief. But in the midst of my rejoicing I heard the bell ring

in my apartment, and, running thither, encountered a telegraph boy

holding in his outstretched hand the yellow envelope which so often

bespeaks death or disaster. The sight took my breath away.

Summoning my maid, whom I saw hastening toward me from an inner room,

I begged her to open the telegram for me. Sir, I saw in her face,

before she had read the first line, a confirmation of my very worst

fears. My husband was--"

The young widow, choked with her emotions, paused, recovered herself

for the second time, and then went on.

"I had better show you the telegram."

Taking it from her pocketbook, she held it toward me. I read it at a

glance. It was short, simple, and direct:

"Come at once. Your husband found dead in his room this morning.

Doctors say heart disease. Please telegraph."

"You see it says this morning," she explained, placing her delicate

finger on the word she so eagerly quoted. "That means a week ago

Wednesday, the same day on which the printed slip recording his death

was found on my cushion. Do you not see something very strange in

this?"

I did; but, before I ventured to express myself on this subject, I

desired her to tell me what she had learned in her visit to

Philadelphia.

Her answer was simple and straightforward.

"But little more than you find in this telegram. He died in his

room. He was found lying on the floor near the bell-button, which he

had evidently risen to touch. One hand was clenched on his chest,

but his face wore a peaceful look, as if death had come too suddenly

to cause him much suffering. His bed was undisturbed; he had died

before retiring, possibly in the act of packing his trunk, for it was

found nearly ready for the expressman. Indeed, there was every

evidence of his intention to leave on an early morning train. He had

even desired to be awakened at six o'clock; and it was his failure to

respond to the summons of the bellboy which led to so early a

discovery of his death. He had never complained of any distress in

breathing, and we had always considered him a perfectly healthy man;

but there was no reason for assigning any other cause than heart

failure to his sudden death, and so the burial certificate was made

out to that effect, and I was allowed to bring him home and bury him

in our vault at Woodlawn. But"--and here her earnestness dried up

the tears which had been flowing freely during this recital of her

husband's lonely death and sad burial--"do you not think an

investigation should be made into a death preceded by a false

obituary notice? For I found when I was in Philadelphia that no

paragraph such as I had found pinned to my cushion had been inserted

in any paper there, nor had any other man of the same name ever

registered at the Colonnade, much less died there."

"Have you this notice with you?" I asked.

She immediately produced it, and while I was glancing it over

remarked:

"Some persons would give a superstitious explanation to the whole

matter; think I had received a supernatural warning and been

satisfied with what they would call a spiritual manifestation. But I

have not a bit of such folly in my composition. Living hands set up

the type and printed the words which gave me so deathly a shock; and

hands, with a real purpose in them, cut it from the paper and pinned

it to my cushion for me to see when I woke on that fatal morning.

But whose hands? That is what I want you to discover."

I had caught the fever of her suspicions long before this and now

felt justified in showing my interest.

"First, let me ask," said I, "who has access to your rooms besides

your maid?"

"No one; absolutely no one."

"And what of her?"

"She is innocence herself. She is no common housemaid, but a girl my

mother brought up, who for love of me consents to do such work in the

household as my simple needs require."

"I should like to see her."

"There is no objection to your doing so; but you will gain nothing by

it. I have already talked the subject over with her a dozen times

and she is as much puzzled by it as I am myself. She says she cannot

see how any one could have found an entrance to my room during my

sleep, as the doors were all locked. Yet, as she very naturally

observes, some one must have done so, for she was in my bedroom

herself just before I returned from the theatre, and can swear, if

necessary, that no such slip of paper was to be seen on my cushion at

that time, for her duties led her directly to my bureau and kept her

there for full five minutes."

"And you believed her?" I suggested.

"Implicitly."

"In what direction, then, do your suspicions turn?"

"Alas! in no direction. That is the trouble. I don't know whom to

mistrust. It was because I was told that you had the credit of

seeing light where others can see nothing but darkness that I have

sought your aid in this emergency. For the uncertainty surrounding

this matter is killing me and will make my sorrow quite unendurable

if I cannot obtain relief from it."

"I do not wonder," I began, struck by the note of truth in her tones.

"And I shall certainly do what I can for you. But before we go any

further, let us examine this scrap of newspaper and see what we can

make out of it."

I had already noted two or three points in connection with it to

which I now proceeded to direct her attention.

"Have you compared this notice," I pursued, "with such others as you

find every day in the papers?"

"No," was her eager answer. "Is it not like them all--"

"Read," was my quiet interruption. "'On this day at the

Colonnade'--on what day? The date is usually given in all the bona

fide notices I have seen."

"Is it?" she asked, her eyes, moist with unshed tears, opening widely

in her astonishment.

"Look in the papers on your return home and see. Then the print.

Observe that the type is identical on both sides of this make-believe

clipping, while in fact there is always a perceptible difference

between that used in the obituary column and that to be found in the

columns devoted to other matter. Notice also," I continued, holding

up the scrap of paper between her and the light, "that the alignment

on one side is not exactly parallel with that on the other; a

discrepancy which would not exist if both sides had been printed on a

newspaper press. These facts lead me to conclude, first, that the

effort to match the type exactly was the mistake of a man who tried

to do too much; and, secondly, that one of the sides at least,

presumably that containing the obituary notice, was printed on a

hand-press, on the blank side of a piece of galley proof picked up in

some newspaper office."

"Let me see." And stretching out her hand with the utmost eagerness,

she took the slip and turned it over. Instantly a change took place

in her countenance. She sank back in her seat and a blush of

manifest confusion suffused her cheeks. "Oh!" she exclaimed; "what

will you think of me! I brought this scrap of print into the house

_myself_, and it was _I_ who pinned it on the cushion with my own

hands! I remember it now. The sight of those words recalls the

whole occurrence."

"Then there is one mystery less for us to solve," I remarked,

somewhat dryly.

"Do you think so?" she protested, with a deprecatory look. "For me

the mystery deepens, and becomes every minute more serious. It is

true that I brought this scrap of newspaper into the house, and that

it had, then as now, the notice of my husband's death upon it, but

the time of my bringing it in was Tuesday night, and he was not found

dead till Wednesday morning."

"A discrepancy worth noting," I remarked.

"Involving a mystery of some importance," she concluded.

I agreed to that.

"And since we have discovered how the slip came into your room, we

can now proceed to the clearing up of this mystery," I observed.

"You can, of course, inform me where you procured this clipping which

you say you brought into the house?"

"Yes. You may think it strange, but when I alighted from the

carriage that night, a man on the sidewalk put this tiny scrap of

paper into my hand. It was done so mechanically that it made no more

impression on my mind than the thrusting of an advertisement upon me.

Indeed, I supposed it was an advertisement, and I only wonder that I

retained it in my hand at all. But that I did do so, and that, in a

moment of abstraction, I went so far as to pin it to my cushion, is

evident from the fact that a vague memory remains in my mind of

having read this recipe which you see printed on the reverse side of

the paper."

"It was the recipe, then, and not the obituary notice which attracted

your attention the night before?"

"Probably, but in pinning it to the cushion, it was the obituary

notice that chanced to come uppermost. Oh, why should I not have

remembered this till now! Can you understand my forgetting a matter

of so much importance?"

"Yes," I allowed, after a momentary consideration of her ingenuous

countenance. "The words you read in the morning were so startling

that they disconnected themselves from those you had carelessly

glanced at the night before."

"That is it," she replied; "and since then I have had eyes for the

one side only. How could I think of the other? But who could have

printed this thing and who was the man who put it into my hand? He

looked like a beggar, but-- Oh!" she suddenly exclaimed, her cheeks

flushing scarlet and her eyes flashing with a feverish, almost

alarming glitter.

"What is it now?" I asked. "Another recollection?"

"Yes." She spoke so low I could hardly hear her. "He coughed and--"

"And what" I encouragingly suggested, seeing that she was under some

new and overwhelming emotion.

"That cough had a familiar sound, now that I think of it. It was

like that of a friend who-- But no, no; I will not wrong him by any

false surmises. He would stoop to much, but not to that; yet--"

The flush on her cheeks had died away, but the two vivid spots which

remained showed the depth of her excitement.

"Do you think," she suddenly asked, "that a man out of revenge might

plan to frighten me by a false notice of my husband's death, and that

God to punish him, made the notice a prophecy?"

"I think a man influenced by the spirit of revenge might do almost

anything," I answered, purposely ignoring the latter part of her

question.

"But I always considered him a good man. At least I never looked

upon him as a wicked one. Every other beggar we meet has a cough;

and yet," she added after a moment's pause, "if it was not he who

gave me this mortal shock, who was it? He is the only person in the

world I ever wronged."

"Had you not better tell me his name?" I suggested.

"No, I am in too great doubt. I should hate to do him a second

injury."

"You cannot injure him if he is innocent. My methods are very safe."

"If I could forget his cough! but it had that peculiar catch in it

that I remembered so well in the cough of John Graham. I did not pay

any especial heed to it at the time. Old days and old troubles were

far enough from my thoughts; but now that my suspicions are raised,

that low, choking sound comes back to me in a strangely persistent

way, and I seem to see a well-remembered form in the stooping figure

of this beggar. Oh, I hope the good God will forgive me if I

attribute to this disappointed man a wickedness he never committed."

"Who is John Graham?" I urged, "and what was the nature of the wrong

you did him?"

She rose, cast me one appealing glance, and perceiving that I meant

to have her whole story, turned toward the fire and stood warming her

feet before the hearth, with her face turned away from my gaze.

"I was once engaged to marry him," she began. "Not because I loved

him, but because we were very poor--I mean my mother and myself--and

he had a home and seemed both good and generous. The day came when

we were to be married--this was in the West, way out in Kansas--and I

was even dressed for the wedding, when a letter came from my uncle

here, a rich uncle, very rich, who had never had anything to do with

my mother since her marriage, and in it he promised me fortune and

everything else desirable in life if I would come to him,

unencumbered by any foolish ties. Think of it! And I within half an

hour of marriage with a man I had never loved and now suddenly hated.

The temptation was overwhelming, and, heartless as my conduct may

appear to you, I succumbed to it. Telling my lover that I had

changed my mind, I dismissed the minister when he came, and announced

my intention of proceeding East as soon as possible. Mr. Graham was

simply paralyzed by his disappointment, and during the few days which

intervened before my departure, I was haunted by his face, which was

like that of a man who had died from some overwhelming shock. But

when I was once free of the town, especially after I arrived in New

York, I forgot alike his misery and himself. Everything I saw was so

beautiful! Life was so full of charm, and my uncle so delighted with

me and everything I did! Then there was James Holmes, and after I

had seen him--But I cannot talk of that. We loved each other, and

under the surprise of this new delight how could I be expected to

remember the man I had left behind me in that barren region in which

I had spent my youth? But he did not forget the misery I had caused

him. He followed me to New York; and on the morning I was married

found his way into the house, and mixing with the wedding guests,

suddenly appeared before me just as I was receiving the

congratulations of my friends. At sight of him I experienced all the

terror he had calculated upon causing, but remembering our old

relations and my new position, I assumed an air of apparent

haughtiness. This irritated John Graham. Flushing with anger, and

ignoring my imploring look, he cried peremptorily, 'Present me to

your husband!' and I felt forced to present him. But his name

produced no effect upon Mr. Holmes. I had never told him of my early

experience with this man, and John Graham, perceiving this, cast me a

bitter glance of disdain and passed on, muttering between his teeth,

'False to me and false to him! Your punishment be upon you!' and I

felt as if I had been cursed."

She stopped here, moved by emotions readily to be understood. Then

with quick impetuosity she caught up the thread of her story and went

on.

"That was six months ago; and again I forgot. My mother died and my

husband soon absorbed my every thought. How could I dream that this

man, who was little more than a memory to me and scarcely that, was

secretly planning mischief against me? Yet this scrap about which we

have talked so much may have been the work of his hands; and even my

husband's death--"

She did not finish, but her face, which was turned toward me, spoke

volumes.

"Your husband's death shall be inquired into," I assured her.

And she, exhausted by the excitement of her discoveries, asked that

she might be excused from further discussion of the subject at that

time.

As I had no wish, myself, to enter any more fully into the matter

just then, I readily acceded to her request, and the pretty widow

left me.

Obviously the first fact to be settled was whether Mr. Holmes had

died from purely natural causes. I accordingly busied myself the

next few days with the question, and was fortunate enough to so

interest the proper authorities that an order was issued for the

exhumation and examination of the body.

The result was disappointing. No traces of poison were to be found

in the stomach nor was there to be seen on the body any mark of

violence with the exception of a minute prick upon one of his thumbs.

This speck was so small that it escaped every eye but my own.

The authorities assuring the widow that the doctor's certificate

given her in Philadelphia was correct, the body was again interred.

But I was not satisfied; and confident that this death had not been a

natural one, I entered upon one of those secret and prolonged

investigations which for so many years have constituted the pleasure

of my life. First, I visited the Colonnade in Philadelphia, and

being allowed to see the room in which Mr. Holmes died, went through

it carefully. As it had not been used since that time I had some

hopes of coming upon a clue.

But it was a vain hope, and the only result of my journey to this

place was the assurance I received that the gentleman had spent the

entire evening preceding his death in his own room, where he had been

brought several letters and one small package, the latter coming by

mail. With this one point gained--if it was a point--I went back to

New York.

Calling on Mrs. Holmes, I asked her if, while her husband was away,

she had sent him anything besides letters, and upon her replying to

the contrary, requested to know if in her visit to Philadelphia she

had noted among her husband's effects anything that was new or

unfamiliar to her. "For he received a package while there," I

explained, "and though its contents may have been perfectly harmless,

it is just as well for us to be assured of this before going any

further."

"Oh, you think, then, he was really the victim of some secret

violence."

"We have no proof of it," I said. "On the contrary, we are assured

that he died from natural causes. But the incident of the newspaper

slip outweighs, in my mind, the doctor's conclusions, and until the

mystery surrounding that obituary notice has been satisfactorily

explained by its author I shall hold to the theory that your husband

has been made away with in some strange and seemingly unaccountable

manner, which it is our duty to bring to light."

"You are right! You are right! Oh, John Graham!"

She was so carried away by this plain expression of my belief that

she forgot the question I had put to her.

"You have not said whether or not you found anything among your

husband's effects that can explain this mystery," I suggested.

She at once became attentive.

"Nothing," said she; "his trunks were already packed and his bag

nearly so. There were a few things lying about the room which I saw

thrust into the latter. Would you like to look through them? I have

not had the heart to open the bag since I came back."

As this was exactly what I wished, I said as much, and she led me

into a small room, against the wall of which stood a trunk with a

traveling-bag on top of it. Opening the latter, she spread the

contents out on the trunk.

"I know all these things," she sadly murmured, the tears welling in

her eyes.

"This?" I inquired, lifting up a bit of coiled wire with two or three

rings dangling from it.

"No; why, what is that?"

"It looks like a puzzle of some kind."

"Then it is of no consequence. My husband was forever amusing

himself over some such contrivance. All his friends knew how well he

liked these toys and frequently sent them to him. This one evidently

reached him from Philadelphia."

Meanwhile I was eying the bit of wire curiously. It was undoubtedly

a puzzle, but it had appendages to it that I did not understand.

"It is more than ordinarily complicated," I observed, moving the

rings up and down in a vain endeavor to work them off.

"The better he would like it," she said.

I kept working with the rings. Suddenly I gave a painful start. A

little prong in the handle of the toy had started out and pierced me.

"You had better not handle it," said I, and laid it down. But the

next moment I took it up again and put it in my pocket. The prick

made by this treacherous bit of mechanism was in or near the same

place on my thumb as the one I had noticed on the hand of the

deceased Mr. Holmes.

There was a fire in the room, and before proceeding further I

cauterized that prick with the end of a red-hot poker. Then I made

my adieux to Mrs. Holmes and went immediately to a chemist friend of

mine.

"Test the end of this bit of steel for me," said I. "I have reason

to believe it carries with it a deadly poison."

He took the toy, promising to subject it to every test possible and

let me know the result. Then I went home. I felt ill, or imagined I

did, which under the circumstances was almost as bad.

Next day, however, I was quite well, with the exception of a certain

inconvenience in my thumb. But not till the following week did I

receive the chemist's report. It overthrew my whole theory. He

found nothing, and returned me the bit of steel.

But I was not convinced.

"I will hunt up this John Graham," thought I, "and study him."

But this was not so easy a task as it may appear. As Mrs. Holmes

possessed no clue to the whereabouts of her quondam lover, I had

nothing to aid me in my search for him, save her rather vague

description of his personal appearance and the fact that he was

constantly interrupted in speaking by a low, choking cough. However,

my natural perseverance carried me through. After seeing and

interviewing a dozen John Grahams without result, I at last lit upon

a man of that name who presented a figure of such vivid unrest and

showed such a desperate hatred of his fellows, that I began to

entertain hopes of his being the person I was in search of. But

determined to be sure of this before proceeding further, I confided

my suspicions to Mrs. Holmes, and induced her to accompany me down to

a certain spot on the "Elevated" from which I had more than once seen

this man go by to his usual lounging place in Printing House Square.

She showed great courage in doing this, for she had such a dread of

him that she was in a state of nervous excitement from the moment she

left her house, feeling sure that she would attract his attention and

thus risk a disagreeable encounter. But she might have spared

herself these fears. He did not even glance up in passing us, and it

was mainly by his walk she recognized him. But she did recognize

him; and this nerved me at once to set about the formidable task of

fixing upon him a crime which was not even admitted as a fact by the

authorities.

He was a man-about-town, living, to all appearances, by his wits. He

was to be seen mostly in the downtown portions of the city, standing

for hours in front of some newspaper office, gnawing at his

finger-ends, and staring at the passers-by with a hungry look

alarming to the timid and provoking alms from the benevolent.

Needless to say that he rejected the latter expression of sympathy

with angry contempt.

His face was long and pallid, his cheek-bones high, and mouth bitter

and resolute in expression. He wore neither heard nor mustache, but

made up for their lack by an abundance of light-brown hair, which

hung very nearly to his shoulders. He stooped in standing, but as

soon, as he moved, showed decision and a certain sort of pride which

caused him to hold his head high and his body more than usually

erect. With all these good points his appearance was decidedly

sinister, and I did not wonder that Mrs. Holmes feared him.

My next move was to accost him. Pausing before the doorway in which

he stood, I addressed him some trivial question. He answered me with

sufficient politeness, but with a grudging attention which betrayed

the hold which his own thoughts had upon him. He coughed while

speaking, and his eye, which for a moment rested on mine, produced an

impression upon me for which I was hardly prepared, great as was my

prejudice against him. There was such an icy composure in it; the

composure of an envenomed nature conscious of its superiority to all

surprises. As I lingered to study him more closely, the many

dangerous qualities of the man became more and more apparent to me;

and convinced that to proceed further without deep and careful

thought would be to court failure where triumph would set me up for

life, I gave up all present attempt at enlisting him in conversation

and went away in an inquiring and serious mood.

In fact, my position was a peculiar one, and the problem I had set

for myself one of unusual difficulty. Only by means of some

extraordinary device such as is seldom resorted to by the police of

this or any other nation, could I hope to arrive at the secret of

this man's conduct, and triumph in a matter which to all appearance

was beyond human penetration.

But what device? I knew of none, nor through two days and nights of

strenuous thought did I receive the least light on, the subject.

Indeed, my mind seemed to grow more and more confused the more I

urged it into action. I failed to get inspiration indoors or out;

and feeling my health suffer from the constant irritation of my

recurring disappointment, I resolved to take a day off and carry

myself and my perplexities into the country.

I did so. Governed by an impulse which I did not then understand, I

went to a small town in New Jersey and entered the first house on

which I saw the sign "Room to Let." The result was most fortunate.

No sooner had I crossed the threshold of the neat and homely

apartment thrown open to my use, than it recalled a room in which I

had slept two years before and in which I had read a little book I

was only too glad to remember at this moment. Indeed, it seemed as

if a veritable inspiration had come to me through this recollection,

for though the tale to which I allude was a simple child's story

written for moral purposes, it contained an idea which promised to be

invaluable to me at this juncture. Indeed, by means of it, I

believed myself to have solved the problem that was puzzling me, and,

relieved beyond expression, I paid for the night's lodging I had now

determined to forego, and returned immediately to New York, having

spent just fifteen minutes in the town where I had received this

happy inspiration.

My first step on entering the city was to order a dozen steel coils

made similar to the one which I still believed answerable for James

Holmes's death. My next to learn as far as possible all of John

Graham's haunts and habits. At a week's end I had the springs and

knew almost as well as he did himself where he was likely to be found

at all times of the day and night. I immediately acted upon this

knowledge. Assuming a slight disguise, I repeated my former stroll

through Printing House Square, looking into each doorway as I passed.

John Graham was in one of them, staring in his old way at the passing

crowd, but evidently seeing nothing but the images formed by his own

disordered brain. A manuscript roll stuck out of his breast-pocket,

and from the way his nervous fingers fumbled with it, I began to

understand the restless glitter of his eyes, which were as full of

wretchedness as any eyes I have ever seen.

Entering the doorway where he stood, I dropped at his feet one of the

small steel coils with which I was provided. He did not see it.

Stopping near him, I directed his attention to it by saying:

"Pardon me, but did I not see something drop out of your hand?"

He started, glanced at the seemingly inoffensive toy I had pointed

out, and altered so suddenly and so vividly that it became instantly

apparent that the surprise I had planned for him was fully as keen

and searching a one as I had anticipated. Recoiling sharply, he gave

me a quick look, then glanced down again at his feet as if half

expecting to find the object of his terror gone. But, perceiving it

still lying there, he crushed it viciously with his heel, and

uttering some incoherent words dashed impetuously from the building.

Confident that he would regret this hasty impulse and return, I

withdrew a few steps and waited. And sure enough, in less than five

minutes he came slinking back. Picking up the coil with more than

one sly look about, he examined it closely. Suddenly he gave a sharp

cry and went staggering out. Had he discovered that the seeming

puzzle possessed the same invisible spring which had made the one

handled by James Holmes so dangerous?

Certain as to the place he would be found next, I made a short cut to

an obscure little saloon in Nassau Street, where I took up my stand

in a spot convenient for seeing without being seen. In ten minutes

he was standing at the bar asking for a drink.

"Whisky!" he cried. "Straight."

It was given him, but as he set the empty glass down on the counter

he saw lying before him another of the steel springs, and was so

confounded by the sight that the proprietor, who had put it there at

my instigation, thrust out his hand toward him as if half afraid he

would fall.

"Where did that--that thing come from?" stammered John Graham,

ignoring the other's gesture and pointing with a trembling hand at

the insignificant bit of wire between them.

"Didn't it drop from your coat-pocket?" inquired the proprietor. "It

wasn't lying here before you came in."

With a horrible oath the unhappy man turned and fled from the place.

I lost sight of him after that for three hours, then I suddenly came

upon him again. He was walking uptown with a set purpose in his face

that made him look more dangerous than ever. Of course I followed

him, expecting him to turn towards Fifty-ninth Street, but at the

corner of Madison Avenue and Forty-seventh Street he changed his mind

and dashed toward Third Avenue. At Park Avenue he faltered and again

turned north, walking for several blocks as if the fiends were behind

him. I began to think that he was but attempting to walk off his

excitement, when, at a sudden rushing sound in the cut beside us, he

stopped and trembled. An express train was shooting by. As it

disappeared in the tunnel beyond, he looked about him with a blanched

face and wandering eye: but his glance did not turn my way, or, if it

did, he failed to attach any meaning to my near presence.

He began to move on again and this time toward the bridge spanning

the cut. I followed him very closely. In the center of it he paused

and looked down at the track beneath him. Another train was

approaching. As it came near he trembled from head to foot, and,

catching at the railing against which he leaned, was about to make a

quick move forward when a puff of smoke arose from below and sent him

staggering backward, gasping with a terror I could hardly understand

till I saw that the smoke had taken the form of a spiral and was

sailing away before him in what to his disordered imagination must

have looked like a gigantic image of the coil with which twice before

on this day he had found himself confronted.

It may have been chance and it may have been providence; but

whichever it was it saved him. He could not face that semblance of

his haunting thought; and turning away he cowered down on the

neighboring curbstone, where he sat for several minutes, with his

head buried in his hands; when he arose again he was his own daring

and sinister self. Knowing that he was now too much master of his

faculties to ignore me any longer, I walked quickly away and left

him. I knew where he would be at six o'clock and had already engaged

a table at the same restaurant. It was seven, however, before he put

in an appearance, and by this time he was looking more composed.

There was a reckless air about him, however, which was perhaps only

noticeable to me; for none of the habitués of this especial

restaurant were entirely without it; wild eyes and unkempt hair being

in the majority.

I let him eat. The dinner he ordered was simple and I had not the

heart to interrupt his enjoyment of it.

But when he had finished and came to pay, then I allowed the shock to

come. Under the bill which the waiter laid at the side of his plate

was the inevitable steel coil; and it produced even more than its

usual effect. I own I felt sorry for him.

He did not dash from the place, however, as he had from the liquor

saloon. A spirit of resistance had seized him and he demanded to

know where this object of his fear had come from. No one could tell

him (or would). Whereupon he began to rave and would certainly have

done himself or somebody else an injury if he had not been calmed by

a man almost as wild-looking as himself. Paying his bill, but vowing

he would never enter the place again, he went out, clay white, but

with the swaggering air of a man who had just asserted himself.

He drooped, however, as soon as he reached the street, and I had no

difficulty in following him to a certain gambling den, where he

gained three dollars and lost five. From there he went to his

lodgings in West Tenth Street.

I did not follow him. He had passed through many deep and wearing

emotions since noon, and I had not the heart to add another to them.

But late the next day I returned to this house and rang the bell. It

was already dusk, but there was light enough for me to notice the

unrepaired condition of the iron railings on either side of the old

stoop and to compare this abode of decayed grandeur with the spacious

and elegant apartment in which pretty Mrs. Holmes mourned the loss of

her young husband. Had any such comparison ever been made by the

unhappy John Graham, as he hurried up these battered steps into the

dismal halls beyond?

In answer to my summons there came to the door a young woman to whom

I had but to intimate my wish to see Mr. Graham for her to let me in

with the short announcement:

"Top floor, back room! Door open, he's out; door shut, he's in."

As an open door meant liberty to enter, I lost no time in following

the direction of her finger, and presently found myself in a low

attic chamber overlooking an acre of roofs. A fire had been lighted

in the open grate, and the flickering red beams danced on ceiling and

walls with a cheeriness greatly in contrast to the nature of the

business which had led me there. As they also served to light the

room, I proceeded to make myself at home; and drawing up a chair, sat

down at the fireplace in such a way as to conceal myself from any one

entering the door.

In less than half an hour he came in.

He was in a state of high emotion. His face was flushed and his eyes

burning. Stepping rapidly forward, he flung his hat on the table in

the middle of the room, with a curse that was half cry and half

groan. Then he stood silent and I had an opportunity of noting how

haggard he had grown in the short time which had elapsed since I had

seen him last. But the interval of his inaction was short, and in a

moment he flung up his arms with a loud "Curse her!" that rang

through the narrow room and betrayed the source of his present

frenzy. Then he again stood still, grating his teeth and working his

hands in a way terribly suggestive of the murderer's instinct. But

not for long. He saw something that attracted his attention on the

table, a something upon which my eyes had long before been fixed, and

starting forward with a fresh and quite different display of emotion,

he caught up what looked like a roll of manuscript and began to tear

it open.

"Back again! Always back!" wailed from his lips; and he gave the

roll a toss that sent from its midst a small object which he no

sooner saw than he became speechless and reeled back. It was another

of the steel coils.

"Good God!" fell at last from his stiff and working lips. "Am I mad

or has the devil joined in the pursuit against me? I cannot eat, I

cannot drink, but this diabolical spring starts up before me. It is

here, there, everywhere. The visible sign of my guilt; the--the--"

He had stumbled back upon my chair, and turning, saw me.

I was on my feet at once, and noting that he was dazed by the shock

of my presence, I slid quietly between him and the door.

The movement roused him. Turning upon me with a sarcastic smile in

which was concentrated the bitterness of years, he briefly said:

"So I am caught! Well, there has to be an end to men as well as to

things, and I am ready for mine. She turned me away from her door

to-day, and after the hell of that moment I don't much fear any

other."

"You had better not talk," I admonished him. "All that falls from

you now will only tell against you on your trial."

He broke into a harsh laugh. "And do you think I care for that?

That having been driven by a woman's perfidy into crime I am going to

bridle my tongue and keep down the words which are my only safeguard

from insanity? No, no; while my miserable breath lasts I will curse

her, and if the halter is to cut short my words, it shall be with her

name blistering my lips."

I attempted to speak, but he would not give me an opportunity. The

passion of weeks had found vent and he rushed on recklessly:

"I went to her house to-day. I wanted to see her in her widow's

weeds; I wanted to see her eyes red with weeping over a grief which

owed its bitterness to me. But she would not grant me admittance.

She had me thrust from her door, and I shall never know how deeply

the iron has sunk into her soul. But"--and here his face showed a

sudden change--"I shall see her if I am tried for murder. She will

be in the court room--on the witness stand--"

"Doubtless," I interjected; but his interruption came quickly and

with vehement passion.

"Then I am ready. Welcome trial, conviction, death, even. To

confront her eye to eye is all I wish. She shall never forget it,

never!"

"Then you do not deny--" I began.

"I deny nothing," he returned, and held out his hands with a grim

gesture. "How can I, when there falls from everything I touch the

devilish thing which took away the life I hated?"

"Have you anything more to say or do before you leave these rooms?" I

asked.

He shook his head, and then, bethinking himself, pointed to the roll

of paper which he had flung on the table.

"Burn that!" he cried.

I took up the roll and looked at it. It was the manuscript of a poem

in blank verse.

"I have been with it into a dozen newspaper and magazine offices," he

explained with great bitterness. "Had I succeeded in getting a

publisher for it I might have forgotten my wrongs and tried to build

up a new life on the ruins of the old. But they would not have it,

none of them; so I say, burn it! that no memory of me may remain in

this miserable world."

"Keep to the facts!" I severely retorted. "It was while carrying

this poem from one newspaper to another that you secured that bit of

print upon the blank side of which yourself printed the obituary

notice with which you savored your revenge upon the woman who had

disappointed you."

"You know that? Then you know where I got the poison with which I

tipped the silly toy with which that weak man fooled away his life?"

"No," said I, "I do not know where you got it. I merely know it was

no common poison bought at a druggist's, or from any ordinary

chemist."

"It was woorali; the deadly, secret woorali. I got it from--but that

is another man's secret. You will never hear from me anything that

will compromise a friend. I got it, that is all. One drop, but it

killed my man."

The satisfaction, the delight, which he threw into these words are

beyond description. As they left his lips a jet of flame from the

neglected fire shot up and threw his figure for one instant into bold

relief upon the lowering ceiling; then it died out, and nothing but

the twilight dusk remained in the room and on the countenance of this

doomed and despairing man.

The Staircase at Heart's Delight

BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN

In the spring of 18--, the attention of the New York police was

attracted by the many cases of well-known men found drowned in the

various waters surrounding the lower portion of our great city.

Among these may be mentioned the name of Elwood Henderson, the noted

tea merchant, whose remains were washed ashore at Redhook Point; and

of Christopher Bigelow, who was picked up off Governor's Island after

having been in the water for five days, and of another well-known

millionaire whose name I cannot now recall, but who, I remember, was

seen to walk toward the East River one March evening, and was not met

with again till the 5th of April, when his body floated into one of

the docks near Peck's Slip.

As it seemed highly improbable that there should have been a

concerted action among so many wealthy and distinguished men to end

their lives within a few weeks of each other, and all by the same

method of drowning, we soon became suspicious that a more serious

verdict than that of suicide should have been rendered in the case of

Henderson, Bigelow, and the other gentleman I have mentioned. Yet

one fact, common to all these cases, pointed so conclusively to

deliberate intention on the part of the sufferers that we hesitated

to take action.

This was, that upon the body of each of the above-mentioned persons

there were found, not only valuables in the shape of money and

jewelry, but papers and memoranda of a nature calculated to fix the

identity of the drowned man, in case the water should rob him of his

personal characteristics. Consequently, we could not ascribe these

deaths to a desire for plunder on the part of some unknown person.

I was a young man in those days, and full of ambition. So, though I

said nothing, I did not let this matter drop when the others did, but

kept my mind persistently upon it and waited, with odd results as you

will hear, for another victim to be reported at police headquarters.

Meantime I sought to discover some bond or connection between the

several men who had been found drowned, which would serve to explain

their similar fate. But all my efforts in this direction were

fruitless. There was no bond between them, and the matter remained

for a while an unsolved mystery.

Suddenly one morning a clue was placed, not in my hands, but in those

of a superior official who at that time exerted a great influence

over the whole force. He was sitting in his private room, when there

was ushered into his presence a young man of a dissipated, but not

unprepossessing appearance, who, after a pause of marked

embarrassment, entered upon the following story:

"I don't know whether or no I should offer an excuse for the

communication I am about to make; but the matter I have to relate is

simply this: Being hard up last night (for though a rich man's son I

often lack money), I went to a certain pawnshop in the Bowery where I

had been told I could raise money on my prospects. This place--you

may see it some time, so I will not enlarge upon it--did not strike

me favorably; but, being very anxious for a certain definite sum of

money, I wrote my name in a book which was brought to me from some

unknown quarter and proceeded to follow the young woman who attended

me into what she was pleased to call her good master's private office.

"He may have been a good master, but he was anything but a good man.

In short, sir, when he found out who I was, and how much I needed

money, he suggested that I should make an appointment with my father

at a place he called Groll's in Grand Street, where, said he, 'your

little affair will be arranged, and you made a rich man within thirty

days. That is,' he slyly added, 'unless your father has already made

a will, disinheriting you.'

"I was shocked, sir, shocked beyond all my powers of concealment, not

so much at his words, which I hardly understood, as at his looks,

which had a world of evil suggestion in them; so I raised my fist and

would have knocked him down, only that I found two young fellows at

my elbows, who held me quiet for five minutes, while the old fellow

talked to me. He asked me if I came to him on a fool's errand or

really to get money; and when I admitted that I had cherished hopes

of obtaining a clear two thousand dollars from him, he coolly replied

that he knew of but one way in which I could hope to get such an

amount, and that if I was too squeamish to adopt it, I had made a

mistake in coming to his shop, which was no missionary institution,

etc., etc.

"Not wishing to irritate him, for there was menace in his eye, I

asked, with a certain weak show of being sorry for my former heat,

whereabouts in Grand Street I should find this Groll.

"The retort was quick. 'Groll is not his name,' said he, 'and Grand

Street is not where you are to go to find him. I threw out a bait to

see if you would snap at it, but I find you timid, and therefore

advise you to drop the matter entirely.'

"I was quite willing to do so, and answered him to this effect;

whereupon, with a side glance I did not understand, but which made me

more or less uneasy in regard to his intentions toward me, he

motioned to the men who held my arms to let go their hold, which they

at once did.

"'We have your signature,' growled the old man as I went out. 'If

you peach on us or trouble us in any way we will show it to your

father and that will put an end to all your hopes of future fortune.'

Then raising his voice, he shouted to the girl in the outer office,

'Let the young man see what he has signed.'

"She smiled and again brought forward the book in which I had so

recklessly placed my name, and there at the top of the page I read

these words: 'For moneys received, I agree to notify Rube Goodman,

within the month, of the death of my father, so that he may recover

from me, without loss of time, the sum of ten thousand dollars as his

part of the amount I am bound to receive as my father's heir.'

"The sight of these lines knocked me hollow. But I am less of a

coward morally than physically, and I determined to acquaint my

father at once with what I had done, and get his advice as to whether

or not I should inform the police of my adventure. He heard me with

more consideration than I expected, but insisted that I should

immediately make known to you my experience in this Bowery

pawnbroker's shop."

The officer, highly interested, took down the young man's statement

in writing, and, after getting a more accurate description of the

house itself, allowed his visitor to go.

Fortunately for me, I was in the building at the time, and was able

to respond when a man was called up to investigate this matter.

Thinking that I saw a connection between it and the various

mysterious deaths of which I have previously spoken, I entered into

the affair with much spirit. But, wishing to be sure that my

possibly unwarranted conclusions were correct, I took pains to

inquire, before proceeding upon my errand, into the character of the

heirs who had inherited the property of Elwood Henderson and

Christopher Bigelow, and found that in each case there was one among

the rest who was well known for his profligacy and reckless

expenditure.

It was a significant discovery, and increased, if possible, my

interest in running down this nefarious trafficker in the lives of

wealthy men.

Knowing that I could hope for no success in my character of

detective, I made an arrangement with the father of the young

gentleman before alluded to, by which I was to enter the pawnshop as

an emissary of the latter. Accordingly, I appeared there, one dull

November afternoon, in the garb of a certain Western, sporting man,

who, for a consideration, allowed me the temporary use of his name

and credentials.

Entering beneath the three golden balls, with the swagger and general

air of ownership I thought most likely to impose upon the

self-satisfied female who presided over the desk, I asked to see her

boss.

"On your own business?" she queried, glancing with suspicion at my

short coat, which was rather more showy than elegant.

"No," I returned, "not on my own business, but on that of a young

gent--"

"Any one whose name is written here?" she interposed, reaching toward

me the famous book, over the top of which, however, she was careful

to lay her arm.

I glanced down the page she had opened and instantly detected that of

the young gentleman on whose behalf I was supposed to be there, and

nodded "Yes," with all the assurance of which I was capable.

"Come, then," said she, ushering me without more ado into a den of

discomfort where sat a man with a great beard and such heavy

overhanging eyebrows that I could hardly detect the twinkle of his

eyes, keen and incisive as they were.

Smiling upon him, but not in the same way I had upon the girl, I

glanced behind me at the open door, and above me at the partitions,

which failed to reach the ceiling. Then I shook my head and drew a

step nearer.

"I have come," I insinuatingly whispered, "on behalf of a certain

party who left this place in a huff a day or so ago, but who since

then has had time to think the matter over, and has sent me with an

apology which he hopes"--here I put on a diabolical smile, copied, I

declare to you, from the one I saw at that moment on his own

lips--"you will accept."

The old wretch regarded me for full two minutes in a way to unmask me

had I possessed less confidence in my disguise and in my ability to

support it.

"And what is this young gentleman's name?" he finally asked.

For reply, I handed him a slip of paper. He took it and read the few

lines written on it, after which he began to rub his palms softly

together with an unction eminently in keeping with the stray glints

of light that now and then found their way through his bushy eyebrows.

"And so the young gentleman had not the courage to come again

himself?" he softly suggested, with just the suspicion of an ironical

laugh. "Thought, perhaps, I would exact too much commission; or make

him pay too roundly for his impertinent assurance."

I shrugged my shoulders, but vouchsafed no immediate reply, and he

saw that he had to open the business himself. He did it warily and

with many an incisive question which would have tripped me up if I

had not been very much on my guard; but it all ended, as such matters

usually do, in mutual understanding, and a promise that if the young

gentleman was willing to sign a certain paper, which, by the way, was

not shown me, he would in exchange give him an address which, if made

proper use of, would lead to my patron finding himself an independent

man within a very few days.

As this address was the one thing I was most desirous of obtaining, I

professed myself satisfied with the arrangement, and proceeded to

hunt up my patron, as he was called. Informing him of the result of

my visit, I asked if his interest in ferreting out these criminals

was strong enough to lead him to sign the vile document which the

pawnbroker would probably have in readiness for him on the morrow;

and being told it was, we separated for that day, with the

understanding that we were to meet the next morning at the spot

chosen by the pawnbroker for the completion of his nefarious bargain.

Being certain that I was being followed in all my movements by the

agents of this adept in villainy, I took care, upon leaving Mr.

L----, to repair to the hotel of the sporting man I was personifying.

Making myself square with the proprietor I took up my quarters in the

room of my sporting friend, and the better to deceive any spy who

might be lurking about, I received his letters and sent out his

telegrams, which, if they did not create confusion in the affairs of

"The Plunger," must at least have occasioned him no little work the

next day.

Promptly at ten o'clock on the following morning I met my patron at

the appointed place of rendezvous; and when I tell you that this was

no other than the ancient and now disused cemetery of which a portion

is still to be seen off Chatham Square, you will understand the

uncanny nature of this whole adventure, and the lurking sense there

was in it of brooding death and horror. The scene, which in these

days is disturbed by elevated railroad trains and the flapping of

long lines of particolored clothes strung high up across the quiet

tombstones, was at that time one of peaceful rest, in the midst of a

quarter devoted to everything for which that rest is the fitting and

desirable end; and as we paused among the mossy stones, we found it

hard to realize that in a few minutes there would be standing beside

us the concentrated essence of all that was evil and despicable in

human nature.

He arrived with a smile on his countenance that completed his

ugliness, and would have frightened any honest man from his side at

once. Merely glancing my way, he shuffled up to my companion, and

leading him aside, drew out a paper which he laid on a flat tombstone

with a gesture significant of his desire that the other should affix

to it the required signature.

Meantime I stood guard, and while attempting to whistle a light air,

was carelessly taking in the surroundings, and conjecturing, as best

I might, the reasons which had induced the old ghoul to make use of

this spot for his diabolical business, and had about decided that it

was because he was a ghoul, and thus felt at home among the symbols

of mortality, when I caught sight of two or three young fellows who

were lounging on the other side of the fence.

These were so evidently accomplices that I wondered if the two sly

boys I had engaged to stand by me through this affair had spotted

them, and would know enough to follow them back to their haunts.

A few minutes later, the old rascal came sneaking toward me, with a

gleam of satisfaction in his half-closed eyes.

"You are not wanted any longer," he grunted. "The young gentleman

told me to say that he could look out for himself now."

"The young gentleman had better pay me the round fifty he promised

me," I grumbled in return, with that sudden change from indifference

to menace which I thought best calculated to further my plans; and

shouldering the miserable wretch aside, I stepped up to my companion,

who was still lingering in a state of hesitation among the

gravestones.

"Quick! Tell me the number and street which he has given you!" I

whispered, in a tone quite out of keeping with the angry and

reproachful air I had assumed.

He was about to answer, when the old fellow came sidling up behind

us. Instantly the young man before me rose to the occasion, and

putting on an air of conciliation, said in a soothing tone:

"There, there, don't bluster. Do one thing more for me, and I will

add another fifty to that I promised you. Conjure up an anonymous

letter:--you know how--and send it to my father, saying that if he

wants to know where his son loses his hundreds, he must go to the

place on the dock, opposite 5 South Street, some night shortly after

nine. It would not work with most men, but it will with my father,

and when he has been in and out of that place, and I succeed to the

fortune he will leave me, then I will remember you, and--"

"Say, too," a sinister voice here added in my ear, "that if he wishes

to effect an entrance into the gambling den which his son haunts, he

must take the precaution of tying a bit of blue ribbon in his

buttonhole. It is a signal meaning business, and must not be

forgotten," chuckled the old fellow, evidently deceived at last into

thinking I was really one of his own kind.

I answered by a wink, and taking care to attempt no further

communication with my patron, I left the two, as soon as possible,

and went back to the hotel, where I dropped "the sport," and assumed

a character and dress which enabled me to make my way undetected to

the house of my young patron, where for two days I lay low, waiting

for a suitable time in which to make my final attempt to penetrate

this mystery.

I knew that for the adventure I was now contemplating considerable

courage was required. But I did not hesitate. The time had come for

me to show my mettle. In the few communications I was enabled to

hold with my superiors I told them of my progress and arranged with

them my plan of work. As we all agreed that I was about to encounter

no common villainy, these plans naturally partook of finesse, as you

will see if you follow my narrative to the end.

Early in the evening of a cool November day I sallied forth into the

streets, dressed in the habiliments and wearing the guise of the

wealthy old gentleman whose secret guest I had been for the last few

days. As he was old and portly, and I young and spare, this disguise

had cost me no little thought and labor. But assisted as I was by

the darkness, I had but little fear of betraying myself to any chance

spy who might be upon the watch, especially as Mr. L---- had a

peculiar walk, which, in my short stay with him, I had learned to

imitate perfectly. In the lapel of my overcoat I had tied a tag of

blue ribbon, and, though for all I knew this was a signal devoting me

to a secret and mysterious death, I walked along in a buoyant

condition of mind, attributable, no doubt, to the excitement of the

venture and to my desire to test my powers, even at the risk of my

life.

It was nine o'clock when I reached South Street. It was no new

region to me, nor was I ignorant of the specified drinking den on the

dock to which I had been directed. I remembered it as a bright spot

in a mass of ship-prows and bow-rigging, and was possessed, besides,

of a vague consciousness that there was something odd in connection

with it which had aroused my curiosity sufficiently in the past for

me to have once formed the resolution of seeing it again under

circumstances which would allow me to give it some attention. But I

never thought that the circumstances would involve my own life,

impossible as it is for a detective to reckon upon the future or to

foresee the events into which he will be hurried by the next crime

which may be reported at police headquarters.

There were but few persons in the street when I crossed to The

Heart's Delight--so named from the heart-shaped opening in the

framework of the door, through which shone a light, inviting enough

to one chilled by the keen November air and oppressed by the desolate

appearance of the almost deserted street. But amongst those persons

I thought I recognized more than one familiar form, and felt

reassured as to the watch which had been set upon the house.

The night was dark and the river especially so, but in the gloomy

space beyond the dock I detected a shadow blacker than the rest,

which I took for the police boat they had promised to have in

readiness in case I needed rescue from the waterside. Otherwise the

surroundings were as usual, and saving the gruff singing of some

drunken sailor coming from a narrow side street near by, no sound

disturbed the somewhat lugubrious silence of this weird and forsaken

spot.

Pausing an instant before entering, I glanced up at the building,

which was about three stories high, and endeavored to see what there

was about it which had once arrested my attention, and came to the

conclusion that it was its exceptional situation on the dock, and the

ghostly effect of the hoisting-beam projecting from the upper story

like a gibbet. And yet this beam was common to many a warehouse in

the vicinity, though in none of them were there any such signs of

life as proceeded from the curious mixture of sail loft, boat shop,

and drinking saloon, now before me. Could it be that the ban of

criminality was upon the house, and that I had been conscious of this

without being able to realize the cause of my interest?

Not stopping to solve my sensations further, I tried the door, and,

finding it yield easily to my touch, turned the knob and entered.

For a moment I was blinded by the smoky glare of the heated

atmosphere into which I stepped, but presently I was able to

distinguish the vague outlines of an oyster bar in the distance, and

the motionless figures of some half-dozen men, whose movements had

been arrested by my sudden entrance. For an instant this picture

remained; then the drinking and card playing were resumed, and I

stood, as it were, alone, on the sanded floor near the door.

Improving the opportunity for a closer inspection of the place, I was

struck by its picturesqueness. It had evidently been once used as a

ship chandlery, and on the walls, which were but partly plastered,

there still hung old bits of marlin, rusty rings, and such other

evidences of former traffic as did not interfere with the present

more lucrative business.

Below were the two bars, one at the right of the door, and the other

at the lower end of the room near a window, through whose small,

square panes I caught a glimpse of the colored lights of a couple of

ferryboats, passing each other in midstream.

At a table near me sat two men, grumbling at each other over a game

of cards. They were large and powerful figures in the contracted

space of this long and narrow room and my heart gave a bound of joy

as I recognized on them certain marks by which I was to know friend

from foe in this possible den of thieves and murderers.

Two sailors at the bar were bona fide habitués of the place and so

were the two other waterside characters I could faintly discern in

one of the dim corners. Meantime a man was approaching me.

Let me see if I can describe him. He was about thirty, and had the

complexion and figure of a consumptive, but his eye shone with the

yellow glare of a beast of prey, and in the cadaverous hollows of his

ashen cheeks and amid the lines about his thin drawn lips there lay,

for all his conciliatory smile, an expression so cold and yet so

ferocious that I spotted him at once as the man to whose genius we

were indebted for the new scheme of murder which I was jeopardizing

my life to understand. But I allowed none of the repugnance with

which he inspired me to appear in my manner, and, greeting him with

half a nod, waited for him to speak. His voice had that smooth

quality which betrays the hypocrite.

"Has the gentleman any appointment here?" he asked, letting his

glance fall for the merest instant on the lapel of my coat.

I returned a decided affirmative. "Or rather," I went on, with a

meaning look he evidently comprehended, "my son has, and I have made

up my mind to know just what deviltry he is up to these days. I can

make it worth your while to give me the opportunity."

"Oh, I see," he assented with a glance at the pocketbook I had just

drawn out. "You want a private room from which you can watch the

young scapegrace. I understand, I understand. But the private rooms

are above. Gentlemen are not comfortable here."

"I should say not," I murmured, and drew from the pocketbook a bill

which I slid quietly into his hand. "Now take me where I shall be

safe," I suggested, "and yet in full sight of the room where the

young gentlemen play. I wish to catch him at his tricks. Afterward--

"All will be well," he finished smoothly, with another glance at my

blue ribbon. "You see I do not ask you the young gentleman's name.

I take your money and leave all the rest to you. Only don't make a

scandal, I pray, for my house has the name of being quiet."

"Yes," thought I, "too quiet!" and for an instant felt my spirits

fail me. But it was only for an instant. I had friends about me and

a pistol at half-cock in the pocket of my overcoat. Why should I

fear any surprise, prepared as I was for every emergency?

"I will show you up in a moment," said he; and left me to put up a

heavy board shutter over the window opening on the river. Was this a

signal or a precaution? I glanced toward my two friends playing

cards, took another note of their broad shoulders and brawny arms,

and prepared to follow my host, who now stood bowing at the other end

of the room, before a covered staircase which was manifestly the sole

means of reaching the floor above.

The staircase was quite a feature in the room. It ran from back to

front, and was boarded all the way up to the ceiling. On these

boards hung a few useless bits of chain, wire, and knotted ends of

tarred ropes, which swung to and fro as the sharp November blast

struck the building, giving out a weird and strangely muffled sound.

Why did this sound, so easily to be accounted for, ring in my ears

like a note of warning? I understand now, but I did not then, full

of expectation as I was for developments out of the ordinary.

Crossing the room, I entered upon the staircase, in the wake of my

companion. Though the two men at cards did not look up as I passed

them, I noticed that they were alert and ready for any signal I might

choose to give them. But I was not ready to give one yet. I must

see danger before I summoned help, and there was no token of danger

yet.

When we were about half-way up the stairs the faint light which had

illuminated us from below suddenly vanished, and we found ourselves

in total darkness. The door at the foot had been closed by a careful

hand, and I felt, rather than heard, the stealthy pushing of a bolt

across it.

My first impulse was to forsake my guide and rush back, but I subdued

the unworthy impulse and stood quite still, while my companion,

exclaiming, "Damn that fellow! What does he mean by shutting the

door before we're half-way up!" struck a match and lit a gas jet in

the room above, which poured a flood of light upon the staircase.

Drawing my hand from the pocket in which I had put my revolver, I

hastened after him into the small landing at the top of the stairs.

An open door was before me, in which he stood bowing, with the

half-burnt match in his hand. "This is the place, sir," he

announced, motioning me in.

I entered and he remained by the door, while I passed quickly about

the room, which was bare of every article of furniture save a

solitary table and chair. There was not even a window in it, with

the exception of one small light situated so high up in the corner

made by the jutting staircase that I wondered at its use, and was

only relieved of extreme apprehension at the prison-like appearance

of the place by the gleam of light which came through this dusty

pane, showing that I was not entirely removed from the presence of my

foes if I, was from that of my friends.

"Ah, you have spied the window," remarked my host, advancing toward

me with a countenance he vainly endeavored to make reassuring and

friendly. "That is your post of observation, sir," he whispered,

with a great show of mystery. "By mounting on the table you can peer

into the room where my young friends sit securely at play."

As it was not part of my scheme to show any special mistrust, I

merely smiled a little grimly, and cast a glance at the table on

which stood a bottle of brandy and one glass.

"Very good brandy," he whispered; "not such stuff as we give those

fellows downstairs."

I shrugged my shoulders and he slowly backed toward the door.

"The young men you bid me watch are very quiet," I suggested, with a

careless wave of my hand toward the room he had mentioned.

"Oh, there is no one there yet. They begin to straggle in about ten

o'clock."

"Ah," was my quiet rejoinder, "I am likely, then, to have use for

your brandy."

He smiled again and made a swift motion toward the door.

"If you want anything," said he, "just step to the foot of the

staircase and let me know. The whole establishment is at your

service." And with one final grin that remains in my mind as the

most threatening and diabolical I have ever witnessed, he laid his

hand on the knob of the door and slid quickly out.

It was done with such an air of final farewell that I felt my

apprehensions take a positive form. Rushing toward the door through

which he had just vanished, I listened and heard, as I thought, his

stealthy feet descend the stair. But when I sought to follow, I

found myself for the second time overwhelmed by darkness. The gas

jet, which had hitherto burned with great brightness in the small

room, had been turned off from below, and beyond the faint glimmer

which found its way through the small window of which I have spoken,

not a ray of light now disturbed the heavy gloom of this gruesome

apartment.

I had thought of every contingency but this, and for a few minutes my

spirits were dashed. But I soon recovered some remnants of

self-possession, and began feeling for the knob I could no longer

see. Finding it after a few futile attempts, I was relieved to

discover that this door at last was not locked; and, opening it with

a careful hand, I listened intently, but could hear nothing save the

smothered sound of men talking in the room below.

Should I signal for my companions? No, for the secret was not yet

mine as to how men passed from this room into the watery grave which

was the evident goal for all wearers of the blue ribbon.

Stepping back into the middle of the room, I carefully pondered my

situation, but could get no further than the fact that I was somehow,

and in some way, in mortal peril. Would it come in the form of a

bullet, or a deadly thrust from an unseen knife? I did not think so.

For, to say nothing of the darkness, there was one reassuring fact

which recurred constantly to my mind in connection with the murders I

was endeavoring to trace to this den of iniquity.

None of the gentlemen who had been found drowned had shown any marks

of violence on their bodies, so it was not attack I was to fear, but

some mysterious, underhanded treachery which would rob me of

consciousness and make the precipitation of my body into the water

both safe and easy. Perhaps it was in the bottle of brandy that the

peril lay; perhaps--but why speculate further! I would watch till

midnight and then, if nothing happened, signal my companions to raid

the house.

Meantime a peep into the next room might help me toward solving the

mystery. Setting the bottle and glass aside, I dragged the table

across the floor, placed it under the lighted window, mounted, and

was about to peer through, when the light in that apartment was put

out also. Angry and overwhelmed, I leaped down, and, stretching out

my hands till they touched the wainscoting, I followed the wall

around till I came to the knob of the door, which I frantically

clutched. But I did not turn it immediately, I was too anxious to

catch these villains at work.

Would I be conscious of the harm they meditated against me, or would

I imperceptibly yield to some influence of which I was not yet

conscious, and drop to the floor before I could draw my revolver or

put to my mouth the whistle upon which I depended for assistance and

safety? It was hard to tell, but I determined to cling to my first

intention a little longer, and so stood waiting and counting the

minutes, while wondering if the captain of the police boat was not

getting impatient, and whether I had not more to fear from the

anxiety of my friends than the cupidity of my foes.

You see, I had anticipated communicating with the men in this boat by

certain signals and tokens which had been arranged between us. But

the lack of windows in the room had made all such arrangements

futile, so I knew as little of their actions as they did of my

sufferings; all of which did not tend to add to the cheerfulness of

my position.

However, I held out for a half-hour, listening, waiting, and watching

in a darkness which, like that of Egypt, could be felt, and when the

suspense grew intolerable I struck a match and let its blue flame

flicker for a moment over the face of my watch. But the matches soon

gave out and with them my patience, if not my courage, and I

determined to end the suspense by knocking at the door beneath.

This resolution taken, I pulled open the door before me and stepped

out. Though I could see nothing, I remembered the narrow landing at

the top of the stairs, and, stretching out my arms, I felt for the

boarding on either hand, guiding myself by it, and began to descend,

when something rising, as it were, out of the cavernous darkness

before me made me halt and draw back in mingled dread and horror.

But the impression, strong as it was, was only momentary, and,

resolved to be done with the matter, I precipitated myself downward,

when suddenly, at about the middle of the staircase, my feet slipped

and I slid forward, plunging and reaching out with hands whose

frenzied grasp found nothing to cling to, down a steep inclined

plane--or what to my bewildered senses appeared such--till I struck a

yielding surface and passed with one sickening plunge into the icy

waters of the river, which in another moment had closed dark and

benumbing above my head.

It was all so rapid I did not think of uttering a cry. But happily

for me the splash I made told the story, and I was rescued before I

could sink a second time.

It was full half an hour before I had sufficiently recovered from the

shock to relate my story. But when once I had made it known, you can

imagine the gusto with which the police prepared to enter the house

and confound the obliging host with a sight of my dripping garments

and accusing face. And, indeed, in all my professional experience I

have never beheld a more sudden merging of the bully into a coward

than was to be seen in this slick villain's face, when I was suddenly

pulled from the crowd and placed before him, with the old man's wig

gone from my head, and the tag of blue ribbon still clinging to my

wet coat.

His game was up, and he saw it; and Ebenezer Gryce's career had begun.

Like all destructive things the device by which I had been run into

the river was simple enough when understood. In the first place it

had been constructed to serve the purpose of a stairway and chute.

The latter was in plain sight when it was used by the sailmakers to

run the finished sails into the waiting yawls below. At the time of

my adventure, and for some time before, the possibilities of the

place had been discovered by mine host, who had ingeniously put a

partition up the entire stairway, dividing the steps from the smooth

runway. At the upper part of the runway he had built a few steps,

wherewith to lure the unwary far enough down to insure a fatal

descent. To make sure of his game he had likewise ceiled the upper

room all around, including the inclosure of the stairs.

The door to the chute and the door to the stairs were side by side,

and being made of the same boards as the wainscoting, were scarcely

visible when closed, while the single knob that was used, being

transferable from one to the other, naturally gave the impression

that there was but one door. When this adroit villain called my

attention to the little window around the corner, he no doubt removed

the knob from the stairs door and quickly placed it in the one

opening upon the chute. Another door, connecting the two similar

landings without, explains how he got from the chute staircase into

which he passed on leaving me, to the one communicating with the room

below.

The mystery was solved, and my footing on the force secured; but to

this day--and I am an old man now--I have not forgotten the horror of

the moment when my feet slipped from under me, and I felt myself

sliding downward, without hope of rescue, into a pit of heaving

waters, where so many men of conspicuous virtue had already ended

their valuable lives.

Myriad thoughts flashed through my brain in that brief interval, and

among them the whole method of operating this death-trap, together

with every detail of evidence that would secure the conviction of the

entire gang.

The Path of Murtogh

BY HAROLD FREDERIC

A curse is laid on one long narrow strip of the sea, down in front of

Dunlogher.

No matter how lifeless the sunlit air may hang above; no matter how

silken-smooth the face of the waters nearest by, lifting themselves

without a ripple in the most indolent summer swell--an angry churning

goes always forward here. Disordered currents will never tire of

their coiling and writhing somewhere underneath: the surface is

streaked with sinister markings like black shadows, which yet are no

shadows at all; and these glide without ceasing out and in among the

twisted lines of gray-white scum, and everything moves and nothing

changes, till Judgment Day. It has the name of the _Slighe

Mhuircheartaigh_ (spoken Shlee Vurharthee), or the Path of Murtogh.

Though 'tis well known that the grandest ling and turbot and

wonderful other big fishes lie swaying themselves in the depths of

this wicked water, with giant crayfish and crabs to bear them

company, the fishermen of Dunmanus and Goleen and Crookhaven, and

even the strangers from Cape Clear, would not buy a soul from

Purgatory at the price of drawing a net through it. They have a

great wish to please the buyers in the English ships, and the Scotch

and Manx, Oh, yes--but a creel of gold would not tempt them to meddle

in "Murty's Path." They steer their boats far to one side, and bless

themselves as they pass, in the manner of their fathers and

grandfathers before them.

These poor men, having not much of the Irish now, and not rightly

understanding what their elders may have heard the truth of, say that

this snake-like forbidding stretch wears its name from Murty _Oge_

O'Sullivan. Their thought is that the uncanny boiling began in the

wake of the English Speedwell, as the corpse of the vanquished

privateer spun and twirled at her keel through the foam, on its

savage last journey from Castletown to Cork. But it is enough to

look down at this evil place, to see that the malediction upon it

must be older than Murty _Oge's_ time, which, in the sight of

Dunlogher, was as yesterday. Why, men are living this year who

talked with men who saw his head spiked over South gate. There were

no great curses left unused in Ireland at so late a day as his. And

again, would it be the waters of Dunlogher that would tear themselves

for an O'Sullivan?

No, the curse threads back a dozen lives behind poor Murty _Oge_.

The strange currents weave and twine, and the greasy foam spreads and

gathers, gathers and spreads, in the path of another, whose

birthright it was that they should baptize him. The true tale is of

Murty the Proud, or if you will have his style from the Book of

Schull--Murtogh _Mordha_ O'Mahony, chief in Dunlogher. And his time

is not so distant, in one way, as men take account of years. But in

another it is too remote for any clear vision, because the "little

people" of the old, fearful kind had left every other part of

Ireland, and they were just halting together for a farewell pause in

Dunlogher, by reason of its being the last end of the land, and their

enchantments fanned up a vapor about Murty _Mordha_ to his undoing.

And it is as if that mist still rose between us and his story.

When the sun began to sink out of sight, down behind the sea, two men

stood on the edge of the great cliff of Dunlogher, their faces turned

to the west.

The yellow flame from the sky shone full in the eyes of Murtogh, and

he held his huge, bare head erect with boldness, and stared back at

it without blinking. His companion, a little, shriveled old man,

whom he held by the arm, had the glowing light on his countenance as

well, but his eyelids were shut. He bent himself against his chief's

thick shoulder and trembled.

"Are we to the brink itself?" he asked; his aged voice shook when he

spoke.

"Here, where I stand, when I would grip you, and hold you forth at

the length of my arm, and open my hand, you would fall a hundred

fathoms in the air." Murtogh's free arm and hand made the terrible

gesture to fit his words, but he tightened his protecting clasp upon

the other, and led him back a few paces. The old man groaned his

sigh of relief.

"It is you who are the brave nobleman, Murty," he whispered,

admiringly. "There is none to equal your strength, or your grand

courage, in all the land. And the heart of pure gold along with it!"

Murtogh tossed his big head, to shake the twisted forelock of his

hair to one side. "I looked straight into the sun at noon on St.

John's Day," he said, quietly, with the pride of a child. "If it

were a hundred times as bright, I would look at it, and never fear

for my eyes. I would hold my own son out here, stretched over the

abyss, and he would be no safer in his bed. Whatever I wished to do,

I would do it."

"You would--Oh, you would!" assented the old man, in tones of entire

sincerity.

The chieftain kept his eyes on the skyline, beneath which, as the

radiance above deepened, the waters grew ashen and coldly dark.

Musing, he held his silence for a time. Then, with abruptness, he

asked:

"What age were you, Owny Hea, when the McSwineys put out your eyes?

Were you strong enough to remember the sun well?"

"I was of no strength at all," the other whimpered, the tragedy of

his childhood affecting his speech on the instant. "I was in my

mother's arms. There were the men breaking in through the wall, and

the kine bellowing outside, and my father cut down; and then it was

like my mother drew her cloak tight over my head--and no one came

ever to take it off again. I forget the sun."

Murtogh nodded his head. "I will go to Muskerry some day," he said,

in a kindly way. "I cannot tell when, just now; but I will go, and I

will burn and desolate everything for six miles around, and you shall

have a bag for your harp made of eyelids of the McSwineys."

Old Owny lifted his sightless face toward his master, and smiled with

wistful affection. "Ah, Murty, dear," he expostulated, mildly, "it

is you who have the grand nature; but think, Murty--I am a very old

man, and no kin of yours. It is fifty years since the last man who

took my eyes drew breath. If you went now, no living soul could tell

what you came for, or why the great suffering was put upon them.

And, moreover, the O'Mahonys Carbery have wives from the McSwineys

these three generations. No feud lies now."

The lord of Dunlogher growled sharply between his teeth, and Owny

shrank further back.

"How long will you be learning," Murtogh demanded, with an arrogant

note in his voice, "that I have no concern in the O'Mahonys Carbery,

or the O'Mahonys _Fonn-Iartarach_, or any other? I do not take heed

of Conogher of Ardintenant, or Teige of Rosbrin, or Donogh of

Dunmanus, or Donal of Leamcon. I will give them all my bidding to

do, and they will do it, or I will kill them, and spoil their

castles. You could not behold it, but you have your song from the

words of others: how last year I fell upon Diarmaid _Bhade_, and

crushed him and his house, and slew his son, and brought away his

herds. His father's father and mine were brothers. He is nearer to

me in blood than the rest, yet I would not spare him. I made his

Ballydevlin a nest for owls and bats. Let the others observe what I

did. I am in Dunlogher, and I am the O'Mahony here, and I look the

sun in the face like an eagle. Put that to your song!"

The sound came to them, from the walled bawn and gateways beyond the

Three Castles, a hundred yards behind, of voices in commotion. The

old bard lifted his head, and his brow scored itself in lines of

listening attention. If Murtogh heard, he gave no sign, but gazed

again in meditation out upon the vast waste of waters, blackening now

as the purple reflections of the twilight waned.

"Blind men have senses that others lack," he remarked at last. "Tell

me, you, does the earth we stand on seem ever to you to be turning

round?"

Owny shuddered a little at the thought which came to him. "When you

led me out beyond here, and I felt the big round sea-pinks under my

feet, and remembered they grew only on the very edge--" he began.

"Not that," the chief broke in, "'tis not my meaning. But at Kosbrin

there was a book written by Fineen the son of Diarmaid, an uncle to

my father's father, and my father heard it read from this book that

the world turned round one way, like a duck on a spit, and the sun

turned round the other way, and that was why they were apart all

night. And often I come here, and I swear there is a movement under

my feet. But elsewhere there is none, not in the bawn, or in the

towers, or anywhere else but just here."

The old man inclined his face, as if he could see the ground he stood

upon, but shook his head after a moment's waiting. "It would not be

true, Murty," he suggested. "Old Fineen had a mighty scholarship, as

I have heard, and he made an end to edify the angels, but--but--"

Murtogh did not wait for the hesitating conclusion. "I saw his tomb

when I was a lad, in the chapel at Rosbrin. He was laid at his own

desire under a weight of stone like my wall here. I saw even then

how foolish it was. These landsmen have no proper sense. How will

they rise at the blessed Resurrection, with all that burden of stone

to hold them down? I have a better understanding than that. I

buried my father, as he buried his father, out yonder in the sea.

And I will be buried there, too, and my son after me--and if I have

other children--" he stole a swift glance at the old man's withered

face as he spoke--"if I have others, I say, it will be my command

that they shall follow me there, when their time comes. I make you

witness to that wish, Owny Hea."

The bard hung his head. "As if my time would not come first!" he

said, for the mere sake of saying something. Then, gathering

courage, he pulled upon the strong arm which was still locked in his,

and raised his head to speak softly in the O'Mahony's ear.

"If only the desire of your heart were given you, Murty," he

murmured; "if only once I could hold a babe of yours to my breast,

and put its pretty little hands in my beard--I'd be fit to pray for

the men who took my eyes from me. And Murty dear"--his voice rose in

tremulous entreaty as he went on--"tell me, Murty--I'm of an age to

be your father's father, and I've no eyesight to shame you--is

she--is your holy wife coming to see her duty differently? Have you

hope that--that--?"

Murtogh turned abruptly on his heel, swinging his companion round

with him. They walked a dozen paces toward the sea-gate of the

castles, before he spoke. "You have never seen her, Owny!" he said,

gravely. "You do not know at all how beautiful she is. It is not in

the power of your mind to imagine it. There is no one like her in

all the world. She is not just flesh and blood like you, Owny, or

even like me. I am a great lord among men, Owny, and I am not afraid

of any man. I would put the MacCarthy, or even the Earl of Desmond,

over my cliff like a rat, if he came to me here, and would not do me

honor. But whenever I come where she sits, I am like a little dirty

boy, frightened before a great shrine of our Blessed Lady, all with

jewels and lights and incense. I take shame to myself when she looks

at me, that there are such things in my heart for her to see."

Owny sighed deeply. "The grandest princess in the world might be

proud to be mated to you, Murty," he urged.

"True enough," responded Murtogh, with candor. "But she is not a

princess--or any mere woman at all. She is a saint. Perhaps she is

more still. Listen, Owny. Do you remember how I took her--how I

swam for her through the breakers--and snapped the bone of my arm to

keep the mast of their wreck from crushing her when the wave flung it

upon us, and still made land with her head on my neck, and hung to

the bare rock against all the devils of the sea sucking to pull me

down--?"

"Is it not all in my song?" said Owny, with gentle reproach.

"Owny, man, listen!" said Murtogh, halting and giving new

impressiveness to his tone. "I took her from the water. Her

companions were gone; their vessel was gone. Did we ever see sign of

them afterward? And her family--the Sigersons of that island beyond

Tiobrad--when men of mine sailed thither, and asked for Hugh, son of

Art, were they not told that the O'Flaherty had passed over the

island, and left nothing alive on it the size of a mussel shell?

Draw nearer to me, Owny. You will be thinking the more without your

eyes. Have you thought that it may be she--whisper now!--that she

may belong to the water?"

They stood motionless in the gathering twilight, and the bard turned

the problem over deliberately. At last he seemed to shake his head.

"_They_ would not be displaying such piety, as the old stories of

them go," he suggested, "or--I mean it well to you, Murty--or

breaking husbands' hearts with vows of celibacy."

The O'Mahony pushed the old man from him. "Then if she be a saint,"

he cried, "why then it were better for me to make ten thousand more

blind men like you, and tear my own eyes out, and lead you all

headlong over the cliff there, than risk the littlest offense to her

pure soul!"

The old bard held out a warning hand. "People are coming!" he said.

Then gliding towards his chief, he seized the protecting arm again,

and patted it, and fawned against it. "Where you go, Murty," he said

eagerly, "I follow. What you say, I say."

Some dancing lights had suddenly revealed themselves at the corner of

the nearest castle wall. Murtogh had not realized before that it was

dusk. "They will be looking for me," he said, and moved forward,

guiding his companion's steps. The thought that with Owny it was

always dark rose in him, and drove other things away.

Three men with torches came up--rough men with bare legs and a single

skirt-like tunic of yellow woollen cloth, and uncovered heads with

tangled and matted shocks of black hair. The lights they bore

gleamed again in the fierce eyes which looked out from under their

forelocks.

"O'Mahony," one of them said, "the Haitian priest is at the

gate--young Donogh, son of Donogh _Bhade_ who fled to Spain. He is

called Father Donatus now."

"What will he want here?" growled Murtogh. "I have beaten his

father; if I have the mind, his tonsure will not hold me from beating

him also."

"He has brought a foreign Spaniard, a young man with breeches and a

sword, who comes to you from the King of Spain."

Murtogh straightened himself, and disengaged the arm of the blind

man. "Run forward, you two," he ordered sharply, "and call all the

men from the bawns and the cattle and the boats, and I will have them

light torches, and stand in a line from the second tower to the

postern, and show their spears well in front, and be silent. I will

not have any man talk but myself, or thrust himself into notice. We

were Kings of Rathlin, and we have our own matters to discuss with

the Kings of Spain."

Three score fighting men, some bearing lights, and all showing

shields, and spears, or javelins, or long hooked axes, crowded in the

semblance of a line along the narrow way to the large keep--and

behind them packed four times their number of women and

children--watched Murtogh when he brought his guests past from the

gate.

He moved proudly up the boreen, with a slow step, and the gleam of a

high nature in his eyes. His own people saw afresh how great was his

right to be proud. The broad hard muscles of his legs, straining to

burst their twisted leather thongs as he walked; the vast weight and

thickness of the breast and shoulders, under the thin summer cloak of

cloth from the Low Countries which he held wrapped tight about them;

the corded sinews of his big bare neck; above all, the lion-like

head, with its dauntless regard and its splendid brown-black mane,

and the sparkle of gold in the bushing glibb on his brow--where else

in all Ireland would their match be found? But for that strange

injunction to silence, the fighters of the sept would be splitting

the air with yells for their chieftain. They struck their weapons

together, and made the gaze they bent upon him burn with meaning, and

he, without looking, read it, and bore himself more nobly yet; and

the mothers and wives and little ones, huddled behind in the

darkness, groaned aloud with the pain of their joy in Murty _mordha_.

It swelled the greatness of Murtogh when they looked upon those who

followed him. "It is the _soggarth liathan_," they whispered, at

view of the young priest, with his pointed face and untimely whitened

hair. He would not turn his ferret glance to right or left, as he

followed close in his cousin's lordly footsteps, for the reason that

these sea-wolves of Dunlogher had ravaged and burnt his father's

country within the year, and slain his brother, and gnashed their

teeth now, even as he passed, for rage at the sight of him.

And the messenger who came to speak to Murty the words of the King of

Spain! They grinned as they stared upon him. An eel-fly, a lame

fledgeling gull, a young crab that has lost its shell--thus they

murmured of him. His legs were scarce the bigness of a Cape woman's

arms, and were clad in red silken cloth stretched as close as skin.

He had foolish little feet, with boots of yellow leather rising to

the knee, and from the mid-thigh to the waist were unseemly bulging

breeches, blown out like a buoy, and gashed down-wise with stripes of

glowing colors, repeated again in his flowing sleeves. His burnished

steel corslet and long reed-like sword would be toys for children in

Dunlogher. His face, under its wide plumed hat of drab felt, was

that of no soldier at all--a thin, smooth, rounded face of a strange

smoky darkness of hue, with tiny upturned moustachios, and delicately

bended nose. And the eyes of him! They seemed to be the half of his

countenance in size, what with their great dusky-white balls, and

sloe-black centers, and their thick raven fringes and brows that

joined each other. The armed kernes who stood nearest took not much

heed of these eyes, but the older women, peeping between their

shoulders, saw little else, and they made the sign of the cross at

the sight.

When two hours had passed, the baser folk of Dunlogher knew roughly

what was in the wind. Two wayfaring men of humble station had come

in the train of the Spaniard, and though they had no Irish, their

story somehow made itself told. A ship from Spain, which indeed

Dunlogher had seen pass a week before, had put in at Dingle, on the

Kerry coast, and had landed James Fitzmaurice, the Papal legate

Sanders, some other clergy, and a score and more Spanish gentlemen or

men at arms, with a banner blessed by the Holy Father. A great army

from Spain and Italy would follow in their wake. But, meantime, the

first comers were building a fort at Smerwick, and the clan of

Fitzgerald was up, and messengers were flying through the length and

breadth of Munster and Connaught, passing the word to the Catholic

chiefs that the hour of driving the English into the sea was at hand.

The lower floors of the castle and the pleasant grassy bawns outside,

cool with the soft sea wind of the summer night, were stirred to a

common fervor by these tidings. The other O'Mahonys, the chiefs of

Dunmanus and Dunbeacon to the north, of Ballydevlin, Leamcon,

Ardintenant, and Rosbrin to the south, and elsewhere in Desmond the

O'Sullivans, MacCarthys, O'Driscolls and the rest, were clashing

their shields. Ah, when they should see Murty striding into the

field!

In the big hall overhead, where--after three courses of stone stairs

were climbed, so narrow that a man in armor must needs walk

sideways--the abode of the chieftain and his own blood began, Murtogh

was ready to hear the message of the King of Spain.

The broad rough-hewn table, with its dishes of half-cleaned bones and

broken cheeses and bread, its drinking horns and flagons, and litter

of knives and spoons, had been given over to the master's greyhounds,

who stood with forepaws on the board and insinuated their long necks

and muzzles noiselessly here and there among the remains of the meal.

A clump of reeds, immersed in a brazier of fish oil, burned smokily

among the dishes for light.

When, at the finish of the eating, Murtogh had given the signal for

departure to the dozen strong men nearest akin to him, or in his best

favor, there were left only his son, a slow, good lad born of a first

wife long since dead, the blind Owny, the Spaniard and the _liathan_

(or prematurely gray) young priest.

Then Murtogh said to this last man: "Donogh, son of Donogh Shade, I

have not frowned on you nor struck you, for the reason that you are

my guest. But because my hand is open to you, it is no reason that I

should lie, and pretend that I am your friend or you mine. Your

brother, Diarmaid, the one I could not get to kill, calls himself my

heir, and twice has sought to take the life of my son here, my Donogh

_baoth_. Therefore, I will have you go now, and sit below with the

others, or read your prayers in your chamber where you are to sleep,

because I will hear now what the King of Spain says to me, and that

is not meant for your ears."

The priest stood on his feet. "Your pride does not become you, Murty

_Mordha_," he said, "when I am come to you for your soul's sake and

the glory of religion." His voice was thin and high-pitched, but

there was no fear in it.

"I will not be taking trouble for my soul just now," replied Murty;

"that will be for another time, when I am like to die. And then I

will have my own confessor, and not you, nor anyone like you. So you

will go now, as I bid you."

Father Donatus, standing still, curled his lips in a hard smile.

"You are a great man, Murty! You could dishonor my father, and slay

my brother like the headstrong bullock that you are; but there are

things you cannot do. You cannot lay your finger to me because I

come on the business of God."

"It is the business of the King of Spain that I will be thinking of,"

said Murty, with curtness.

"They are the same," rejoined the young priest. "And you are wrong

to say what you will be thinking of, because you have not a mind to

think at all. If you could think, you would know that you cannot

have the words of the King of Spain except when I interpret them to

you. This noble gentleman who comes with me speaks more tongues than

one, but he had no Irish, and you--it is well known that you have

nothing else. Don Tello has sat at your side for two hours, and you

have not observed that each word between him and you came and went

through me. Oh, yes; you are a great man, Murty, but your mind is

not of a high order."

The chieftain rose also. The blood came into his face, and he laid a

strong hand on the hilt of his broad sword. But the foot that he

lifted he set down again; and he looked at his kinsman, the _liathan_

priest, and did not move toward him. "You are in the right to wear a

gown," he said slowly, "because you have the tongue and the evil

temper of an ugly girl. You speak foolish things in your heat, and

they disgrace you. I have the best mind that any man in my family

ever had. I have more thoughts in my mind than there are words in

your Latin book. I would speak whatever I chose to this gentleman,

and I would understand his speech when I troubled myself to do so.

But I will not do that--for some time at least; I will have my wife

come, and she will sit here, and she will tell me his words, and I

will be taking my ease."

Murtogh _Mordha_ called his son to his side, and gave him a message

to deliver.

The priest, smiling in his cold way, leant over and spoke for the

space of a minute in a tongue strange to Dunlogher into the

Spaniard's ear. Then he stood erect, and gazed at Murtogh with an

ill-omened look, and so turned and strode after the lad out of the

door.

III

A young woman of the rarest beauty, tall and slender, and with the

carriage of a great lady, came into the chamber and moved across to

the high, carved chair which Murtogh made ready for her, and seated

herself upon it as upon a throne. She had a pale, fair skin, and her

hair, coiled heavily in plaits upon her shoulders, was of the hue of

a red harvest sun. There were jewels in this hair and upon her

throat and hands, and her long robes were of rich, shining stuffs. A

chain of wooden beads, with a cross of gold at the end, hung from her

girdle, and she gathered this in her fingers as she sat.

The boy, Donogh _baoth_, came with her, and crouched in humility on

the floor at her side. His thick form and dark hair, and his

over-large head, spoke a likeness now to his father which was not to

be noted before. When, as if under the spell of her attraction, he

nestled nearer the lady's chair, and touched her garment with his

hand, she drew it away.

Murtogh _Mordha_, before he took his seat again, and leant back to

half lie upon the skins thrown over it, told her the Spaniard's name,

and explained to her his errand. The Spaniard, bowing himself low,

sank upon one knee, and reverently kissed her hand, as Murty had seen

his father kiss the ring of the Bishop of Ross. He was proud to

observe this, because his wife was holier and more saintly still than

any bishop.

The lady smiled upon the Spaniard, and all that she said to him, and

he to her, was in his tongue. "I cannot speak it well," she said.

Her voice had the sweetness of a perfume in the air. "I lived at

Seville, in the old convent there, for only two years. I have no joy

of remembrance now, save in the peace and charm of those years there;

but I fear my memory of the dear speech is dimmed. But I will listen

with all my ears--and oh, so gladly!"

She fastened her regard upon his eyes--the great, rolling, midnight

eyes--and held it there, that she might the better follow his speech.

"Beautiful lady," the Spaniard said, "I learn only now the power our

language, spoken by such lips, may have to enthrall the hearing.

Condone my error, I pray you, but I caught from Father Donatus that

you were this strong chieftain's wife, and I see that you are his

daughter; and even that is strange, to look upon him and _you_."

"I am his wife, but only in name, naught else," she answered. The

wave of comprehension sweeping over the surface of the Spaniard's

eyes made instant confidence between them. "I am in captivity here.

He is a pirate, a Goth, a murderous barbarian. He and his savages

here--but of this more a little hence. I beg you now to speak

something of your mission--your errand here. He is as helpless to

follow our words as one of those hounds; but no dog is keener to

suspicion."

The Spaniard with eager swiftness of speech, piled one upon another

the curtailed topics of his business. The lady, moving her fingers

along the beads, gleaned the narrow pith of it, and dressed it forth

in new phrases for the lord of Dunlogher.

"_The King of Spain will send this month,_" she said in the Irish,

"_a mighty army to drive the heretic English to the last man from

this Island of Saints. They have wounded God too long! The last

drop of Heaven's patience is dried up by their crimes. Their Queen

was not born in lawful wedlock, and the Blessed Sacraments, are daily

profaned by her and her accursed people. Those who sustain and honor

God now will be sustained and honored by Him through glorious

Eternity._"

"These things are well known to me," said Murtogh. "I would not need

the King of Spain to tell them to me. How will he speak concerning

myself?"

The lady was not afraid to smile into the eyes of the Spaniard. "You

are to speak after a moment or two," she told him, with a calm voice;

"but hear me this little first. My heart is broken here. I do not

know how I have had the courage to live. These jewels I wear, the

fabrics of my raiment, the wines on the board yonder, are all the

booty of blood-stained waves down at the foot of this terrible cliff.

He and his savages burn false lights, and lure ships to the rocks,

and rob and murder their people. It was thus unhappily I came here,

and in fear of my life, while I was still half dead from the water, I

suffered the marriage words to be read over me--but now you must

speak."

"I would show you tears rather than words, dear lady," the Spaniard

said; "and blows on your behalf more preferably than either. Father

Donatus whispered the tithe of this to me. The whole truth burns

like fire in my heart. As my fathers gave their life blood to drive

the infidel from Grenada--so lay my own poor life at your dear feet.

If aught but harm to you could come from it, I would slay him now

where he lolls there on the skins. He is looking at you now, waiting

for you to speak."

"_The King of Spain has heard much of you,_" she began in the Irish,

without turning her head. "_He is filled with admiration for your

strength and valor. He desires deeply to know what you will be

doing. When you will take arms, and join him with your great might

in the battles, then there cannot be any doubt of his victory._"

"That it is easy to see," replied Murtogh. "But the King of Spain's

battles are not my battles. There would be some reason to be given,

to call me out for his wars. The English will be doing me no hurt.

They cannot come here to me, by water or by land; and it they did I

would not let any of them depart alive. For what cause should I go

to them? Let the King of Spain tell me what it would be in his mind

to do in my behalf, when I did this thing for him."

The lady spoke to the Spaniard. "The last of my people are killed.

They would not have seemed different to you perhaps--to you who were

bred in the gentle graces of Spain--but they were not the ferocious

barbarians these O'Mahonys are. My father was learned in Latin and

English, and it was his dream that I should wed in Spain."

"Oh, rapturous vision!" said Don Tello, with new flames kindling in

his eyes. "And if it shall be proved prophetic as well, beautiful

lady! Something of this, too, the priest whispered; but the precious

words return to me as your dear lips breathed them forth--'wife only

in name.' I long to hear them once again."

The lady repeated them, with tender deliberation, and a languorous

gleam in her blue eyes began to answer his burning gaze. "I have

held the fierce beast at arm's length," she said, "because he is also

a fool. I would give a year of my life to be able to laugh in his

face, and slap these beads across it. I have told him--the blessed

thought came to me even while we knelt at the altar together--that I

am bound by a vow. His big empty head is open to all the fancies

that fly. He believes that an enchanted woman drives up her horses

from the bottom of the lake, down at the foot of the small tower

here, every night for food; and he spreads corn for them which the

thieves about him fatten on. He believes in witches rising from the

sea, and leprechauns, and changelings, like any ignorant herdsman out

in the bog, but he is a frightened Churchman, too. He believes that

I am a saint!"

"As I swear by the grave of my mother, you are!" panted Don Tello.

"But speak now to him."

"_The King of Spain will do very great things in your behalf,_" she

recited, in Murtogh's tongue. "_He will make you of the rank of a

commander in his armies, and he will ennoble you._"

"I am noble now," Murtogh made comment, "as noble as the King of

Spain himself. I am not a MacCarthy or an O'Driscoll, that I would

be craving titles to my name."

"_Then he will send large rich ships here,_" she began again, with

weariness in her tone, "_to bring you costly presents. And the Pope,

he will grant you ten years' indulgence,--or it may be twenty._"

"Ask him," broke in Murtogh, sitting up with a brightened face, his

hand outstretched to secure silence for the thought that stirred

within him--"ask if the Holy Father would be granting just the one

spiritual favor I would beg. Will this gentleman bind the King of

Spain to that?"

"And may I wholly trust," she asked the Spaniard, with half-closed

eyes, through which shone the invitation of her mood, "may I trust in

your knightly proffer of help? Do not answer till I have finished.

You are the first who has come to me--here in this awful dungeon--and

I have opened my heart to you as perhaps I should not. But you have

the blood of youth in your veins, like me; you are gallant and of

high lineage; you are from the land where chivalry is the law of

gentle life--is it true that you will be my champion?"

The Spaniard rose with solemn dignity, though his great eyes flashed

devouringly upon her, and his breast heaved under its cuirass. He

half lifted his sword from the sheath, and kissed the cross of its

hilt. "Oh, my beloved, I swear!" he said, in somber earnestness.

She translated the action and utterance to Murtogh. "_Whatever of a

spiritual nature you would crave of his Holiness he would grant._"

"But it would be a cruel time of waiting, to send all the long way to

Rome and back," he objected, "and this matter lies like lead upon my

soul."

She looked up into the Spaniard's eyes, and let her own lashes

tremble, and fed the ravening conflagration of his gaze with a little

sigh. "It would be very sweet to believe," she murmured, "too sweet

for sense, I fear me. Nay, Don Tello, I need not such a world of

persuasion--only--only--lift your right hand, with thumb and two

fingers out, and swear again. And say, 'Bera, I swear!'"

"It is your name?" he asked, and as she closed her eyes in assent,

and slowly opened them to behold his oath, he lifted the fingers and

waved them toward her, and passionately whispered, "Bera, queen of my

Heaven, star of my soul, I swear!"

"_That is the sign of the Pope himself,_" she explained, with

indifference, to Murtogh. "_Whatever wish you offered up you have it

already granted. It is Don Tello who bears the holy authority from

the Pope._"

The lord of Dunlogher hurled himself to his feet with a boisterous

energy before which the lady, wondering, drew herself away. He

stretched his bared arms toward her, then flung them upward as in

invocation to the skies. The beatitude of some vast triumph

illumined his glance.

"Oh, then, indeed, I am Murty _Mordha_!" he cried. "It is I who am

prouder than all the Kings on earth! It is I who have won my love!

Oh, glory to the Heavens that send me this joy! Glory and the praise

of the saints! Glory! Glory!"

The rhapsody was without meaning to the Spaniard. He stared in

astonishment at the big chieftain with the shining countenance who

shouted with such vehemence up at the oaken roof. Turning a glance

of inquiry at the lady, he saw that she had grown white-faced, and

was cowering backward in her chair.

"Our Lady, save us!" she gasped at him in Spanish. "He has asked the

Pope to absolve me from my vow."

Don Tello, no wiser, put his hand to his sword. "Tell me quickly,

what it is? What am I to do?" he demanded of her.

Murtogh, with a smile from the heart moistening his eyes and

transfiguring all his face, strode to the Spaniard, and grasped his

reluctant hand between his own broad palms, and gripped it with the

fervor of a giant.

"I would have you tell him," he called out to the Lady Bera. "Tell

him that he has no other friend in any land who will do for him what

Murty _Mordha_ will be doing. I will ride with him into the battle,

and take all his blows on my own back. I will call him my son and my

brother. Whatever he will wish, I will give it to him. And all his

enemies I will slay and put down for him to walk upon. Oh, Bera, the

jewel restored to me, the beautiful gem I saved from the waters, tell

him these things for me! Why will your lips be so silent? Would

they be waiting for my kisses to waken them? And Donogh, son of

mine, come hither and take my other son's hand. I will hear you

swear to keep my loyalty to him the same as myself. And, Owny

Hea--hither, man! You cannot see my benefactor, the man I will be

giving life for, but you have heard his voice. You will not forget

it."

The absence of all other sound of a sudden caught Murtogh's ear, and

checked his flow of joyous words. He looked with bewilderment at the

figure of his wife in the chair, motionless with clenched hands on

her knees, and eyes fixed in a dazed stare upon vacancy. He turned

again, and noted that Owny Hea had come up to the Spaniard, and was

standing before him so close that their faces were near touching.

The old blind man had the smile of an infant on his withered face.

He lifted his left hand to the Spaniard's breast and passed it

curiously over the corselet and its throat-plate and arm-holes,

muttering in Irish to himself, "I will not forget. I will not at all

forget."

A zigzag flash of light darted briefly somewhere across Murtogh's

vision Looking with more intentness he saw that both the blind man's

hands were at the arm-pit of the Spaniard and pulled upon something

not visible. Don Tello's big eyes seemed bursting from their

black-fringed sockets. His face was distorted, and he curled the

fingers of his hand like stiffened talons, and clawed once into the

air with them. Then Owny Hea pushed him, and he pitched sprawling

against Murtogh's legs, and rolled inert to the floor. His hot blood

washed over Murtogh's sandaled feet.

A woman's shriek of horror burst into the air, and the hounds moaned

and glided forward. Murtogh did not know why he stood so still. He

could not rightly think upon what was happening, or put his mind to

it. The bones in his arms were chilled, and would not move for him.

He gazed with round eyes at Owny, and at the red dripping knife which

the bard stretched out to him. He felt the rough tongue of a dog on

his ankle. The dark corners of the chamber seemed to be moving from

him a long distance away. There was a spell upon him, and he could

not tremble.

The voice of Owny Hea came to him, and though it was soundless, like

the speech of Dreamland, he heard all its words; "Murtogh son of

Teige, I have slain your guest for the reason that I have the

Spanish, and I knew the meaning of his words to this woman, and he

could not live any longer, The _liathan_ priest, when he would be

going, told this stranger that she you called your wife was your

enemy, and made a mockery of you, and would give ear gladly to any

means of dishonoring you. And the _liathan_ priest spoke truly.

While the woman repeated lies to you of the King of Spain and the

Pope, she whispered foul scandal of you, and wicked love-words to

that dog's-meat at your feet. It is I, Owen son of Aodh, who tell

you these things. And now you know what you have to do!"

Murtogh turned slowly to the lady. She lay, without motion, in her

chair, her head limp upon her shoulder, and the whiteness of sea foam

on her cheek. Thoughts came again into his brain.

"I have the wisest mind of all in my family," he said; "I know what

it is I will be doing."

He drew the short sword from his girdle, and put his nail along its

edge.

"_Donogh baoth_," he said to his son, "go below and seek out Conogher

_tuathal_ and Shane _buidhe_, and bid them seize the _liathan_ priest

between them, and bring him to me here where I am. And you will take

some sleep for yourself then, for it is a late hour."

The lad looked at the pale lady with the closed eyes, and at the

sword in his father's hand. He set his teeth together, and lifted

his head.

"I am of years enough to see it all," he said. "I have no sleep on

my eyes."

Murtogh bent over the corpse at his feet, and caressed the boy's head

with his hand. "I will not call you _baoth_ (simple) any more," he

said, fondly. "You are my true son, and here is my ring for your

finger, and you may return with them when they fetch me my _liathan_

cousin."

Next morning young Donogh gave his word to the men of Dunlogher, and

they obeyed him, for in the one night he had thrown aside his

sluggish boyhood, and they saw his father's ring on his finger, and

heard a good authority in his voice. They came out from the Western

gate at his command, three-score and more, and stood from the brink

of the cliff inward, with their weapons in their hands, and made a

path between them. But the women and children Donogh bade remain

within the bawn, and he shut the inner gate upon them. It was as if

the smell of blood came to them there, for the old women put up a

lamentation of death, and the others cried aloud, till the noise

spread to the men on the cliff. These looked one to another and held

their silence.

They did not clash their spears together when, after a long waiting,

Murtogh came from the gate, and walked toward them. A fine rain was

in the air, and the skies and sea were gray, and the troubled man

would have no spirit for such greeting.

He bore upon his broad back a great shapeless bundle thrice his own

bulk. The weight of it bent his body, and swayed his footsteps as he

came. The cover of it was of skins of wild beasts, sewn rudely with

thongs, and through the gaps in this cover some of the men saw

stained foreign cloths and the plume of a hat, and some a shoe with a

priest's buckle, and some the marble hand of a fair woman. But no

word was spoken, and Murtogh, coming to the edge, heaved his huge

shoulders upward, and the bundle leaped out of sight.

Then Murtogh turned and looked all his fighting-men in their faces,

and smiled in gentleness upon them, and they saw that in that same

night, while the "little people" had changed Donogh into a man, they

had made Murtogh a child again.

"She came up from the water," he said to them, in a voice no man

knew. "It was I who brought her out of the water, and fought for her

with the demons under the rocks, and beat all of them off. But one

of them I did not make the sign of the Cross before, and that one is

the King of Spain; and so he has wrought me this mischief, and made

all my labor as nothing; and she is in the water again, and I must be

going to fetch her out rightly this time."

Murtogh sprang like a deer into the air, with a mighty bound which

bore him far over the edge of the cliff. Some there were, in the

throng that sprang forward, agile enough to be looking down the abyss

before his descent was finished. These, to their amazement, beheld a

miracle. For the great fall did not kill Murtogh _Mordha_, but the

waters boiled and rose to meet him, and held him up on their tossing

currents as he swam forward, and marked with a pallid breadth of foam

his path out to sea, farther and farther out, till the mists hid him

from human view.

The wailing song of Owny Hea rose through the wet air above the

keening of the women in the bawn. But louder still was the voice of

the lad who wore his father's ring, and drew now from beneath his

mantle his father's sword.

"I am Donogh son of Murtogh _Mordha_!" he shouted, "and I am Lord in

Dunlogher, and when I am of my full strength I will kill the King of

Spain, and give his castles and all his lands and herds and women to

you for your own!"

The three towers of Dunlogher are broken, and the witch has fled from

its gray lake, and no man knows where the bones of its forgotten sept

are buried. But the evil currents will never tire of writhing, and

the shadows which are no shadows are forever changing, in the Path of

Murty the Proud.

"There Is Sorrow on the Sea"

BY SIR GILBERT PARKER

YORK FACTORY, HUDSON'S BAY.

23rd September, 1747.

MY DEAR COUSIN FANNY--It was a year last April Fool's Day, I left you

on the sands there at Mablethorpe, no more than a stone's throw from

the Book-in-Hand, swearing that you should never see or hear from me

again. You remember how we saw the coastguards flash their lights

here and there, as they searched the sands for me? how one came

bundling down the bank, calling, "Who goes there?" and when I said,

"A friend," he stumbled, and his light fell to the sands and went

out, and in the darkness you and I stole away: you to your home, with

a whispering, "God-bless-you, Cousin Dick," over your shoulder, and I

with a bit of a laugh that, maybe, cut you to the heart, and that

split in a sob in my own throat--though you didn't hear that.

'Twas a bad night's work that, Cousin Fanny, and maybe I wish it

undone; and maybe I don't; but a devil gets into the heart of a man

when he has to fly from the lass he loved, while the friends of his

youth go hunting him with muskets, and he has to steal out of the

back-door of his own country and shelter himself, like a cold

sparrow, up in the eaves of the world.

Ay, lass, that's how I left the fens of Lincolnshire a year last

April Fool's Day. There wasn't a dyke from Lincoln town to

Mablethorpe that I hadn't crossed with a running jump; and there

wasn't a break in the shore, or a sink-hole in the sand, or a clump

of rushes, or a samphire bed, from Skegness to Theddlethorpe, that I

didn't know like every line of your face. And when I was a slip of a

lad--ay, and later, too--how you and I used to snuggle into little

nooks of the sand-hills, maybe just beneath the coastguard's hut, and

watch the tide come swilling in--daisies you used to call the

breaking surf, Cousin Fanny! And that was like you, always with a

fancy about everything you saw. And when the ships, the

fishing-smacks with their red sails, and the tall-masted brigs, went

by, taking the white foam on their canvas, you used to wish that you

might sail away to the lands you'd heard tell of from old skippers

that gathered round my uncle's fire in the Book-in-Hand. Ay, a grand

thing I thought it would be, too, to go riding round the world on a

well-washed deck, with plenty of food and grog, and maybe, by-and-by,

to be first mate, and lord it from fo'castle bunk to stern-rail!

You did not know, did you, who was the coastguardsman that stumbled

as he came on us that night? It looked a stupid thing to do that,

and let the lantern fall. But, lass, 'twas done o' purpose. That

was the one man in all the parish that would ha' risked his neck to

let me free. 'Twas Lancy Doane, who's give me as many beatings in

his time as I him. We were always getting foul one o' t'other since

I was big enough to shy a bit of turf at him across a dyke, and there

isn't a spot on's body that I haven't hit, nor one on mine that he

hasn't mauled. I've sat on his head, and he's had his knee in my

stomach till I squealed, and we never could meet without back-talking

and rasping 'gainst the grain. The night before he joined the

coastguardsmen, he was down at the Book-in-Hand, and 'twas little

like that I'd let the good chance pass--I might never have another;

for Gover'ment folk will not easy work a quarrel on their own

account. I mind him sittin' there on the settle, his shins against

the fire, a long pipe going, and Casey of the "Lazy Beetle," and

Jobbin the mate of the "Dodger," and Little Faddo, who had the fat

Dutch wife down by the Ship Inn, and Whiggle the preaching

blacksmith. And you were standin' with your back to the shinin'

pewters, and the great jug of ale with the white napkin behind you;

the light o' the fire wavin' on your face, and your look lost in the

deep hollow o' the chimney. I think of you most as you were that

minute, Cousin Fanny, when I come in. I tell you straight and fair,

that was the prettiest picture I ever saw; and I've seen some rare

fine things in my travels. 'Twas as if the thing had been set by

some one just to show you off to your best. Here you were, a slip of

a lass, straight as a bulrush, and your head hangin' proud on your

shoulders; yet modest too, as you can see off here in the North the

top of the golden-rod flower swing on its stem. You were slim as

slim, and yet there wasn't a corner on you; so soft and full and firm

you were, like the breast of a quail; and I mind me how the shine of

your cheeks was like the glimmer of an apple after you've rubbed it

with a bit of cloth. Well, there you stood in some sort of smooth,

plain, clingin' gown, a little bit loose and tumblin' at the throat,

and your pretty foot with a brown slipper pushed out, just savin' you

from bein' prim. That's why the men liked you--you didn't carry a

sermon in your waist-ribbon, and the Lord's Day in the lift o' your

chin; but you had a smile to give when 'twas the right time for it,

and men never said things with you there that they'd have said before

many another maid.

'Twas a thing I've thought on off here, where I've little to do but

think, how a lass like you could put a finger on the lip of such

rough tykes as Faddo, Jobbin, and the rest, keepin' their rude words

under flap and button. Do you mind how, when I passed you comin' in,

I laid my hand on yours as it rested on the dresser? That hand of

yours wasn't a tiny bit of a thing, and the fingers weren't all

taperin' like a simperin' miss from town, worked down in the mill of

quality and got from graftin' and graftin', like one of them roses

from the flower-house at Mablethorpe Hall--not fit to stand by one o'

them that grew strong and sweet with no fancy color, in the garden o'

the Book-in-Hand. Yours was a hand that talked as much as your lips

or face, as honest and white; and the palm all pink, and strong as

strong could be, and warmin' every thread in a man's body when he

touched it. Well, I touched your hand then, and you looked at me and

nodded, and went musin' into the fire again, not seemin' to hear our

gabble.

But, you remember--don't you?--how Jobbin took to chaffin' of Lancy

Doane, and how Faddo's tongue got sharper as the time got on, and

many a nasty word was said of coastguards and excisemen, and all that

had to do with law and gover'ment. Cuts there were at some of

Lancy's wild doings in the past, and now and then they'd turn to me,

saying what they thought would set me girdin' Lancy too. But I had

my own quarrel, and I wasn't to be baited by such numskulls. And

Lancy--that was a thing I couldn't understand--he did no more than

shrug his shoulder and call for more ale, and wish them all good

health and a hundred a year. I never thought he could ha' been so

patient-like. But there was a kind of little smile, too, on his

face, showin' he did some thinkin'; and I guessed he was bidin' his

time.

I wasn't as sharp as I might ha' been, or I'd ha' seen what he was

waitin' for, with that quiet provokin' smile on his face, and his

eyes smoulderin' like. I don't know to this day whether you wanted

to leave the room when you did, though 'twas about half after ten

o'clock, later than I ever saw you there before. But when my uncle

came in from Louth, and gave you a touch on the shoulder, and said:

"To bed wi' you, my lass," you waited for a minute longer, glancin'

round on all of us, at last lookin' steady at Lancy; and he got up

from his chair, and took off his hat to you with a way he had. You

didn't stay a second after that, but went away straight, sayin'

good-night to all of us; but Lancy was the only one on his feet.

Just as soon as the door was shut behind you, Lancy turned round to

the fire, and pushed the log with his feet in a way a man does when

he's thinkin' a bit. And Faddo gave a nasty laugh, and said:

"Theer's a dainty sitovation. Theer's Mr. Thomas Doane, outlaw and

smuggler, and theer's Mr. Lancy Doane, coastguardsman. Now, if them,

two should 'appen to meet on Lincolnshire coast, Lord, theer's a

sitovation for ye--Lord, theer's a cud to chew! Ere's one gentleman

wants to try 'is 'and at 'elpin' Prince Charlie, and when 'is 'elp

doesn't amount to anythink, what does the King on 'is throne say? He

says, "As for Thomas Doane, Esquire, aw've doone wi' 'im!" And

theer's another gentleman, Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire. He turns pious,

and says, "Aw'm goin' for a coastguardsman!" What does the King on

his throne say? 'E says, "Theer's the man for me!" But aw says,

"Aw've doone, aw've doone wid Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire, and be damned

to 'im." He! he! Theer's a fancy sitovation for ye. Mr. Thomas

Doane, Esquire, smuggler and outlaw, an' Mr. Lancy Doane, Esquire,

coastguardsman. Aw've doone. Ho! ho! That gits into my crop."

I tell you these things Cousin Fanny, because I'm doubtin' if you

ever heard them, or knew exactly how things stood that night. I

never was a friend of Lancy Doane, you understand, but it's only fair

that the truth be told about that quarrel, for like as not he

wouldn't speak himself, and your father was moving in and out; and, I

take my oath, I wouldn't believe Faddo and the others if they were to

swear on the Bible. Not that they didn't know the truth when they

saw it, but they did love just to let their fancy run. I'm livin'

over all the things that happened that night--livin' them over

to-day, when everything's quiet about me here, so lonesome. I wanted

to go over it all, bit by bit, and work it out in my head just as you

and I used to do the puzzle games we played in the sands. And maybe,

when you're a long way off from things you once lived, you can see

them and understand them better. Out here, where it's so lonely, and

yet so good a place to live in, I seem to get the hang o' the world

better, and why some things are, and other things aren't; and I

thought it would pull at my heart to sit down and write you a long

letter, goin' over the whole business again; but it doesn't. I

suppose I feel as a judge does when he goes over a lot of evidence,

and sums it all up for the jury. I don't seem prejudiced one way or

another. But I'm not sure that I've got all the evidence to make me

ken everything; and that's what made me bitter wild the last time

that I saw you. Maybe you hadn't anything to tell me, and maybe you

had, and maybe, if you ever write to me out here, you'll tell me if

there's anything I don't know about them days.

Well, I'll go back now to what happened when Faddo was speakin' at my

uncle's bar. Lancy Doane was standin' behind the settle, leanin' his

arms on it, and smokin' his pipe quiet. He waited patient till Faddo

had done, then he comes round the settle, puts his pipe up in the

rack between the rafters, and steps in front of Faddo. If ever the

devil was in a man's face, it looked out of Lancy Doane's that

minute. Faddo had touched him on the raw when he fetched out that

about Tom Doane. All of a sudden Lancy swings, and looks at the

clock.

"It's half-past ten, Jim Faddo," he said, "and aw've got an hour an'

a half to deal wi' you as a Lincolnshire lad. At twelve o'clock aw'm

the Gover'ment's, but till then aw'm Lancy Doane, free to strike or

free to let alone; to swallow dirt or throw it; to take a lie or give

it. And now list to me; aw'm not goin' to eat dirt, and aw'm goin'

to give you the lie, and aw'm goin' to break your neck, if I swing

for it to-morrow, Jim Faddo. And here's another thing aw'll tell

you. When the clock strikes twelve, on the best horse in the country

aw'll ride to Theddlethorpe, straight for the well that's dug you

know where, to find your smuggled stuff, and to run the irons round

your wrists. Aw'm dealin' fair wi' you that never dealt fair by no

man. You never had an open hand nor soft heart; and because you've

made money, not out o' smugglin' alone, but out o' poor devils of

smugglers that didn't know rightly to be rogues, you think to fling

your dirt where you choose. But aw'll have ye to-night as a man, and

aw'll have ye to-night as a King's officer, or aw'll go damned to

hell."

Then he steps back a bit very shiny in the face, and his eyes like

torchlights, but cool and steady. "Come on now," he says, "Jim

Faddo, away from the Book-in-Hand, and down to the beach under the

sand-hills, and we'll see man for man--though, come to think of it,

y' are no man," he said--"if ye'll have the right to say when aw'm a

King's officer that you could fling foul words in the face of Lancy

Doane. And a word more," he says; "aw wouldn't trust ye if an Angel

o' Heaven swore for ye. Take the knife from the belt behind your

back there, and throw it on the table, for you wouldn't bide by no

fair rules o' fightin'. Throw the knife on the table," he says,

comin' a step forward.

Faddo got on to his feet. He was bigger built than Lancy, and a bit

taller, and we all knew he was devilish strong in his arms. There

was a look in his face I couldn't understand. One minute I thought

it was fear, and another I thought it was daze; and maybe it was

both. But all on a' sudden something horrible cunnin' come into it,

and ugly too.

"Go to the well, then, since ye've found out all about it," he says,

"but aw've an hour and a half start o' ye, Lancy Doane."

"Ye've less than that," says Lancy back to him, "if ye go with me to

the sands first."

At that my uncle stepped in to say a word for peacemaking but Lancy

would have none of it. "Take the knife and throw it on the table,"

he said to Faddo once more, and Faddo took it out and threw it down.

"Come on, then," Faddo says, with a sneerin' laugh; "we'll see by

daybreak who has the best o' this night's work," and he steps toward

the door.

"Wait a minute," says Lancy, gettin' in front of him. "Now take the

knife from your boot. Take it," he says again, "or aw will. That's

like a man, to go to a fist-fight wi' knives. Take it," he said;

"aw'll gi' ye till aw count four, and if ye doan't take it, aw'll

take it meself. One!" he says steady and soft. "Two!" Faddo never

moved. "Three!" The silence made me sick, and the clock ticked like

hammers. "Four!" he said, and then he sprang for the boot, but

Faddo's hand went down like lightnin', too. I couldn't tell exactly

how they clinched, but once or twice I saw the light flash on' the

steel. Then they came down together, Faddo under, and when I looked

again Faddo was lying eyes starin' wide, and mouth all white with

fear, for Lancy was holding the knife-point at his throat. "Stir an

inch," says Lancy, "and aw'll pin ye to the lid o' hell."

And three minutes by the clock he knelt there on Faddo's chest, the

knife-point touching the bone in 's throat. Not one of us stirred,

but just stood lookin', and my own heart beat so hard it hurt me, and

my uncle steadyin' himself against the dresser. At last Lancy threw

the knife away into the fire.

"Coward!" he said. "A man would ha' taken the knife. Did you think

aw was goin' to gie my neck to the noose just to put your knife to

proper use? But don't stir till aw gie you the word, or aw'll choke

the breath o' life out o' ye." At that Faddo sprung to clinch Lancy's

arms, Lancy's fingers caught him in the throat, and I thought surely

Faddo was gone, for his tongue stood out a finger-length, and he was

black in the face.

"For God's sake, Lancy," said my uncle, steppin' forward, "let him

go."

At that Lancy said, "He's right enough. It's not the first time

aw've choked a coward. Throw cold water on him and gi' 'im brandy."

Sure enough, he wasn't dead. Lancy stood there watchin' us while we

fetched Faddo back, and I tell you, that was a narrow squeak for him.

When he got his senses again, and was sittin' there lookin' as if

he'd been hung and brought back to life, Lancy says to him: "There,

Jim Faddo, aw've done wi' you as a man, and at twelve o'clock aw'll

begin wi' ye as King's officer." And at that, with a good-night to

my uncle and all of us, he turns on his heels and leaves the

Book-in-Hand.

I tell you, Cousin Fanny, though I'd been ripe for quarrel wi' Lancy

Doane myself that night, I could ha' took his hand like a brother,

for I never saw a man deal fairer wi' a scoundrel than he did wi' Jim

Faddo. You see it wasn't what Faddo said about himself that made

Lancy wild, but that about his brother Tom; and a man doesn't like

his brother spoken ill of by dirt like Faddo, be it true or false.

And of Lancy's brother I'm goin' to write further on in this letter,

for I doubt that you know all I know about him, and the rest of what

happened that night and afterwards.

* * * * * * * *

Dear Cousin Fanny--I canna write all I set out to, for word come to

me, just as I wrote the last sentence above, that the ship was to

leave port three days sooner than was fixed for when I began. I have

been rare and busy since then, and I have no time to write more. And

so 'twill be another year before you get a word from me; but I hope

that when this letter comes you'll write one back to me by the ship

that sails next summer from London. The summer's short and the

winter's long here, Cousin Fanny, and there's more snow than grass;

and there's more flowers in a week in Mablethorpe than in a whole

year here. But, lass, the sun shines always, and my heart keeps warm

in thinkin' of you, and I ask you to forgive me for any harsh word I

ever spoke, not forgettin' that last night when I left you on the

sands, and stole away like a thief across the sea. I'm going to tell

you the whole truth in my next letter, but I'd like you to forgive me

before you know it all, for 'tis a right lonely and distant land,

this, and who can tell what may come to pass in twice a twelvemonth!

Maybe a prayer on lips like mine doesn't seem in place, for I've not

lived as parson says man ought to live, but I think the Lord will

have no worse thought o' me when I say, God bless thee, lass, and

keep thee safe as any flower in His garden that He watereth with His

own hand. Write to me, lass: I love thee still, I do love thee.

DICK ORRY.

THE BOOK-IN-HAND INN,

MABLETHORPE, LINCOLNSHIRE.

_May-Day_, 1749.

Dear Cousin Dick--I think I have not been so glad in many years as

when I got your letter last Guy Fawkes Day. I was coming from the

church where the parson preached on plots and treasons, and obedience

to the King, when I saw the old postman coming down the road. I made

quickly to him, I know not why, for I had not thought to hear from

you, and before I reached him he held up his hand, showing me the

stout packet which brought me news of you. I hurried with it to the

inn, and went straight to my room and sat down by the window, where I

used to watch for your coming with the fishing fleet, down the sea

from the Dogger Bank. I was only a girl, a young girl, then, and the

Dogger Bank was, to my mind, as far off as that place you call York

Factory, in Hudson's Bay, is to me now. And yet I did not know how

very far it was until our schoolmaster showed me on a globe how few

days' sail it is to the Dogger Bank, and how many to York Factory.

But I will tell you of my reading of your letter, and of what I

thought. But first I must go back a little. When you went away that

wild, dark night, with bitter words on your lips to me, Cousin Dick,

I thought I should never feel the same again. You did not know it,

but I was bearing the misery of your trouble and of another's also,

and of my own as well; and so I said over and over again: Oh, why

will men be hard on women? Why do they look for them to be iron like

themselves, bearing double burdens as most women do? But afterward,

I settled to a quietness which I would not have you think was

happiness, for I have given up thought of that. Nor would I have you

think me bearing trouble sweetly, for sometimes I was most hard and

stubborn. But I lived on in a sort of stillness till that morning

when, sitting by my window, I read all you had written to me. And

first of all, I must tell you how my heart was touched at your words

about our childhood together. I had not thought it lay so deep in

your mind, Cousin Dick. It always stays in mine; but then, women

have more memories than men. The story of that night I knew; but

never fully as you have told it to me in your letter. Of what

happened after Lancy Doane left the inn, of which you have not

written, but promised the writing in your next letter, I think I know

as well as yourself. Nay, more, Cousin Dick. There are some matters

concerning what followed that night and after, which I know, and you

do not know. But you have guessed there was something which I did

not tell you, and so there was. And I will tell you of them now.

But I will take up the thread of the story where you dropped it, and

reel it out.

You left the inn soon after Lancy Doane, and James Faddo went then,

too, riding hard for Theddlethorpe, for he knew that in less than an

hour the coastguards would be rifling the hiding-places of his

smuggled stuff. You did not take a horse, but, getting a musket, you

walked the sands hard to Theddlethorpe.

I know it all, though you did not tell me, Cousin Dick. You had no

purpose in going, save to see the end of a wretched quarrel and a

smuggler's ill-scheme. You carried a musket for your own safety, not

with any purpose. It was a day of weight in your own life, for on

one side you had an offer from the Earl Fitzwilliam to serve on his

estate; and on the other to take a share in a little fleet of fishing

smacks, of which my father was part owner. I think you know to which

side I inclined, but that now is neither here nor there; and, though

you did not tell me, as you went along the shore you were more intent

on handing back and forth in your mind your own affairs, than of what

should happen at Theddlethorpe. And so you did not hurry as you

went, and, as things happened, you came to Faddo's house almost at

the same moment with Lancy Doane and two other mounted coastguards.

You stood in the shadow while they knocked at Faddo's door. You were

so near, you could see the hateful look in his face. You were

surprised he did not try to stand the coastguards off. You saw him,

at their bidding, take a lantern, and march with them to a shed

standing off a little from the house, nearer to the shore. Going a

round-about swiftly, you came to the shed first, and posted yourself

at the little window on the sea-side. You saw them enter with the

lantern, saw them shift a cider press, uncover the floor, and there

beneath, in a dry well, were barrels upon barrels of spirits, and

crouched among them was a man whom you all knew at once--Lancy's

brother, Tom. That, Cousin Dick, was Jim Faddo's revenge. Tom Doane

had got refuge with him till he should reach his brother, not knowing

Lancy was to be coastguard. Faddo, coming back from Mablethorpe,

told Tom the coastguards were to raid him that night; and he made him

hide in this safe place, as he called it, knowing that Lancy would

make for it.

For a minute after Tom was found no man stirred. Tom was quick of

brain and wit--would it had always been put to good purposes!--and

saw at once Faddo's treachery. Like winking he fired at the traitor,

who was almost as quick to return the fire. What made you do it I

know not, unless it was you hated treachery; but, sliding in at the

open door behind the coastguards, you snatched the lantern from the

hands of one, threw it out of the open door, and, thrusting them

aside, called for Tom to follow you. He sprang toward you over

Faddo's body, even as you threw the lantern, and catching his arm,

you ran with him toward the dyke.

"Ready for a great jump!" you said; "your life hangs on it." He was

even longer of leg than you. "Is it a dyke?" he whispered, as the

shots from three muskets rang after you. "A dyke. When I count

three, jump," you answered. I have read somewhere of the great leap

that one Don Alvarado, a Spaniard, made in Mexico, but surely never

was a greater leap than you two made that night, landing safely on

the other side, and making for the sea-shore. None of the

coastguardsmen, not even Lancy, could make the leap, for he was sick

and trembling, though he had fired upon his own brother. And so they

made for the bridge some distance above, just as the faint moon

slipped behind a cloud and hid you from their sight.

That is no country to hide in, as you know well--no caves, or hills,

or mazy coombes--just a wide, flat, reedy place, broken by open

wolds. The only refuge for both now was the sea. 'Twas a wild run

you two made, side by side, down that shore, keeping close within the

gloom of the sand-hills, the coastguards coming after, pressing you

closer than they thought at the time, for Tom Doane had been wounded

in the leg. But Lancy sent one back for the horses, he and the other

coming on; and so, there you were, two and two. 'Twas a cruel task

for Lancy that night, enough to turn a man's hair gray. But duty was

duty, though those two lads were more to each other than most men

ever are. You know how it ended. But I want to go all over it just

to show you that I understand. You were within a mile of

Mablethorpe, when you saw a little fishing smack come riding in, and

you made straight for it. Who should be in the smack but Solby, the

canting Baptist, who was no friend to you, or uncle, or any of us.

You had not time for bargaining or coaxing, and so, at the musket's

mouth, you drove him from the boat, and pushed it out just as Lancy

and his men came riding up. Your sail was up, and you turned the

lugger to the wind in as little time as could be, but the

coastguardsmen rode after you, calling you to give in. No man will

ever know the bitter trouble in Lancy's heart when he gave the order

to fire on you, though he did not fire himself. And you--do I not

know, Cousin Dick, what you did? Tom Doane was not the man to fire

at the three dark figures riding you down, not knowing which was his

brother. But you, you understood that; and you were in, you said to

yourself, and you'd play the game out, come what would. You raised

your musket and drew upon a figure. At that moment a coastguard's

musket blazed, and you saw the man you had drawn on was Lancy Doane.

You lowered your musket, and as you did a ball struck you on the

wrist.

Oh, I have thanked God a hundred times, dear Cousin Dick, that you

fired no shot that night, but only helped a hunted, miserable man

away, for you did get free. Just in the nick of time your sail

caught the wind bravely, and you steered for the open sea. Three

days from that, Tom Doane was safe at the Hague, and you were on your

way back to Lincolnshire. You came by a fishing boat to Saltfleet

Haven, and made your way down the coast toward Mablethorpe. Passing

Theddlethorpe, you went up to Faddo's house, and, looking through the

window, you saw Faddo, not dead, but being cared for by his wife.

Then you came on to Mablethorpe, and standing under my window at the

very moment when I was on my knees praying for the safety of those

who traveled by sea, you whistled, like a quail from the garden

below--the old signal. Oh, how my heart stood still a moment, and

then leaped, for I knew it was you. I went down to the garden, and

there you were. Oh, I was glad to see you, Cousin Dick!

You remember how I let you take me in your arms for an instant, and

then I asked if he was safe. And when you told me that he was, I

burst into tears, and I asked you many questions about him. And you

answered them quickly, and then would have taken me in your arms

again. But I would not let you, for then I knew--I knew that you

loved me, and, oh, a dreadful feeling came into my heart, and I drew

back, and could have sunk upon the ground in misery, but that there

came a thought of your safety. _He_ was safe, but you--you were

here, where reward was set for you. I begged you to come into the

house, that I might hide you there, but you would not. You had come

for one thing, you said, and only one. An hour or two, and then you

must be gone for London. And so you urged me to the beach. I was

afraid we might be seen, but you led me away from the cottages near

to the little bridge which crosses the dyke. By that way we came to

the sands, as we thought unnoted. But no, who should it be to see us

but that canting Baptist, Solby! And so the alarm was given. You

had come, dear Cousin Dick, to ask me one thing--if I loved you? and

if, should you ever be free to come back, I would be your wife? I

did not answer you; I could not answer you; and, when you pressed me,

I begged you to have pity on me, and not to speak of it. You thought

I was not brave enough to love a man open to the law. As if--as if I

knew not that what you did came out of a generous, reckless heart!

And on my knees--oh, on my knees--I ought to have thanked you for it.

But I knew not what to say; my lips were closed. And just then shots

were fired, and we saw the coastguards' lights. Then came Lancy

Doane stumbling down the banks, and our parting--our parting. Your

bitter laugh as you left me has rung in my ears ever since.

Do not think we have been idle here in your cause, for I myself went

to Earl Fitzwilliam and told him the whole story, and how you had

come to help Tom Doane that night. How do I know of it all? Because

I have seen a letter from Tom Doane. Well, the Earl promised to lay

your case before the King himself, and to speak for you with good

eager entreaty. And so, it may be, by next time I write, there will

go good news to you, and--will you then come back, dear Cousin Dick?

And I now want to tell you what I know, and what you do not know.

Tom Doane had a wife in Mablethorpe. He married her when she was but

sixteen--a child. But she was afraid of her father's anger, and her

husband soon after went abroad, became one of Prince Charlie's men,

and she's never seen him since. She never really loved him, but she

never forgot that she was his wife; and she always dreaded his coming

back; as well she might, for you see what happened when he did come.

I pitied her, dear Cousin Dick, with all my heart; and when Tom Doane

died on the field of battle in Holland last year, I wept with her and

prayed for her. And you would have wept too, man though you are, if

you had seen how grateful she was that he died in honorable fighting,

and not in a smuggler's cave at Theddlethorpe. She blessed you for

that, and she never ceases to work with me for the King's pardon for

you.

There is no more to say now, dear Cousin Dick, save that I would have

you know I think of you with great desire of heart for your

well-being, and I pray God for your safe return some day to the good

country which, pardoning you, will cast you out no more.

I am, dear Cousin Dick,

Thy most affectionate Cousin,

FANNY.

P.S.--Dear Dick, my heart bursts for joy. Enclosed here is thy

pardon, sent by the good Earl Fitzwilliam last night. I could serve

him on my knees forever. Dick, she that was Tom Doane's wife, she

loves thee. Wilt thou not come back to her? In truth, she always

loved thee. She was thy cousin; she is thy Fanny. Now thou knowest

all.

The Smugglers of the Clone

BY S. R. CROCKETT

"_Rise, Robin, rise! The partans are on the sands!_"

The crying at our little window raised me out of a sound sleep, for I

had been out seeing the Myreside lasses late the night before, and

was far from being wake-rife at two by the clock on a February

morning.

It was the first time the summons had come to me, for I was then but

young. Hitherto it was my brother John who had answered the raising

word of the free-traders spoken at the window. But now John had a

farm-steading of his own, thanks to Sir William Maxwell and to my

father's siller that had paid for the stock.

So with all speed I did my clothes upon me, with much eagerness and a

beating heart--as who would not, when, for the first time, he has the

privilege of man? As I went out to the barn I could hear my mother

(with whom I was ever a favorite) praying for me.

"Save the laddie--save the laddie!" she said over and over.

And I think my father prayed too; but, as I went, he also cried to me

counsels.

"Be sure you keep up the grappling chains--dinna let them clatter

till ye hae the stuff weel up the hill. The Lord keep ye! Be a guid

lad an' ride honestly. Gin ye see Sir William, keep your head doon,

an' gae by withoot lookin'. He's a magistrate, ye ken. But he'll

no' see you, gin ye dinna see him. Leave twa ankers a-piece o'

brandy an' rum at our ain dyke back. An' abune a', the Lord be wi'

ye, an' bring ye safe back to your sorrowing parents!"

So, with pride, I did the harness graith upon the sonsy back of Brown

Bess--the pad before where I was to sit--the lingtow and the hooked

chains behind. I had a cutlass, a jockteleg (or smuggler's

sheaf-knife), and a pair of brass-mounted pistols ready swung in my

leathern belt. Faith, but I wish Bell of the Mains could have seen

me then, ready to ride forth with the light-horsemen. She would

never scorn me more for a lingle-backed callant, I 'se warrant.

"Haste ye, Robin! Heard ye no' that the partans are on the sands?"

It was Geordie of the Clone who cried to me. He meant the

free-traders from the Isle, rolling the barrels ashore.

"I am e'en, as ready as ye are yoursel'!" I gave him answer, for I

was not going to let him boast himself prideful all, because he had

ridden out with them once or twice before. Besides, his horse and

accoutrement were not one half so good as mine. For my father was an

honest and well-considered man, and in good standing with the laird

and the minister, so that he could afford to do things handsomely.

We made haste to ride along the heuchs, which are very high, steep,

and rocky at this part of the coast.

And at every loaning-end we heard the clinking of the smugglers

chains, and I thought the sound a livening and a merry one.

"A fair guid-e'en and a full tide, young Airyolan!" cried one to me

as we came by Killantrae. And I own the name was sweet to my ears.

For it was the custom to call men by the names of their farms, and

Airyolan was my father's name by rights. But mine for that night,

because in my hands was the honor of the house.

Ere we got down to the Clone we could hear, all about in the

darkness, athwart and athwart, the clattering of chains, the stir of

many horses, and the voices of men.

Black Taggart was in with his lugger, the "Sea Pyet," and such a

cargo as the Clone men had never run--so ran the talk on every side.

There was not a sleeping wife nor yet a man left indoors in all the

parish of Mochrum, except only the laird and the minister.

By the time that we got down by the shore, there was quite a company

of the Men of the Fells, as the shore men called us--all dour, swack,

determined fellows.

"Here come the hill nowt!" said one of the village men, as he caught

sight of us. I knew him for a limber-tongued, ill-livered loon from

the Port, so I delivered him a blow fair and solid between the eyes,

and he dropped without a gurgle. This was to learn him how to speak

to innocent harmless strangers.

Then there was a turmoil indeed to speak about, for all the men of

the laigh shore crowded round us, and knives were drawn. But I

cried, "Corwald, Mochrum, Chippermore, here to me!" And all the

stout lads came about me.

Nevertheless, it looked black for a moment, as the shore men waved

their torches in our faces, and yelled fiercely at us to put us down

by fear.

Then a tall young man on a horse rode straight at the crowd which had

gathered about the loon I had felled. He had a mask over his face

which sometimes slipped awry. But, in spite of the disguise, he

seemed perfectly well known to all there.

"What have we here?" he asked, in a voice of questioning that had

also the power of command in it.

"'Tis these Men of the Fells that have stricken down Jock Webster of

the Port, Maister William!" said one of the crowd.

Then I knew the laird's son, and did my duty to him, telling him of

my provocation, and how I had only given the rascal strength of arm.

"And right well you did," said Maister William, "for these dogs would

swatter in the good brandy, but never help to carry it to the caves,

nor bring the well-graithed horses to the shore-side! Carry the loon

away, and stap him into a heather hole till he come to."

So that was all the comfort they got for their tale-telling. "And

you, young Airyolan," said Maister William, "that are so ready with

your strength of arm--there is even a job that you may do. Muckle

Jock, the Preventive man, rides to-night from Isle of Whithorn, where

he has been warning the revenue cutter. Do you meet him and keep him

from doing himself an injury."

"And where shall I meet him, Maister William?" I asked of the young

laird.

"Oh, somewhere on the heuch-taps," said he, carelessly; "and see,

swing these on your horse and leave them at Myrtoun on the by-going."

He called a man with a torch, who came and stood over me, while I

laid on Brown Bess a pair of small casks of some fine liqueur, of

which more than ordinary care was to be taken, and also a few

packages of soft goods, silks and laces as I deemed.

"Take these to the Loch Yett, and ca' Sandy Fergus to stow them for

ye. Syne do your work with the Exciseman as he comes hame. Gar him

bide where he is till the sun be at its highest to-morrow. And a

double share o' the plunder shall be lyin' in the hole at a back of

the dyke at Airyolan when ye ride hame the morn at e'en."

So I bade him a good-night, and rode my ways over the fields, and

across many burns to Myrtoun. As I went I looked back, and there,

below me, was a strange sight,--all the little harbor of the Clone

lighted up, a hurrying of men down to the shore, the flickering of

torches, and the lappering of the sea making a stir of gallant life

that set the blood leaping along the veins. It was, indeed, I

thought, worth while living to be a free-trader. Far out, I could

see the dark spars of the lugger "Sea Pyet," and hear the casks and

ankers dumping into the boats alongside.

Then I began to bethink me that I had a more desperate ploy than any

of them that were down there, for they were many, and I was but one.

Moreover, easily, as young Master William might say, "Meet Muckle

Jock, and keep him till the morn at noon!" the matter was not so easy

as supping one's porridge.

Now, I had never seen the Exciseman, but my brother had played at the

cudgels with Jock before this. So I knew more of him than to suppose

that he would bide for the bidding of one man when in the way of his

duty.

But when the young laird went away he slipped me a small, heavy

packet.

"Half for you and half for the gauger, gin he hears reason," he said.

By the weight and the jingle I judged it to be yellow Geordies, the

best thing that the wee, wee German lairdie ever sent to Tory

Mochrun. And not too plenty there, either! Though since the Clone

folk did so well with the clean-run smuggling from the blessed Isle

of Man, it is true that there are more of the Geordies than there

used to be.

So I rode round by the back of the White Loch, for Sir William had a

habit of daunering, over by the Airlour and Barsalloch, and in my

present ride I had no desire to meet with him.

Yet, as fate would have it, I was not to win clear that night. I had

not ridden more than half-way round the loch when Brown Bess went

floundering into a moss-hole, which are indeed more plenty than paved

roads in that quarter. And what with the weight of the pack, and her

struggling, we threatened to go down altogether. When I thought of

what my father would say, if I went home with my finger in my mouth,

and neither Brown Bess nor yet a penny's-worth to be the value of

her, I was fairly a-sweat with fear. I cried aloud for help, for

there were cot-houses near by. And, as I had hoped, in a little a

man came out of the shadows of the willow bushes.

"What want ye, yochel?" said he, in a mightily lofty tone.

"I'll 'yochel' ye, gin I had time. Pu' on that rope," I said, for my

spirit was disturbed by the accident. Also, as I have said, I took

ill-talk from no man.

So, with a little laugh, the man laid hold of the rope, and pulled

his best, while I took off what of the packages I could reach, ever

keeping my own feet moving, to clear the sticky glaur of the bog-hole

from them.

"Tak that hook out, and ease doon the cask, man!" I cried to him, for

I was in desperation; "I'll gie ye a heartsome gill, even though the

stuff be Sir William's!"

And the man laughed again, being, as I judged, well enough pleased.

For all that service yet was I not pleased to be called "yochel."

But, in the meantime, I saw not how, at the moment, I could begin to

cuff and clout one that was helping my horse and stuff out of a

bog-hole. Yet I resolved somehow to be even with him, for, though a

peaceable man, I never could abide the calling of ill names.

"Whither gang ye?" said he.

"To the Muckle Hoose o' Myrtoun," said I, "and gang you wi' me, my

man; and gie me a hand doon wi' the stuff, for I hae nae stomach for

mair warsling in bog-holes. And wha kens but that auld thrawn Turk,

Sir William, may happen on us?"

"Ken ye Sir William Maxwell?" said the man.

"Na," said I. "I never so muckle as set e'en on the auld wretch.

But I had sax hard days' wark cutting doon bushes, and makin' a road

for his daftlike carriage wi' wheels, for him to ride in to Mochrum

Kirk."

"Saw ye him never there?" said the man, as I strapped the packages on

again.

"Na," said I, "my faither is a Cameronian, and gangs to nae Kirk

hereaboots."

"He has gi'en his son a bonny upbringing, then!" quoth the man.

Now this made me mainly angry, for I cannot bide that folk should

meddle with my folk. Though as far as I am concerned myself I am a

peaceable man.

"Hear ye," said I, "I ken no wha ye are that speers so mony

questions. Ye may be the de'il himsel', or ye may be the enemy o'

Mochrum, the blackavised Commodore frae Glasserton. But, I can

warrant ye that ye'll no mell and claw unyeuked with Robin o'

Airyolan. Hear ye that, my man, and keep a civil tongue within your

ill-lookin' cheek, gin ye want to gang hame in the morning wi' an

uncracked croun!"

The man said no more, and by his gait I judged him to be some serving

man. For, as far as the light served me, he was not so well put on

as myself. Yet there was a kind of neatness about the creature that

showed him to be no out-door man either.

However, he accompanied me willingly enough till we came to the

Muckle House of Myrtoun. For I think that he was feared of his head

at my words. And indeed it would not have taken the kittling of a

flea to have garred me draw a staff over his crown. For there is

nothing that angers a Galloway man more than an ignorant, Lipsetting

town's body, putting in his gab when he desires to live peaceable.

So, when we came to the back entrance, I said to him: "Hear ye to

this. Ye are to make no noise, my mannie, but gie me a lift doon wi'

thae barrels cannily. For that dour old tod, the laird, is to ken

naething aboot this. Only Miss Peggy and Maister William, they ken.

'Deed, it was young William himsel' that sent me on this errand."

So with that the mannie gave a kind of laugh, and helped me down with

the ankers far better than I could have expected. We rolled them

into a shed at the back of the stables, and covered them up snug with

some straw and some old heather thatching.

"Ay, my lad," says I to him, "for a' your douce speech and fair words

I can see that ye hae been at this job afore!"

"Well, it is true," he said, "that I hae rolled a barrel or two in my

time."

Then, in the waft of an eye I knew who he was. I set him down for

Muckle Jock, the Excise officer, that had never gone to the

Glasserton at all, but had been lurking there in the moss, waiting to

deceive honest men. I knew that I needed to be wary with him, for he

was, as I had heard, a sturdy carl, and had won the last throw at the

Stoneykirk wrestling. But all the men of the Fellside have an

excellent opinion of themselves, and I thought I was good for any man

of the size of this one.

So said I to him: "Noo, chiel, ye ken we are no' juist carryin'

barrels o' spring water at this time o' nicht to pleasure King

George. Hearken ye: we are in danger of being laid by the heels in

the jail of Wigton gin the black lawyer corbies get us. Noo, there's

a Preventive man that is crawling and spying ower by on the heights

o' Physgill. Ye maun e'en come wi' me an' help to keep him oot o'

hairm's way. For it wad not be for his guid that he should gang doon

to the port this nicht!"

The man that I took to be the ganger hummed and hawed a while, till I

had enough of his talk and unstable ways.

"No back-and-forrit ways wi' Robin," said I. "Will ye come and help

to catch the King's officer, or will ye not?"

"No' a foot will I go," says he. "I have been a King's officer,

myself!"

Whereupon I laid a pistol to his ear, for I was in some heat.

"Gin you war King Geordie himsel', aye, or Cumberland either, ye

shall come wi' me and help to catch the gauger," said I.

For I bethought me that it would be a bonny ploy, and one long to be

talked about in these parts, thus to lay by the heels the Exciseman

and make him tramp to Glasserton to kidnap himself.

The man with the bandy legs was taking a while to consider, so I said

to him: "She is a guid pistol and new primed!"

"I'll come wi' ye!" said he.

So I set him first on the road, and left my horse in the stables of

Myrtoun. It was the gloam of the morning when we got to the turn of

the path by which, if he were to come at all, the new gauger would

ride from Glasserton. And lo! as if we had set a tryst, there he was

coming over the heathery braes at a brisk trot. So I covered him

with my pistol, and took his horse by the reins, thinking no more of

the other man I had taken for the gauger before.

"Dismount, my lad," I said. "Ye dinna ken me, but I ken you. Come

here, my brisk landlouper, and help to haud him!"

I saw the stranger who had come with me sneaking off, but with my

other pistol I brought him to a stand. So together we got the gauger

into a little thicket or planting. And here, willing or unwilling,

we kept him all day, till we were sure that the stuff would all be

run, and the long trains of honest smugglers on good horses far on

their way to the towns of the north.

Then very conscientiously I counted out the half of the tale of

golden guineas Master William had given me, and put them into the

pocket of the ganger's coat.

"Gin ye are a good, still-tongued kind of cattle, there is more of

that kind of yellow oats where these came from," said I. "But lie ye

here snug as a paitrick for an hour yet by the clock, lest even yet

ye should come to harm!"

So there we left him, not very sorely angered, for all he had posed

as so efficient and zealous a King's officer.

"Now," said I to the man that had helped me, "I promised ye half o'

Maister William's guineas, that he bade me keep, for I allow that it

micht hae been a different job but for your help. And here they are.

Ye shall never say that Robin of Airyolan roguit ony man--even a

feckless toon's birkie wi' bandy legs!"

The man laughed and took the siller, saying, "Thank'ee!" with an

arrogant air as if he handled bags of them every day. But,

nevertheless, he took them, and I parted from him, wishing him well,

which was more than he did to me. But I know how to use civility

upon occasion.

When I reached home I told my father, and described the man I had

met. But he could make no guess at him. Nor had I any myself till

the next rent day, when my father, having a lame leg where the colt

had kicked him, sent me down to pay the owing. The factor I knew

well, but I had my money in hand and little I cared for him. But

what was my astonishment to find, sitting at the table with him, the

very same man who had helped me to lay the Exciseman by the heels.

But now, I thought, there was a strangely different air about him.

And what astonished me more, it was this man, and not the factor, who

spoke first to me.

"Aye, young Robin of Airyolan, and are you here? Ye are a chiel with

birr and smeddum! There are the bones of a man in ye! Hae ye

settled with the gauger for shackling him by the hill of Physgill?"

Now, as I have said, I thole snash from no man, and I gave him the

word back sharply.

"Hae ye settled wi' him yoursel', sir? For it was you that tied the

tow rope!"

My adversary laughed, and looked not at all ill-pleased.

He pointed to the five gold Georges on the tables.

"Hark ye, Robin of Airyolan, these are the five guineas ye gied to me

like an honest man. I'll forgie ye for layin' the pistol to my lug,

for after all ye are some credit to the land that fed ye. Gin ye

promise to wed a decent lass, I'll e'en gie ye a farm o' your ain.

And as sure as my name is Sir William Maxwell, ye shall sit your

lifetime rent free, for the de'il's errand that ye took me on the

nicht of the brandy-running at the Clone."

I could have sunken through the floor when I heard that it was Sir

William himself--whom, because he had so recently returned from

foreign parts after a sojourn of many years, I had never before seen.

Then both the factor and the laird laughed heartily at my

discomfiture.

"Ken ye o' ony lass that wad tak' up wi' ye, Robin?" said Sir William.

"Half a dozen o' them, my lord," said I. "Lassies are neither ill to

seek nor hard to find when Robin of Airyolan gangs a-cortin'!"

"Losh preserve us!" cried the laird, slapping his thigh, "but I

mysel' never sallied forth to woo a lass so blithely confident!"

I said nothing, but dusted my knee-breeks. For the laird was no very

good-looking man, being gray as a badger.

"An' mind ye maun see to it that the bairns are a' loons, and as

staunch and stark as yoursel'!" said the factor.

"A man can but do his best," answered I, very modestly as I thought.

For I never can tell why it is that the folk will always say that I

have a good opinion of myself. But neither, on the other hand, can I

tell why I should not.

"That There Mason"

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL

I was in Ramsgate, in the pier-yard, and noticed the figure of a

boatman leaning against the wall of a building used by the Trinity

people. I stepped close, and looked at him. He was a little man,

curved; his hands were buried to the knuckles' end in his breeches

pockets; he wore a yellow sou'wester, and under it was a sour,

sneering, wicked face. His eyes were damp and sunk, and seemed to

discharge a thin liquor like pale ale, and he would not pull out his

hands to wipe them.

"What's your name?" said I.

He looked at me slowly, beginning at my waistcoat, and answered:

"What's that got to do with you?"

"Do you want a job?"

"What sorter job?" he replied, continuing to lean against the wall,

without any motion of his body, merely looking at me.

"The job of answering a civil question with a civil answer," said I.

He turned his head, and gazed at the sea without replying.

"What's that obelisk?" said I.

His head came back to its bearings, and he answered: "What's what?"

"That thing in granite, yonder; that tall stone spike. What is it?"

"Can yer read?"

"Better than you, I expect," I answered.

"Then why don't you go and find out for yourself?" said he, uttering

a small, hideous laugh.

"I rather fancy," said I, "that that spike was erected to commemorate

the landing of George IV. He was kind enough to condescend to land

at Ramsgate. Wasn't that good of him, Tommy? Blown here, maybe,

vomiting, to the pier-head, and rejoicing, under his waistcoats, to

get ashore anywhere and anyhow. And the snobs of Ramsgate go to the

expense of erecting that unwholesome and shocking memorial of so

abject a trifle as the landing of a fat immoral man at this port on

his way to London. Why don't you, and the like of you, level

it--knock the blamed thing into blocks of stone, and build a house

with them for a good man to live in?"

His eyes had come to the surface; they were running harder than ever.

He was in a rage.

"Look here," said he; "I don't know who y' are, but don't yer like

that there pillar?"

"No," I answered.

"Then why don't yer go home? There's nothen' to keep yer 'ere, I

'ope? Plenty of trains to all parts, and I'll carry yer bag for

nothen', allowin' you've got one, only for the satisfaction of seein'

the last of yer."

I told him I would remember that, and, bursting into uncontrollable

laughter at his peculiarly ugly, wicked face, I walked off, scarce

knowing but that I should feel the blow of "'arf a brick" in the back

of my head as I went.

I met a boatman with whom I had gone fishing on some occasions.

"Thomas," said I, pointing to the leaning figure, "who is that queer

little chap?"

"Jimmie Mason," replied Thomas, with a half-glance at the wall-scab,

then turning his back upon it.

"Has he ever been hung?" said I.

"Don't think he could have been quite old enough for it," he replied,

turning again to look at the little man. "They cut a man down from

the gibbet on the sand hills yonder," said he, pointing in the

direction of Deal, "when my father was a boy, and he used to say

that, when the man got sprung, he'd relate, in beautiful language,

how he felt when he was turned off."

"A dose of turning-off would do that gent in the sou'-wester a great

deal of good," said I. "He's a sort of man, you know, to murder you

when you're out fishing with him. He's a sort of man to stab you in

the back with a great clasp knife, and drag your body into the empty

house, which never lets ever after."

"Old Jim Mason's just the worst-tempered man on the coast. His heart

was turned black by a disappointment," said Thomas.

"Love?" said I.

"Why, not exactly love," he replied; "it was more in the hovelling

line."

"Is it a good yarn?" I asked. "If so, I'll stand two drinks; a pint

for you and a half-pint for me."

"It might be worth recording," said Thomas, taking the time occupied

by the harbor clock in striking twelve to reflect. "Anyways, pint or

no pint, here it is," and, folding his arms, this intelligent

"longshoreman" started thus:

"Some years ago, a gemman and a lady went out for a sail, and, as is

not always customary in these 'ere parts--though we've got some thick

heads among us, I can tell you,--they were capsized. The gemman was

drowned, the lady and the boatman saved, and the boat was picked up

and towed in--there she lies, "The 'Arbour Bud."

"The widder, as was natural, was in dreadful grief; and, in a day or

two, police bills was pasted about the walls, offering a reward of

50_l._ to any one who should recover the body. That there Mason, as

you see a-leaning agin that house, was just the party for a job of

this sort. He called 'em soft jobs. He was one of them men as would

walk about the rocks and sands arter a breeze of wind, hunting for

whatever he might find--be it a corpse that had come ashore to keep

him in good spirits, or the 'arf of a shoe. Him and Sam Bowler was

a-huntin' arter jewelery down among the rocks one day, and that there

Mason picked up a gold ring. He offered it to Bowler, who gave him

five shullens for it, and that night, at the sign of the 'Welcome

'Arp,' that there Mason swallowed some of his front teeth, and got

both eyes plugged, for Bowler, who weighs fourteen stun, had

discovered that the ring was brass.

"Well, that there Mason takes it into his head to go for a walk one

day arter the bills about the body had been pasted on the walls. He

walked in the direction of Broadstairs, and, comin' to the coastguard

station, he falls in with one of the men, a sort of relation of his.

They got yarning. The coastguard had a big telescope under his arm.

That there Mason asked leave to have a look, and he levels the glass

and begins to work about with it. The line of the Good'in Sands was

as plain as the nose on his face. It was low water, the whole

stretch of the shoal was visible, and it was a clear bright afternoon.

"'What's taken yer heye?' says the coastguard presently.

"'Nothen, oh, nothen," answered that there Mason. 'Sands show

oncommon plain to-day.'

"He handed back the glass to the coastguard, and then, instead of

continuing his walk, he returned to this here yard, and got into his

boat and pulled away out of the harbor.

"Now what do yer think he had seen in that telescope? A dead man

stranded on the Good'in Sands. There could be no mistake. That

there Mason belonged to the cocksure lot; _he_ never made a blunder

in all his life. It mightn't be the body as was advertised for, but,

if it was, 'twas a fifty-pound job; and that there Mason, without a

word, pulled out o' 'arbor feelin', I daresay, as if he'd got the

gold in his pocket, and the heavens was beginnin' to smile upon him.

"'Tis a long pull to the Good'ins, tide or no tide. None took any

notice of his goin' out. There was some boats a-fishin' in Pegwell

Bay, and if any man looked at that there Mason a-rowing out to sea,

he'd expect to see him bring up and drop a line over the side. He

rowed and rowed. The body lay upon the edge of the Sand, a long

distance away from the Gull lightship. He rowed and rowed. By and

by, standin' up, he pulls out a bit of a pocket-glass, and then

discovers that what he'd taken to be a man's dead body was nothen but

a small balk of timber, black with black seaweed, stretched out on

either side, so that at a distance it looked exactly like a corpse on

its back with its arms out.

"That there Mason might ha' burst himself with passion if he hadn't

been too dead beat with rowing. Even in them times he wasn't no

chicken. Well, thinks he to himself, since I've had all this here

labor merely to view a balk of timber, I may as well step ashore for

a spell of rest, and take a short cruise round, for who knows what I

might find? So what does the joker do but head his boat right in for

the sand, and then he jumps ashore. He made his boat fast to the

balk of timber. It was arter five, and the sun westerin' fast. He

drives his 'ands deep into his pockets, and slowly meanders, always

a-looking. What was these to find? He couldn't tell. There was

expectation, yer see, and that was a sort of joy to the 'eart of that

there Mason. Y'u'd hardly think it of a boatman, but it's true:

whilst that bally idiot was a-wandering about them sands searching

for whatever there might be, his boat, giving a tug at her painter,

frees the rope and drifts away on the tide, with that there man as

you are now a-looking at walking about the sands, his 'ands buried

deep and his eyes fixed, dreaming of lighting upon a sovereign or a

gold chain--you can never tell what passes in such an 'ead. Bym-by

he turns to look for his boat, and lo and be'old she's gone. There

she was half a mile off, quietly floating away to the norr'ard. The

sun was beginning to sink low; the night was coming along. The

people aboard the Gull lightship didn't see him or take any notice;

what was that there Mason going to do? There was no wreck to shelter

him. It might be that at Ramsgate they'd see a lonely man a-walking

about, and send a boat; but, as I've said, dusk was at 'and, and he

knew bloomin' well that if they didn't see him soon they'd never see

him again.

"He'd taken notice afore the darkness had drawn down of a cutter

bearing about northeast. He watched her now whilst it was light, for

it looked to him as if she was making a straight course for the

sands. It was plain she wasn't under no government. The wind blew

her along, and at eight o'clock that evening, when the moon was

rising and the tide making fast all about the sands, I'm blest if

that cutter didn't come quietly ashore, and lie as sweetly still as

if she was a young woman wore out with walkin'.

"I allow that it didn't take that there Mason a lifetime to scramble

aboard of her. She was a fine boat, 'bout sixteen or eighteen ton,

newly sheathed, and her sails shone white and new in the moon. When

he got aboard he sung out, 'Anybody here?' and he received no reply.

There was a bit of a forehatch; he put his 'ead into it and sung out,

and several times he sung out, and got no answer; he then walked aft.

I must tell you, it was a very quiet night, with a light breeze and

plenty of stars, and a growing moon. He looks through the bit of a

skylight, and sees nothen; puts his head in the companion-way and

sings out as afore. An abandoned wessel, he thinks to himself, and

his 'eart, you may be sure, turns to and rejoices.

"What should he do? Try to kedge her off himself? That was beyond

him. Send up a rocket, if he should find such a thing in the vessel?

S'elp me, he was that greedy he couldn't make up his mind to ask for

'elp. He took a look round the sea and considered. There was some

big lump of shadow out behind the sands--she looked like a French

smack; his boat was out of sight in the dark, but the cutter, he

noticed, carried a little jolly boat, amidships, right fair in the

wake of the gangway, easy to be launched, smack fashion, so that

there Mason felt his life was saved.

"He carried some lucifers in his pocket for lighting his pipe; he

stepped into the cabin, and struck a light. A lamp was hung up close

against his 'and; it was ready trimmed, and he set the wick afire,

and looked round. What did he see? As beautiful a little cabin as

the hinvention of man could figure. The sides of the wessel had been

picked out by artists, and that there Mason swears no man ever saw

finer pictures in his life--ladies a-bathin', gentlemen chasin' with

hounds, a steamer going along; both sides had been picked out into

pictures, and that there Mason looked around him with his mouth

opening and opening. There was likewise lookin' glasses; a thick

carpet; the lamps seemed to be made of silver, and there was such a

twinkling of silver all about, what with the 'andles of doors and a

lot of forks and spoons on the table, that Mason's eyes began to

dance in his evil old nut, and he reckoned himself a made man for

life. Look at him as he leans there.

"But what else did he see? The door of a cabin right aft stood open,

and half-way in and half-way out lay the body of a man; his throat

was most horribly cut; not by 's own 'hand. No man could nearly cut

his own 'ead half off as that chap's was. He'd been murdered, and

there was no man in that beautiful little cutter saving that bleedin'

corpse. It was a sight to have thickened the wind-pipe of most men,

and set them a-breathin' hard and tight; but he saw nothing but a man

with his throat cut. He took a look at him, and reckoned him to be a

furriner, as, indeed, the whole little ship seemed. It was a very

quiet night, and he stood looking at the dead body considering what

he should do. If he brought assistance from the shore, and the

cutter was towed into port, his share of the salvage money--for the

rewards are small in jobs of this sort when the weather is fine and

there is no risk of life--his share, I says, of the money would be

scarcely worth talking about. Same time, if he left the cutter to

lie, and it came on to blow, she'd go to pieces afore the morning.

That wasn't his consarn, he thought; he had come to the Good'ins on

the look-out for a job, and had got one, and he made up his mind to

make the most of his chances.

"So the first thing that there Mason did was to stoop down and

plunder the body. Plenty was on it. I can see in fancy the looks of

his face as he 'elped himself; he found a beautiful gold watch and

chain, a diamond ring, and another ring, a lot of gold coins in

French money in one pocket, and French money in silver coin in

another. He found a silver toothpick, an eye-glass, and I can't tell

you what besides. He was in high feather, a very 'appy man; he fills

his pockets with the forks and spoons, supposing them silver, tho'

they wasn't. He looked into the cabin where the dead body lay, but

found nothen but bed-clothes and male wearin' apparel hangin' to the

bulkhead. There was a chest of drawers full of good linen shirts and

vests and the like of that. But that there Mason thought of Cocky

Honour, the Customs man, and abandoned the idea of makin' up them

shirts into a parcel.

"It was his notion to get away in the cutter's jolly boat or dinghey,

and he stood looking about him to see if there was anything else he

could put in his pockets. All at once he heard a noise of men's

voices alongside, and, immediately arter, the 'eavy tread of

fishermen's boots over'ead. Afore he could get on deck, a big chap,

with a red night-cap on, came down the little companion-ladder, and

instantly roars out something in French. Down comes others--three or

four. 'Twas a minute or two afore they took notice of the Mason, who

stared back. They then set up a howl, and fell a-brandishing their

arms, as if they were gone stark mad.

"'You killee him!' roars one.

"'No, no,' sings out Mason, 'me no killee, me find him killee.'

"'You killee him,' roars the great man with the cap, lookin' most

ferocious, for that here Mason says his face was nearly all hair,

besides that he squinted most damnably, beggin' of your pardon. And

then he began to shout to the others, who shouted back at him, all

talkin' at the top of their voices, as is the custom in France when

excited, and all lookin' at that there Mason.

"Suddenly they all rushed at him, knocked him down, overhauled his

pockets, and brought out the spoons and forks and the dead gent's

gold watch and chain, and the rest of the plunder.

"'You killee!' roared the big man in the cap, and layin' hold of him,

they ran him into the cabin where the corpse was, and locked him up

with the body, and presently that there Mason, who was next door to

ravin' mad, felt that they was warping the cutter off--that, in

short, she was off, and, by the noise of passin' waters, either

sailing or in tow.

"And now to end this, sir, what do you think happened to that there

Mason? She was a French smack that had sighted and boarded the

cutter; that was a Frenchman likewise, and they towed her straight to

Boulogne, at which place they arrived at about ten o'clock in the

morning. Numbers was on the pier to see the uncommon sight of a

smack towing an abandoned cutter. That there Mason was handed over

to the authorities, charged with murder and robbery. The British

Consul took up the case. When the facts were stated, and inquiries

made, his innocence was established; but not afore he'd lain three

weeks in a beastly jail, fed on black bread, and denied his pipe. I

don't say he came home much changed; but I allow the disappointment

sunk as deep as his heart, and blacked it. And to this hour he's not

fit company for man nor beast. Look at him as he leans!"

Laughing together, we strolled off for our drinks, and I saw Mason

turn his head to watch us as we walked.

The Hand on the Latch

BY MARY CHOLMONDELEY

There came a man across the moor.

Fell and foul of face was he.

He left the path by the cross-roads three,

And stood in the shadow of the door.

MARY COLERIDGE.

She stood at her low window with its uneven wavering glass, and

looked out across the prairie. A little snow had fallen--not much,

only enough to add a sense of desolation to the boundless plain, the

infinite plain outside the four cramped walls of her log hut. The

log hut was like a tiny boat moored in some vast, tideless,

impassable sea. The immensity of the prairie had crushed her in the

earlier years of her married life, but gradually she had become

accustomed to it, then reconciled to it, at last almost a part of it.

The gray had come early to her thick hair, a certain fixity to the

quiet courage of her eyes. Her calm, steadfast face showed that she

was not given to depression, but nevertheless this evening, as she

stood watching for her husband's return, for the first distant speck

of him where the cart rut vanished into the plain, a sense of

impending misfortune enfolded her with the dusk. Was it because the

first snow had fallen? Ah me! how much it meant. It was as

significant for her as the gray pallor that falls on a sick man's

face. It meant the endless winter, the greater isolation instead of

the lesser, the powerlessness to move hand or foot in that

all-enveloping shroud; the struggle, not for existence--with him

beside her that was assured--not for luxury--she had ceased to care

for it, though he had not ceased to care for her sake--but for life

in any but its narrowest sense. Books, letters, human speech,

through the long months these would be almost entirely denied her.

The sudden remembrance of the larger needs of life flooded her soul,

touching to momentary semblance of movement many things long

cherished, but long since dead, like delicate sea plants beyond

high-water mark that cannot exist between the long droughts when the

neap tide does not come. She had known what she was doing when

against the wishes of her family she of the South had married him of

the North, when she left the busy city life she knew, and clave to

her husband, following him over the rim of the world, as women will

follow while they have feet to follow with. She was his superior in

birth, cultivation, refinement, but she had never regretted what she

had done. The regrets were his for her, for the poverty to which he

had brought her, and to which she had not been accustomed. She had

only one regret, if such a thin strip of a word as regret can be used

to describe her passionate controlled desolation, immense as the

prairie, because she had no child. Perhaps if they had had children

the walls of the log hut in the waste might have closed in on them

less rigidly. It might have become more of a home.

Her mind had taken its old mechanical bent, the trend of long habit

as she looked out from that low window. How often she had stood

there, and thought "If only we might have had a child." And now by

sheer force of habit she thought it yet again. And then a slow

rapture took possession of her whole being, mounted, mounted till she

leaned against the window-sill faint with joy. She was to have a

child after all. She had hardly dared believe it at first, but as

time had gone on a vague hope, quickly suppressed as unbearable, had

turned to suspense, suspense had alternated with the fierce despair

that precedes certainty. Certainty had come at last, clear and calm

and exquisite as dawn. She would have a child in the spring. What

was the winter to her now! Nothing but a step toward joy. The world

was all broken up and made new. The prairie, its great loneliness,

its deathlike solitude, were gone out of her life. She was to have a

child in the spring. She had not dared to tell her husband till she

was sure. But she would tell him this evening when they were sitting

together over the fire.

She stood motionless in the deepening dusk, trying to be calm. And

at last in the far distance she saw a speck arise, as it were, out of

a crease in the level earth--her husband on his horse. How many

hundreds of times she had seen him appear over the rim of the world,

just as he was appearing now! She lit the lamp and put it in the

window. She blew the log fire to a blaze. The firelight danced on

the wooden walls, crowded with cheap pictures, and on the few

precious daguerreotypes that reminded her she too had brothers and

sisters and kin of her own, far away in one of those southern cities

where the war was still smouldering grimly on.

Her husband took his horse round and stalled him. Presently he came

in. They stood a moment together in silence as their custom was, and

she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Then she busied

herself with his supper, and he sat down heavily at the little table.

"Had you any difficulty this time in getting the money together?" she

asked.

Her husband was a tax collector.

"None," he said abstractedly, "at least--yes--a little. But I have

it all, and the arrears as well. It makes a large sum."

He was evidently thinking of something else. She did not speak

again. She saw something was troubling him.

"I heard news to-day at Phillip's," he said at last, "which I don't

like. If I had heard in time, and if I could have borrowed a fresh

horse, I would have ridden straight on to ----. But it was too late

in the day to be safe, and you would have been anxious what had

become of me if I had been out all night with all this money on me.

I shall go to-morrow as soon as it is light."

They discussed the business which took him to the nearest town thirty

miles away, where their small savings were invested--somewhat

precariously as it turned out. What was safe, who was safe while the

invisible war between North and South smouldered on and on? It had

not come near them, but as an earthquake which is engulfing cities in

one part of Europe will rattle a teacup without oversetting it on a

cottage shelf half a continent away--so the Civil War had reached

them at last.

"I take a hopeful view," lie said, but his face was overcast. "I

don't see why we should lose the little we have. It has been hard

enough to scrape it together, God knows. Promptitude and joint

action with Reynolds will probably save it. But I must be prompt."

He still spoke abstractedly, as if even now he were thinking of

something else.

He began to take out of the leathern satchel various bags of money.

"Shall I help you to count it?"

She often did so.

They counted the flimsy dirty paper money together, and put it all

back into the various labelled bags.

"It comes right," he said.

Suddenly she said, "But you can't pay it into the bank to-morrow if

you go to ----"

"I know," he said, looking at her; "that is what I have been thinking

of ever since I heard Phillip's news. I don't like leaving you with

all this money in the house, but I must."

She was silent. She was not frightened for herself, but it was state

money, not their own. She was not nervous as he was, but she had

always shared with him a certain dread of those bulging bags, and had

always been thankful to see him return safe--he never went twice by

the same track--after paying the money in. In those wild days when

men went armed with their lives in their hands it was not well to be

known to have large sums about you.

He looked at the bags, frowning.

"I am not afraid," she said.

"There is no real need to be," he said after a moment. "When I leave

to-morrow morning it will be thought I have gone to pay it in.

Still--"

He did not finish his sentence, but she knew what was in his mind:

the great loneliness of the prairie. Out in the white night came the

short, sharp yap of a wolf.

"I am not afraid," she said again.

"I shall only be gone one night," he said.

"I have often been a night alone."

"I know," he said, "but somehow it's worse leaving you with so much

money in the house."

"No one knows it will be there."

"That is true," he said, "except that everyone knows I have been

collecting large sums."

"They will think you have gone to pay it in as usual."

"Yes," he said with an effort.

Then he got up, and went to his tool box. She watched him open it,

seeing him in a new light, which encompassed him with even greater

love. "If I tell him to-night," she thought, "it will make him even

more anxious about leaving me. Perhaps he would refuse to go, and he

must go. I will not tell him till he comes back."

The resolution not to speak was like taking hold of a piece of iron

in frost. She had not known it would hurt so much. A new

tremulousness, sweet and strange, passed over her--not cowardice, not

fear, not of the heart nor of the mind, but a sort of emotion of the

whole being.

"I will not tell him," she said again.

Her husband got out his tools, took up a plank from the floor, and

put the money into a hole beneath it, beside their small valuables,

such as they were, in a biscuit tin. Then he replaced the plank,

screwed it down, and she drew back a small fur mat over the place.

He put away the tools and then came and stood in front of her. He

was not conscious of her transfiguration, and she dropped her eyes

for fear of showing it.

"I shall start early," he said, "as soon as it is light, and I shall

be back before sundown the day after to-morrow. I know it is

unreasonable, but I shall go easier in my mind if you will promise me

one thing."

"What is it?"

"Not to go out of the house, or to let any one else come in on any

pretence whatever, while I am away," he said "Bar everything, and

stay inside."

"I sha'n't want to go out."

He made an impatient movement.

"Promise me that come what will you will let no one in during my

absence," he said.

"I promise."

"Swear it."

She hesitated.

"Swear it to please me," he said.

"I swear that I will let no one into the house, on any pretext

whatever, until you come back," she said, smiling at him.

He sighed and relapsed into his chair, and gave way to the great

fatigue that possessed him.

The next morning he started soon after daybreak, but not until he had

brought her in sufficient fuel to last several days. There had been

more snow in the night, fine snow like salt, but not enough to make

traveling difficult. She watched him ride away, and silenced the

voice within her which always said as she saw him go, "You will never

see him again, you have heard his voice for the last time." Perhaps,

after all, the difference between the brave and the cowardly lies in

how they deal with that voice. Both hear it. She silenced it

instantly. It spoke again more insistently: "You have heard his

voice, felt his kiss, for the last time. He will never see the face

of his child." She silenced it again, and went about her work.

The day passed as countless other days had passed. She was

accustomed to be much alone. She had work to do, enough and to

spare, within the little home which was to become a real home, please

God, in the spring. The evening fell almost before she expected it.

She locked and barred the doors, and closed the shutters of the

windows. She made all secure, as she had done many a time before.

And then putting aside her work, she took down the newest of her

well-worn books lately sent her from New Orleans and began to read:

Oui, sans doute, tout meurt; ce monde est un grand rêve,

Et le peu de bonheur qui nous vient en chemin,

Nous n'avon pas plus tôt ce roseau dans la main,

Que le vent nous l'enlève.

Que le vent nous l'enlève. She repeated the last words to herself.

Ah! no. The wind could not take her happiness out of her hand.

A wandering wind had arisen at nightfall, and it came softly across

the snow and tried the doors and windows as with a furtive hand. She

could hear it coming as from an immense distance, passing with a

sigh, returning plaintive, homeless, forlorn, to whisper round the

house:

Pai vu sous le soleil tomber bien d'autres choses

Que les feuilles des bois, et l'écume des eaux,

Bien d'autres s'en aller que le parfum des roses

Et le chant des oiseaux.

That wind meant more snow. Involuntarily she laid down her book and

listened to it.

How like the sound of the wind was to wandering footsteps, slowly

drawing near, creeping round the house. She could almost have

fancied that a hand touched the shutters, was even now trying to

raise the latch of the door.

A moment of intense silence, in which the wind seemed to hold its

breath and listen without, while she listened within, and then a low,

distinct knock upon the door.

She did not move.

"It is the wind," she said to herself; but she knew it was not.

The knock came again, low, urgent, not to be denied.

She had become very cold. She had supposed fear was an emotion of

the mind. She had not reckoned for this slow paralysis of the body.

She managed to creep to the window and unbar the shutter an inch or

two. By pressing her face against the extreme corner of the pane she

could just discern in the snow light part of a man's figure, wrapped

in a long cloak.

She barred the window once more. She was not surprised. She knew

now that she had known it always. She had pretended to herself that

the thief would not come; but she was expecting him when he knocked.

And he stood there, outside. Presently he would be inside.

He knocked yet again, this time more loudly. What need was there for

silence when for miles and miles round there was no ear to hear save

that of a chance prairie dog?

She laid hold upon her courage, seeing that it was her only refuge,

and went to the door.

"Who is there?" she said through a chink.

A man's voice, low and feeble, replied, "Let me in."

"I cannot let you in."

There was a short silence.

"I pray you let me in," he said again.

"I have told you I cannot. Who are you?"

"I am a soldier, wounded. I'm trying to get back to my friends at

----." He mentioned a settlement about fifty miles north. "I have

missed my way, and I can't drag myself any further."

Her heart swung violently between suspicion and compassion.

"I am alone in the house," she said. "My husband is away, and he

made me promise not to let anyone in on any pretence whatever during

his absence."

"Then I shall die on your doorstep," said the voice. "I can't drag

myself any further."

There was another silence.

"It is beginning to snow," he said.

"I know," she said; and he heard the trouble in her voice.

"Open the door and look at me," he said, "and see if I can do you any

harm."

She opened the door and stood on the threshold, barring the way. He

was leaning against the doorpost with his head against it, as she had

often seen her husband lean when he was talking to her on a summer

evening. Something in his attitude, so like her husband's, touched

her strangely. Supposing he were in need, and pleaded for help in

vain!

The man turned his face toward her. It was sunk and hollow, ravaged

with pain, an evil-looking face. His right arm was in a sling under

his tattered military cloak. He seemed to have made his final

effort, and now stood staring dumbly at her.

"My husband will never forgive me," she said with a sort of sob.

He said nothing more. He seemed at the last point of exhaustion.

Through the dim white night a few flakes of snow fell upon his harsh,

repellent face and on his bandaged arm.

A sudden wave of pity carried all before it.

She beckoned him into the house, and locked and barred the door. She

put him in her husband's chair by the fire. He hardly noticed

anything. He seemed stupefied. He sat staring alternately at the

fire and at her. When she asked him to what regiment he belonged he

did not answer.

She set before him the supper she had prepared for herself, and

chafed his hard, emaciated dirty hand till the warmth returned to it.

Then he ate, with difficulty at first, then with slow voracity, all

she had put before him.

A semblance of life returned gradually to him.

"I was pretty near done up when I knocked," he said several times.

She dressed his wound, which did not appear very deep, wrapped it in

fresh bandages, and readjusted his sling. He took it all as a matter

of course.

She made up a little bed of rugs and blankets for him in the back

kitchen. When she came back to the living room she found he had

dragged himself to his feet, and was looking vacantly at a little

picture of President Lincoln on the mantel-shelf. She showed him the

bed and told him to lie down on it. He obeyed her implicitly, like a

child. She left him, and presently heard him cast himself down. A

few minutes later she went to the door and listened. His heavy,

regular breathing told her he was asleep.

She went back to the kitchen and sat down by the fire.

Was he really asleep? Was it all feigned--the wound, the story, the

exhaustion? Had she been trapped? Oh! what had she done? What had

she done?

She seemed like two people. One self, silent, alert, experienced,

fearless, knew that she had allowed herself to be deluded in spite of

being warned, knew that her feelings had been played upon, made use

of, not even dexterously made use of; knew that she had disobeyed her

husband, broken her solemn oath to him, plunged him with herself into

disgrace if the money were stolen. And in the eyes of that self it

was already stolen. It was still under the plank beneath her feet,

but it was already stolen.

The other self, tremulous, inconsequent, full of irresistible

tenderness for suffering and weakness even in its uncouthest garb,

said incessantly:

"I could do no less. If I die for it, still I could do no less.

Somebody brought him into the world. Some woman cried for joy and

anguish when he was born. He would have died if I had not taken him

in. I could do no less."

Through the long hours she sat by the fire, unable to reconcile

herself to going upstairs to her own room and to bed.

Once she got up and noiselessly took down her husband's revolver from

the mantel-shelf and examined it. He had taken its fellow with him,

and apparently contrary to his custom he had taken the powder flask

with him too, for it was gone from its nail. The revolvers were

always kept loaded, but--by some evil chance the one that remained

was unloaded. She could have sworn she had seen her husband load it

two days ago. Why was this numbness creeping over her again? She

got out powder and bullets from a small store she had of her own,

loaded and primed it, and laid it on the table beside her.

The night had become very still. Her hearing seemed to reach out

till she felt she could have heard a coyote move in its hole miles

away. The log fire creaked and shifted. The tall clock in the

corner ticked, catching its chain now and then, as its manner was.

The wooden walls shrunk and groaned a little. The small home-like

sounds only accentuated the enormous silence without. Suddenly in

the midst of them a real sound fell upon her ear; very low but

different, not like the fragmentary inadvertent murmur of the hut; a

small, purposeful, stealthy sound, aware of itself. She listened as

she had listened before, without moving. It was not louder than the

whittling of a mouse behind the wainscot, hardly louder than the

scraping of a mole's thin hand in the soil. It continued. Then it

stopped. It was only her foolish fancy, after all. There it was

again. Where did it come from?

The man in the next room?

She took up the lamp and crept down the narrow passage to the door of

the back kitchen. His loud, even breathing sounded distinctly

through the crannies of the ill-fitting door. Surely it was

overloud. She listened to it. She could hear nothing else. Was his

breathing a pretence? She opened the door noiselessly, and went in,

shading the light with her hand.

She bent over the sleeping man. At the first glance her heart sank,

for he had not taken off his boots. But as she looked hard at him

her suspicions died within her. He lay on his back, with his coarse,

emaciated face toward her, his mouth open, showing his broken teeth.

The sleep of utter exhaustion was upon him. She could have killed

him as he lay. He was not acting. He was really asleep.

She crept out of the room again, leaving the door ajar, and went back

to the kitchen.

Hardly had she sat down when she heard the sound again. It was too

faint to reach her except when she was in the kitchen. She knew now

where it came from--the door. Some one was picking the lock.

The instant the sleeping man was out of her sight she suspected him

again.

Was he really asleep, after all? He had not taken off his boots.

When she came back from making his bed she had found him standing by

the mantel-shelf. Had he unloaded the pistol in her absence? Would

he presently get up, and open the door to his confederates?

Her mind rose clear and cold and unflinching. She took up the

pistol, and then laid it down again. She wanted a more noiseless

weapon. She got out her husband's great clasp-knife from the open

tool box, took the lamp, and crept back to the man's bedside. She

should be able to kill him. Certainly she should be able to kill

him; and then she should have the pistol for the other one.

But he still slept heavily. When she saw him again, again her

suspicions fell from her. She knew he was asleep.

She shook him by the shoulder, noiselessly, but with increasing

violence, until he opened his eyes with a groan. Then only she

remembered that she was shaking his wounded arm. He saw the knife in

her hand, and raised his left arm as if to ward off the blow.

"Listen," she whispered, close to his ear. "Don't speak. There is a

man trying to break into the house. You must get up and help me."

He stared at her, vaguely at first, but with growing intelligence.

The food and sleep had restored him somewhat to himself. He sat up

on the couch.

"Take off my boots," he whispered; "I tried and could not."

Her last suspicion of him vanished. She cut the laces with her

knife, and dragged his boots off. They stuck to his feet, and bits

of the woollen socks came off with them. They had evidently not been

taken off for weeks. While she did it he whispered, "Why should any

one be wanting to break in? There's nothing here to take."

"Yes, there is," she said. "There's a lot of money."

"Good Lord! Where?"

"Under the floor in the kitchen."

"Then it's the kitchen they'll make for. You bet they know where the

money is if they know it's here. Are there many of 'em?"

"I don't know."

"Well, we shall know soon enough," said the man. He had become

alert, keen. "Have you any pistols?"

"Yes, one."

"Fetch it, but don't make a sound, mind."

She stole away, and returned with the pistol. She would have put it

into his hand, but he pushed it away.

"It's no use to me," he said, "with my arm in a sling. I will see

what I can do with my left hand and the knife. Can you shoot?"

"Yes."

"Can you hit anything?"

"Yes."

"To be depended on?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's darned lucky. How long will that door hold?"

They were both in the little passage by now, pressed close together,

listening to the furtive pick, pick of some one at the lock.

"I don't think it will hold more than a minute."

"Now, look here," he said, "I shall go and stand at the foot of the

stair, and knife the second man, if there is a second. The first man

I'll leave to you. There's a bit of light outside from the snow.

He'll let in enough light to see him by as he opens the door. Don't

wait. Fire at him as he comes in, and don't stop; go on firing at

him till he drops. You've got six bullets. Don't you make any

mistake and shoot me. I've had enough of that already. Now you look

carefully where I'm going to stand, and when I'm there you put out

the lamp."

He spoke to her as a man does to his comrade.

That she could be frightened did not seem to enter his calculations.

He moved with catlike stealth to the foot of the tiny staircase and

flattened himself against the wall. Then he stretched his left arm

once or twice as if to make sure of it, licked the haft of the knife,

and nodded at her.

She instantly put out the lamp.

All was dark save for a faint thread of light which outlined the

door. Across the thread something moved once--twice. The sound of

picking ceased. Then another sound succeeded it, a new one, unlike

the last, as if something were being gently prised open, wrenched.

"The bar will hold," she said to herself, and then remembered for the

first time that the rung into which the bar slid had been loose these

many days. It was giving now.

It had given!

The door opened silently, and a man came in.

For a moment she saw him clear, with the accomplice snow-light behind

him. She did not hesitate. She shot once and again. He fell and

struggled violently up, and she shot again. He fell and dragged

himself to his knees, and she shot again. Then he sank gently and

slowly down as if tired, with his face against the wall, and moved no

more.

The man on the stairs rushed out and looked through the open door.

"By G--, he was single-handed!" he said.

Then he stooped over the prostrate man and turned him over on his

back.

"Dead!" he said, chuckling. "Well done, Missus!--stone dead!"

He was masked.

The dirty left hand tore the mask callously off the gray face.

The woman had drawn near and looked over his shoulder.

"Do you know him?" said the man.

For a moment she did not answer, and the pistol which had done its

work so well dropped noisily out of her palsied hand.

"He is a stranger to me," she said, looking fixedly at her husband's

fading face.

The Stories of the Three Burglars

FRANK R. STOCKTON

I am a householder in a pleasant country neighborhood, about twenty

miles from New York. My family consists of myself and wife, our boy,

George William, aged two, two maid-servants, and a man; but in the

summer we have frequent visitors, and at the time of which I am about

to write my Aunt Martha was staying with us.

My house is large and pleasant, and we have neighbors near enough for

social purposes and yet not too near or too many to detract from the

rural aspect of our surroundings. But we do not live in a paradise;

we are occasionally troubled by mosquitoes and burglars.

Against the first of these annoyances we have always been able to

guard ourselves, at least in a measure, and our man and the cook

declare that they have become so used to them that they do not mind

them; but to guard against burglars is much more difficult, and to

become used to them would, I think, require a great deal of practice.

For several months before the period of this narrative our

neighborhood had been subject to visits from burglars. From time to

time houses had been entered and robbed, and the offenders had never

been detected.

We had no police force, not even a village organization. There was a

small railway station near our house, and six miles away was the

county town. For fire and police protection each household was

obliged to depend upon itself.

Before the beginning of the burglarious enterprises in our midst, we

had not felt the need of much protection in this direction; sometimes

poultry was stolen, but this was a rare occurrence, and, although

windows and doors were generally fastened for the night, this labor

was often considered much more troublesome than necessary. But now a

great change had taken place in the feelings of our community. When

the first robbery occurred the neighbors were inclined to laugh about

it, and to say that Captain Hubbard's habit of sitting up after the

rest of his family had gone to bed and then retiring and forgetting

to close the front door had invited the entrance of a passing tramp.

But when a second and a third house, where windows and doors had not

been left open, had been entered, and, in a measure, despoiled,

people ceased to laugh; and if there had been any merriment at all on

the subject, it would have been caused by the extraordinary and

remarkable precautions taken against the entrance of thieves by

night. The loaded pistol became the favorite companion of the head

of the house; those who had no watch-dogs bought them; there were new

locks, new bolts, new fastenings. At one time there was a mounted

patrol of young men, which, however, was soon broken up by their

mothers. But this trouble was unavailing, for at intervals the

burglaries continued.

As a matter of course a great many theories were broached as to the

reasons for this disturbance in our hitherto peaceful neighborhood.

We were at such a distance from the ordinary centers of crime that it

was generally considered that professional burglars would hardly take

the trouble to get to us or to get away from us, and that, therefore,

the offenses were probably committed by unsuspected persons living in

this part of the country who had easy means of determining which

houses were worth breaking into and what method of entrance would be

most feasible. In this way some families, hitherto regarded as

respectable families, had fallen under suspicion.

So far, mine was the only house of any importance within the distance

of a mile from the station, which had not in some way suffered from

burglars. In one or two of these cases the offenders had been

frightened away before they had done any other injury than the

breaking of a window-shutter; but we had been spared any visitation

whatever. After a time we began to consider that this was an

invidious distinction. Of course we did not desire that robbers

should break into our house and steal, but it was a sort of implied

insult that robbers should think that our house was not worth

breaking into. We contrived, however, to bear up under this implied

contempt and even under the facetious imputations of some of our

lively neighbors, who declared that it looked very suspicious that we

should lose nothing, and even continue to add to our worldly goods,

while everybody else was suffering from abstractions.

I did not, however, allow any relaxation in my vigilance in the

protection of my house and family. My time to suffer had not yet

arrived, and it might not arrive at all; but if it did come it should

not be my fault. I therefore carefully examined all the new

precautions my neighbors had taken against the entrance of thieves,

and where I approved of them I adopted them.

Of some of these my wife and I did not approve. For instance, a tin

pan containing iron spoons, the dinner bell, and a miscellaneous

collection of hardware balanced on the top stair of the staircase,

and so connected with fine cords that a thief coming up the stairs

would send it rattling and bounding to the bottom, was looked upon by

us with great disfavor. The descent of the pan, whether by innocent

accident or the approach of a burglar, might throw our little boy

into a fit, to say nothing of the terrible fright it would give my

Aunt Martha, who was a maiden lady of middle age, and not accustomed

to a clatter in the night. A bull-dog in the house my wife would not

have, nor, indeed, a dog of any kind. George William was not yet old

enough to play with dogs, especially a sharp one; and if the dog was

not sharp it was of no use to have him in the house. To the ordinary

burglar-alarm she strongly objected. She had been in houses where

these things went off of their own accord, occasioning great

consternation; and, besides, she said that if thieves got into the

house she did not want to know it and she did not want me to know it;

the quicker they found what they came for and went away with it the

better. Of course, she wished them kept out, if such a thing were

possible; but if they did get in, our duty as parents of the dearest

little boy was non-interference. She insisted, however, that the

room in which the loveliest of children slept, and which, was also

occupied by ourselves, should be made absolutely burglar proof; and

this object, by means of extraordinary bolts and chains, I flattered

myself I accomplished. My Aunt Martha had a patent contrivance for

fastening a door that she always used, whether at home or traveling,

and in whose merit she placed implicit confidence. Therefore we did

not feel it necessary to be anxious about her; and the servants slept

at the top of the house, where thieves would not be likely to go.

"They may continue to slight us by their absence," said my wife, "but

I do not believe that they will be able to frighten us by their

presence."

I was not, however, so easily contented as my wife. Of course I

wished to do everything possible to protect George William and the

rest of the family, but I was also very anxious to protect our

property in all parts of the house. Therefore, in addition to

everything else I had done, I devised a scheme for interfering with

the plans of men who should feloniously break into our home.

After a consultation with a friend, who was a physician greatly

interested in the study of narcotic drugs, I procured a mixture which

was almost tasteless and without peculiar odor, and of which a small

quantity would in less than a minute throw an ordinary man into a

state of unconsciousness. The potion was, however, no more dangerous

in its effects than that quantity of ardent spirits which would cause

entire insensibility. After the lapse of several hours, the person

under the influence of the drug would recover consciousness without

assistance. But in order to provide against all contingencies my

friend prepared a powerful antidote, which would almost immediately

revive one who had been made unconscious by our potion.

The scheme that I had devised may possibly have been put into use by

others. But of this I know not. I thought it a good scheme and

determined to experiment with it, and, if possible, to make a trap

which should catch a burglar. I would reveal this plan to no one but

my friend the physician and my wife. Secrecy would be an important

element in its success.

Our library was a large and pleasant room on the ground floor of the

house, and here I set my trap. It was my habit to remain in this

room an hour or so after the rest of the family had gone to bed, and,

as I was an early riser, I was always in it again before it was

necessary for a servant to enter in the morning.

Before leaving the library for the night I placed in a conspicuous

position in the room a small table, on which was a tray holding two

decanters partially filled with wine, in the one red and in the other

white. There was also upon the tray an open box of biscuit and three

wine-glasses, two of them with a little wine at the bottom. I took

pains to make it appear that these refreshments had been recently

partaken of. There were biscuit crumbs upon the tray, and a drop or

two of wine was freshly spilled upon it every time the trap was set.

The table, thus arranged, was left in the room during the night, and

early in the morning I put the tray and its contents into a closet

and locked it up.

A portion of my narcotic preparation was thoroughly mixed with the

contents of each of the decanters in such proportions that a glass of

the wine would be sufficient to produce the desired effect.

It was my opinion that there were few men who, after a night walk and

perhaps some labor in forcibly opening a door or a window-shutter,

would not cease for a moment in pursuance of their self-imposed task

to partake of the refreshments so conveniently left behind them by

the occupants of the house when they retired to rest. Should my

surmises be correct, I might reasonably expect, should my house be

broken into, to find an unconscious burglar in the library when I

went down in the morning. And I was sure, and my wife agreed with

me, that if I should find a burglar in that room or any other part of

the house, it was highly desirable that he should be an unconscious

one.

Night after night I set my burglar trap, and morning after morning I

locked it up in the closet. I cannot say that I was exactly

disappointed that no opportunity offered to test the value of my

plan, but it did seem a pity that I should take so much trouble for

nothing. It had been some weeks since any burglaries had been

committed in the neighborhood, and it was the general opinion that

the miscreants had considered this field worked out and had

transferred their labors to a better-paying place. The insult of

having been considered unworthy the attention of the knights of the

midnight jimmy remained with us, but as all our goods and chattels

also remained with us we could afford to brook the indignity.

As the trap cost nothing my wife did not object to my setting it

every night for the present. Something might happen, she remarked,

and it was just as well to be prepared in more ways than one; but

there was a point upon which she was very positive.

"When George William is old enough to go about the house by himself,"

she said, "those decanters must not be left exposed upon the table.

Of course I do not expect him to go about the house drinking wine and

everything that he finds, but there is no knowing what a child in the

first moments of his investigative existence may do."

For myself, I became somewhat tired of acting my part in this little

farce every night and morning, but when I have undertaken anything of

this sort I am slow to drop it.

It was about three weeks since I had begun to set my trap when I was

awakened in the night by a sudden noise. I sat up in bed, and as I

did so my wife said to me sleepily--

"What is that? Was it thunder? There it is again!" she exclaimed,

starting up. "What a crash! It must have struck somewhere." I did

not answer. It was not thunder. It was something in the house, and

it flashed into my mind that perhaps my trap had been sprung. I got

out of bed and began rapidly to dress.

"What are you going to do?" anxiously asked my wife.

"I'm going to see what has happened," said I. At that moment there

was another noise. This was like two or three heavy footsteps,

followed by a sudden thump; but it was not so loud as the others.

"John," cried my wife, "don't stir an inch, it's burglars!" and she

sprang out of bed and seized me by the arm.

"I must go down," I said; "but there is really no reason for your

being frightened. I shall call David, and shall carry my pistol, so

there is really no danger. If there are thieves in the house they

have probably decamped by this time--that that is, if they are able

to do so, for of course they must know that noise would awaken the

soundest sleepers."

My wife looked at me and then slowly withdrew her hands from my arm.

"You promise me," she said, "if you find a burglar downstairs in the

possession of his senses you will immediately come back to me and

George William?"

I promised her, and, slipping on some clothes, I went out into the

second-story hall. I carried no light. Before I had reached the

bottom of the back stairs I heard David, my man, coming down. To be

sure it was he and not a burglar I spoke to him in a low voice, my

pistol raised in case of an unsatisfactory reply.

"I heard that noise, sir," he whispered, "and was going down to see

about it."

"Are you ready if it's thieves?" I whispered.

"I have got the biscuit-beater," he replied.

"Come on, then," said I, and we went downstairs.

I had left no light in the library, but there was one there now, and

it shone through the open door into the hallway. We stopped and

listened. There was no sound, and then slowly and cautiously we

approached the door of the library. The scene I beheld astounded me,

and involuntarily I sprang back a step or two. So did David; but in

an instant we saw that there was no need of retreat or defense.

Stretched upon the floor, not far from the doorway, lay a tall man,

his face upturned to the light of a bull's-eye lantern which stood by

the mantel-piece. His eyes were shut, and it was evident that he was

perfectly insensible. Near by, in the wreck of the small table,

glasses, and decanters, lay another man, apparently of heavier build.

He also was as still as a corpse. A little further back, half

sitting on the floor, with the upper part of his body resting against

the lounge, was another man with a black mask over his face.

"Are they dead?" exclaimed David, in an undertone of horror.

"No," said I, "they are not dead; they have been caught in my trap."

And I must admit that the consciousness of this created a proud

exultation of spirit within me. I had overmatched these rascals;

they were prostrated before me. If one of them moved, David and I

could kill him. But I did not believe there would be any killing,

nor any moving for the present.

In a high whisper, which could have been heard distinctly all over

the house, my wife now called to me from the top of the stairs.

"What is it?" she said. "What has happened?"

I stepped quickly to the stairway.

"Everything is all right," I said in a loud, distinct voice, intended

to assure my wife that there was no necessity for caution or alarm..

"I will be with you presently."

"I am glad to hear that nothing is the matter," said Aunt Martha, now

for the first time opening her door. "I was afraid something had

happened."

But I had business to attend to before I could go upstairs. In

thinking over and arranging this plan for the capture of burglars, I

had carefully considered its various processes, and had provided

against all the contingencies I could think of; therefore I was not

now obliged to deliberate what I should do. "Keep your eye on them,"

said I to David, "and if one of them moves be ready for him. The

first thing to do is to tie them hand and foot."

I quickly lighted a lamp, and then took from another shelf of the

closet a large coil of strong cotton rope, which I had provided for

such an occasion as the present.

"Now," said I to David, "I will tie them while you stand by to knock

over any one of them who attempts to get up."

The instrument with which David was prepared to carry out my orders

was a formidable one. In the days of my youth my family was very

fond of "Maryland biscuit," which owes much of its delicacy to the

fact that before baking it is pounded and beaten by a piece of heavy

iron. Some people used one kind of a beater and some another, but we

had had made for the purpose a heavy iron club a little over a foot

long, large and heavy at one end and a handle at the other. In my

present household Maryland biscuits were never made, but I had

preserved this iron beater as a memento of my boyhood, and when the

burglaries began in our vicinity I gave it to David to keep in his

room, to be used as a weapon if necessary. I did not allow him to

have a pistol, having a regard for my own safety in a sudden night

alarm, and nothing could be more formidable in a hand-to-hand

encounter than this skull-crushing club.

I began with the tall man, and rapidly tied his feet together with

many twists of the rope and as many knots. I then turned him over

and tied his elbows behind him in the same secure way. I had given

so much thought to the best method of securing a man by cords, that I

do not think this fellow could possibly have released himself when I

had finished with him.

David was obeying my orders and keeping a strict watch on the

prostrate men; but his emotions of amazement were so great that he

could not keep them down.

"What is the matter with them, sir?" he said. "How did they come so?"

"There is no time for talking now," I answered. "I will tell you all

about it when the men have been secured." I now turned my attention

to the man who was partly resting against the lounge. I first tied

his feet, and before letting him down to the floor, so as to get to

his arms, I removed his hat and his mask, which was made of black

muslin. I was surprised to see the beardless face of a young and

very good-looking man. He was well dressed, and had the general

appearance of a person belonging to theatrical circles. When his

arms had been tied, I told David he might lay down his

biscuit-beater, and help me with the third man, who was badly mixed

up with the debris of the refreshments. We hauled him out and tied

him up. He was rather a short man, but very heavy, and I could see

no signs of his having been hurt by the smash-up he made in falling.

We now proceeded to search the insensible burglars for arms. Upon

the tall man we found a large revolver, a heavy billy, which seemed

as if it had seen service, and a long-bladed knife. The stout man

carried two double-barrelled pistols, and upon one of the fingers of

his right hand wore a brass ring with a murderous-looking iron

protuberance upon it, which, when driven forward by his powerful arm,

was probably more dangerous than a billy. Upon the younger man we

found no arms at all, and his hip pocket contained nothing but a

small handbook on civil engineering.

I now briefly explained to David the nature of the trap which had

caught the burglars. He gazed upon me with a face glowing with

amazed admiration.

"What a head you have got, sir!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe

there is another man in this State who would have thought of that.

And what are you going to do with them now, sir; hang 'em? That's

what ought to be done with them, the hounds!"

"All I shall do," I answered, "will be to keep them till daylight,

and then I shall send word to the sheriff at Kennertown, and have him

send officers for them."

"Upon my word," exclaimed David, "they are in the worst kind of a

box."

Now my wife called me again. "What in the world are you doing down

there?" she called; "why don't you come upstairs?"

This annoyed me, for I was not yet ready to go upstairs. I wished to

resuscitate these fellows, for their stupor was so profound that I

began to fear that perhaps they had taken too much of the drug and

ought to be brought to their senses as speedily as possible. This

feeling was due more to my desire that serious injuries should not

occur to the rascals while in my house than to any concern for them.

"My dear," said I, stepping to the bottom of the stairs, "I have some

things to attend to down here which will occupy me a few minutes

longer; then I will come up to you."

"I can't imagine what the things are," she said, "but I suppose I can

wait," and she went into her room and closed her door after her.

I now began to consider what was to be done with the burglars after

they had been resuscitated. My first impulse was to rid the house of

them by carrying them out of doors and bringing them to their senses

there. But there was an objection to this plan. They would be

pretty heavy fellows to carry, and as it would be absolutely

necessary to watch them until they could be given into the charge of

the officers of the law, I did not want to stay out of doors to do

this, for the night air was raw and chilly, and I therefore

determined to keep them in the house. And as they could be

resuscitated better in a sitting position, they must be set up in

some way or other. I consulted David on the subject.

"You might put 'em up with their backs agin the wall, sir," said he,

"but the dirty beasts would spoil the paper. I wouldn't keep them in

a decent room like this. I'd haul 'em out into the kitchen, anyway."

But as they were already in the library I decided to let them stay

there, and to get them as speedily as possible into some position in

which they might remain. I bethought me of a heavy wooden settle or

bench with back and arms which stood on the side piazza. With

David's help I brought this into the room and placed it with its back

to the window.

"Now, then," said I to David, "we will put them on this bench, and I

will tie them fast to it. We cannot be too careful in securing them,

for if one of them were to get loose, even without arms, there is no

knowing what trouble he might make."

"Well, sir," said David, "if I'm to handle them at all, I'd rather

have been dead, as I hope they are, than have them alive; but you

needn't be afraid, sir, that any one of them will get loose. If I

see any signs of that I'll crack the rascal's skull in a jiffy."

It required a great deal of tugging and lifting to get those three

men on the bench, but we got them there side by side, their heads

hanging listlessly, some one way, some another. I then tied each one

of them firmly to the bench.

I had scarcely finished this when I again heard my wife's voice from

the top of the stairs.

"If any pipes have burst," she called down, "tell David not to catch

the water in the new milk-pans."

"Very well," I replied, "I'll see to it," and was rejoiced to hear

again the shutting of the bedroom door.

I now saturated a sponge with the powerful preparation which Dr.

Marks had prepared as an antidote, and held it under the nose of the

tall burglar. In less than twenty seconds he made a slight quivering

in his face as if he were about to sneeze, and very soon he did

sneeze slightly. Then he sneezed violently, raised his head, and

opened his eyes. For a moment he gazed blankly before him, and then

looked stupidly at David and at me. But in an instant there flashed

into his face the look of a wild beast. His quick, glittering eye

took in the whole situation at a glance. With a furious oath he

threw himself forward with such a powerful movement that he nearly

lifted the bench.

"Stop that," said David, who stood near him with his iron club

uplifted. "If you do that again I'll let you feel this."

The man looked at him with a fiery flash in his eyes, and then he

looked at me, as I stood holding the muzzle of my pistol within two

feet of his face. The black and red faded out of his countenance.

He became pale. He glanced at his companions bound and helpless.

His expression now changed entirely. The fury of the wild beast was

succeeded by a look of frightened subjection. Gazing very anxiously

at my pistol, he said, in a voice which, though agitated, was low and

respectful:

"What does this mean? What are you going to do? Will you please

turn away the muzzle of that pistol?"

I took no notice of this indication of my steadiness of hand, and

answered:

"I am going to bring these other scoundrels to their senses, and

early in the morning the three of you will be on your way to jail,

where I hope you may remain for the rest of your lives."

"If you don't get killed on your way there," said David, in whose

nervous hand the heavy biscuit-beater was almost as dangerous as my

pistol.

The stout man who sat in the middle of the bench was twice as long in

reviving as had been his companion, who watched the operation with

intense interest. When the burly scoundrel finally became conscious,

he sat for a few minutes gazing at the floor with a silly grin; then

he raised his head and looked first at one of his companions and then

at the other, gazed for an instant at me and David, tried to move his

feet, gave a pull at one arm and then at the other, and when he found

he was bound hard and fast, his face turned as red as fire and he

opened his mouth, whether to swear or yell I know not. I had already

closed the door, and before the man had uttered more than a

premonitory sound, David had clapped the end of his bludgeon against

his mouth.

"Taste that," he said, "and you know what you will get if you disturb

this family with any of your vile cursin' and swearin'."

"Look here," said the tall man, suddenly turning to the other with an

air of authority, "keep your mouth shut and don't speak till you're

spoken to. Mind that, now, or these gentlemen will make it the worse

for you."

David grinned as he took away his club.

"I'd gentlemen you," he said, "if I could get half a chance to do it."

The face of the heavy burglar maintained its redness, but he kept his

mouth shut.

When the younger man was restored to his senses, his full

consciousness and power of perception seemed to come to him in an

instant. His eyes flashed from right to left, he turned deadly

white, and then merely moving his arms and legs enough to make

himself aware that he was bound, he sat perfectly still and said not

a word.

I now felt that I must go and acquaint my wife with what had

happened, or otherwise she would be coming downstairs to see what was

keeping me so long. David declared that he was perfectly able to

keep guard over them, and I ran upstairs. David afterward told me

that as soon as I left the room the tall burglar endeavored to bribe

him to cut their ropes, and told him if he was afraid to stay behind

after doing this he would get him a much better situation than this

could possibly be. But as David threatened personal injury to the

speaker if he uttered another word of the kind, the tall man said no

more; but the stout man became very violent and angry, threatening

all sorts of vengeance on my unfortunate man. David said he was

beginning to get angry, when the tall man, who seemed to have much

influence over the other fellow, ordered him to keep quiet, as the

gentleman with the iron club no doubt thought he was doing right.

The young fellow never said a word.

When I told my wife that I had caught three burglars, and they were

fast bound in the library, she nearly fainted; and when I had revived

her she begged me to promise that I would not go downstairs again

until the police had carried away the horrible wretches. But I

assured her that it was absolutely necessary for me to return to the

library. She then declared that she would go with me, and if

anything happened she would share my fate. "Besides," she said, "if

they are tied fast so they can't move, I should like to see what they

look like. I never saw a burglar."

I did not wish my wife to go downstairs, but as I knew there would be

no use in objecting, I consented. She hastily dressed herself,

making me wait for her; and when she left the room she locked the

door on the sleeping George William, in order that no one should get

at him during her absence. As we passed the head of the stairs, the

door of my Aunt Martha's room opened, and there she stood, completely

dressed, with her bonnet on, and a little leather bag in her hand.

"I heard so much talking and so much going up and down stairs that I

thought I had better be ready to do whatever had to be done. Is it

fire?"

"No," said my wife; "it's three burglars tied in a bunch in the

library. I am going down to see them."

My Aunt Martha gasped, and looked as if she were going to sit down on

the floor.

"Goodness gracious!" she said, "if you're going I'll go too. I can't

let you go alone, and I never did see a burglar."

I hurried down and left the two ladies on the stairs until I was sure

everything was still safe; and when I saw that there had been no

change in the state of affairs, I told them to come down.

When my wife and Aunt Martha timidly looked in at the library door,

the effect upon them and the burglars was equally interesting. The

ladies each gave a start and a little scream, and huddled themselves

close to me, and the three burglars gazed at them with faces that

expressed more astonishment than any I had ever seen before. The

stout fellow gave vent to a smothered exclamation, and the face of

the young man flushed, but not one of them spoke.

"Are you sure they are tied fast?" whispered my Aunt Martha to me.

"Perfectly," I answered; "if I had not been sure I should not have

allowed you to come down."

Thereupon the ladies picked up courage and stepped further into the

room.

"Did you and David catch them?" asked my aunt; "and how in the world

did you do it?"

"I'll tell you all about that another time," I said, "and you had

better go upstairs as soon as you two have seen what sort of people

are these cowardly burglars who sneak or break into the houses of

respectable people at night, and rob and steal and ruin other

people's property with no more conscience or human feeling than is

possessed by the rats which steal your corn, or the polecats which

kill your chickens."

"I can scarcely believe," said Aunt Martha, "that that young man is a

real burglar."

At these words the eyes of the fellow spoken of glowed as he fixed

them on Aunt Martha, but he did not say a word, and the paleness

which had returned to his face did not change.

"Have they told you who they are?" asked my wife.

"I haven't asked them," I said. "And now don't you think you had

better go upstairs?"

"It seems to me," said Aunt Martha, "that those ropes must hurt them."

The tall man now spoke. "Indeed they do, madam," he said in a low

voice and very respectful manner, "they are very tight."

I told David to look at all the cords and see if any of them were too

tightly drawn.

"It's all nonsense, sir," said he, when he had finished the

examination; "not one of the ropes is a bit too tight. All they want

is a chance to pull out their ugly hands."

"Of course," said Aunt Martha, "if it would be unsafe to loosen the

knots I wouldn't do it. Are they to be sent to prison?"

"Yes," said I; "as soon as the day breaks I shall send down for the

police."

I now heard a slight sound at the door, and turning, saw Alice, our

maid of the house, who was peeping in at the door. Alice was a

modest girl, and quite pretty.

"I heard the noise and the talking, sir," she said, "and when I found

the ladies had gone down to see what it was, I thought I would come

too."

"And where is the cook," asked my wife; "don't she want to see

burglars?"

"Not a bit of it," answered Alice, very emphatically. "As soon as I

told her what it was she covered up her head with the bedclothes and

declared, ma'am, that she would never get up until they were entirely

gone out of the house."

At this the stout man grinned.

"I wish you'd all cover up your heads," he said. The tall man looked

at him severely, and he said no more.

David did not move from his post near the three burglars, but he

turned toward Alice and looked at her. We knew that he had tender

feelings toward the girl, and I think that he did not approve of her

being there.

"Have they stolen anything?" asked Aunt Martha.

"They have not had any chance to take anything away," I said; and my

wife remarked that whether they had stolen anything or not, they had

made a dreadful mess on the floor, and had broken the table. They

should certainly be punished.

At this she made a motion as if she would leave the room, and an

anxious expression immediately came on the face of the tall man, who

had evidently been revolving something in his mind.

"Madam," he said, "we are very sorry that we have broken your table,

and that we have damaged some of your glass and your carpet. I

assure you, however, that nothing of the kind would have happened but

for that drugged wine, which was doubtless intended for a medicine,

and not a beverage; but weary and chilled as we were when we arrived,

madam, we were glad to partake of it, supposing it ordinary wine."

I could not help showing a little pride at the success of my scheme.

"The refreshment was intended for fellows of your class, and I am

very glad you accepted it."

The tall man did not answer me, but he again addressed my wife.

"Madam," he said, "if you ladies would remain and listen to me a few

moments, I am sure I would make you aware that there is much to

extenuate the apparent offense which I have committed to-night."

My wife did not answer him, but turning to me said, smiling, "If he

alludes to their drinking your wine he need not apologize."

The man looked at her with an expression as if her words had pained

him.

"Madam," he said, "if you consent to listen to my explanations and

the story of this affair, I am sure your feelings toward me would not

be so harsh."

"Now, then," said my Aunt Martha, "if he has a story to tell he ought

to be allowed to tell it, even in a case like this. Nobody should be

judged until he has said what he thinks he ought to say. Let us hear

his story."

I laughed. "Any statement he may make," I said, "will probably

deserve a much stronger name than stories."

"I think that what you say is true," remarked my wife; "but still if

he has a story to tell I should like to hear it."

I think I heard David give a little grunt; but he was too well bred

to say anything.

"Very well," said I, "if you choose to sit up and hear him talk, it

is your affair. I shall be obliged to remain here anyway, and will

not object to anything that will help to pass away the time. But

these men must not be the only ones who are seated. David, you and

Alice can clear away that broken table and the rest of the stuff, and

then we might as well sit down and make ourselves comfortable."

Alice, with cloth and brush, approached very timidly the scene of the

disaster; but the younger burglar, who was nearest to her, gazed upon

her with such a gentle and quiet air that she did not seem to be

frightened. When she and David had put the room in fair order, I

placed two easychairs for my wife and Aunt Martha at a moderate

distance from the burglars, and took another myself a little nearer

to them, and then told David to seat himself near the other end of

the bench, and Alice took a chair at a little distance from the

ladies.

"Now, then," said Aunt Martha to the burglars, "I would like very

much to hear what any one of you can say in extenuation of having

broken into a gentleman's house by night."

Without hesitation the tall man began his speech. He had a long and

rather lean, close-shaven face, which at present bore the expression

of an undertaker conducting a funeral. Although it was my aunt who

had shown the greatest desire to hear his story, he addressed himself

to my wife. I think he imagined that she was the more influential

person of the two.

"Madam," said he, "I am glad of the opportunity of giving you and

your family an idea of the difficulties and miseries which beset a

large class of your fellow-beings of whom you seldom have any chance

of knowing anything at all, but of whom you hear all sorts of the

most misleading accounts. Now, I am a poor man. I have suffered the

greatest miseries that poverty can inflict. I am here, suspected of

having committed a crime. It is possible that I may be put to

considerable difficulty and expense in proving my innocence."

"I shouldn't wonder," I interrupted. To this remark he paid no

attention.

"Considering all this," he continued, "you may not suppose, madam,

that as a boy I was brought up most respectably and properly. My

mother was a religious woman, and my father was a boat-builder. I

was sent to school, and my mother has often told me that I was a good

scholar. But she died when I was about sixteen, and I am sure had

this not happened I should never have been even suspected of breaking

the laws of my country. Not long after her death my father appeared

to lose interest in his business, and took to rowing about the river

instead of building boats for other people to row. Very often he

went out at night, and I used to wonder why he should care to be on

the water in the darkness, and sometimes in the rain. One evening at

supper he said to me: 'Thomas, you ought to know how to row in the

dark as well as in the daytime. I am going up the river to-night,

and you can come with me.'

"It was about my ordinary bedtime when we took a boat with two pair

of oars, and we pulled up the river about three miles above the city."

"What city?" I asked.

"The city where I was born, sir," he said, "and the name of which I

must be excused from mentioning for reasons connected with my only

surviving parent. There were houses on the river bank, but they were

not very near each other. Some of them had lights in them, but most

of them were dark, as it must have been after eleven o'clock. Before

one of them my father stopped rowing for a moment and looked at it

pretty hard. It seemed to be all dark, but as we pulled on a little

I saw a light in the back of the house.

"My father said nothing, but we kept on, though pulling very easy for

a mile or two, and then we turned and floated down with the tide.

'You might as well rest, Thomas,' said he, 'for you have worked

pretty hard.'

"We floated slowly, for the tide was just beginning to turn, and when

we got near the house which I mentioned, I noticed that there was no

light in it. When we were about opposite to it father suddenly

looked up and said, not speaking very loud, 'By George! if that isn't

Williamson Green's house. I wasn't thinking of it when we rowed up,

and passed it without taking notice of it. I am sorry for that, for

I wanted to see Williamson, and now I expect he has gone to bed.'

"'Who is Mr. Green?' I asked.

"'He is an old friend of mine,' said my father, 'and I haven't seen

him for some little while now. About four months ago he borrowed of

me a sextant, quadrant, and chronometer. They were instruments I

took from old Captain Barney in payment of some work I did for him.

I wasn't usin' them, and Williamson had bought a catboat and was

studying navigation; but he has given up that fad now and has

promised me over and over to send me back my instruments, but he has

never done it. If I'd thought of it I would have stopped and got 'em

of him; but I didn't think, and now I expect he has gone to bed.

However, I'll row in shore and see; perhaps he's up yet.'

"You see, ma'am," said the speaker to my wife, "I'm tellin' you all

these particulars because I am very anxious you should understand

exactly how everything happened on this night, which was the

turning-point of my life."

"Very good," said Aunt Martha; "we want to hear all the particulars."

"Well, then," continued the burglar, "we pulled up to a stone wall

which was at the bottom of Green's place and made fast, and father he

got out and went up to the house. After a good while he came back

and said that he was pretty sure Williamson Green had gone to bed,

and as it wouldn't do to waken people up from their sleep to ask them

for nautical instruments they had borrowed, he sat down for a minute

on the top of the wall, and then he slapped his knee, not making much

noise, though.

"'By George!' he said, 'an idea has just struck me. I can play the

prettiest trick on Williamson that ever was played on mortal man.

Those instruments are all in a box locked up, and I know just where

he keeps it. I saw it not long ago, when I went to his house to talk

about a yacht he wants built. They are on a table in the corner of

his bedroom. He was taking me through the house to show me the

improvements he had made, and he said to me:

"'"Martin, there's your instruments. I won't trouble you to take

them with you, because they're heavy and you're not going straight

home, but I'll bring them to you day after to-morrow, when I shall be

goin' your way."

"'Now, then,' said my father, 'the trick I'm thinkin' of playing on

Williamson is this: I'd like to take that box of instruments out of

his room without his knowing it and carry them home, having the boat

here convenient; and then in a day or two to write to him and tell

him I must have 'em, because I have a special use for 'em. Of course

he'll be awfully cut up, not having them to send back; and when he

comes down to my place to talk about it, and after hearing all he has

to say, I'll show him the box. He'll be the most dumbfoundedest man

in this State; and if I don't choose to tell him he'll never know to

his dying day how I got the box. And if he lies awake at night,

trying to think how I got it, it will serve him right for keeping my

property from me so long.'

"'But, father,' said I, 'if the people have gone to bed you can't get

into the house to play him your trick.'

"'That can be managed,' says he; 'I'm rather old for climbing myself,

but I know a way by which you, Thomas, can get in easy enough. At

the back of the house is a trellis with a grape-vine running over it,

and the top of it is just under one of the second-story windows. You

can climb up that trellis, Thomas, and lift up that window-sash very

carefully, so's not to make no noise, and get in. Then you'll be in

a back room, with a door right in front of you which opens into Mr.

and Mrs. Green's bedroom. There's always a little night lamp burning

in it, by which you can see to get about. In the corner, on your

right as you go into the room, is a table with my instrument-box

standing on it. The box is pretty heavy, and there is a handle on

top to carry it by. You needn't be afraid to go in, for by this time

they are both sound asleep, and you can pick up the box and walk out

as gingerly as a cat, having of course taken your shoes off before

you went in. Then you can hand the box out the back window to me--I

can climb up high enough to reach it--and you can scuttle down, and

we'll be off, having the best rig on Williamson Green that I ever

heard of in my born days.'

"I was a very active boy, used to climbing and all that sort of

thing, and I had no doubt that I could easily get into the house; but

I did not fancy my father's scheme.

"'Suppose,' I said, 'that Mr. Williamson Green should wake up and see

me; what could I say? How could I explain my situation?'

"'You needn't say anything,' said my father. 'If he wakes up blow

out the light and scoot. If you happen to have the box in your hand

drop it out the back window and then slip down after it. He won't

see us; but if he does he cannot catch us before we get to the boat;

but if he should, however, I'll have to explain the matter to him,

and the joke will be against me; but I shall get my instruments,

which is the main point, after all.'

"I did not argue with my father, for he was a man who hated to be

differed with, and I agreed to help him carry out his little joke.

We took off our shoes and walked quietly to the back of the house.

My father stood below, and I climbed up the trellis under the back

window, which he pointed out. The window-sash was down all but a

little crack to let in air, and I raised it so slowly and gently that

I made no noise. Then without any trouble at all I got into the room.

"I found myself in a moderate-sized chamber, into which a faint light

came from a door opposite the window. Having been several hours out

in the night my eyes had become so accustomed to darkness that this

light was comparatively strong and I could see everything.

"Looking about me my eyes fell on a little bedstead, on which lay one

of the most beautiful infants I ever beheld in my life. Its golden

hair lay in ringlets upon the pillow. Its eyes were closed, but its

soft cheeks had in them a rosy tinge which almost equalled the color

of its dainty little lips, slightly opened as it softly breathed and

dreamed." At this point I saw my wife look quickly at the bedroom

key she had in her hand. I knew she was thinking of George William.

"I stood entranced," continued the burglar, "gazing upon this babe,

for I was very fond of children; but I remembered that I must not

waste time, and stepped softly into the next room. There I beheld

Mr. and Mrs. Williamson Green in bed, both fast asleep, the gentleman

breathing a little hard. In a corner, just where my father told me I

should find it, stood the box upon the table.

"But I could not immediately pick it up and depart. The beautiful

room in which I found myself was a revelation to me. Until that

moment I had not known that I had tastes and sympathies of a higher

order than might have been expected of the youthful son of a

boat-builder. Those artistic furnishings aroused within a love of

the beautiful which I did not know I possessed. The carpets, the

walls, the pictures, the hangings in the windows, the furniture, the

ornaments--everything, in fact, impressed me with such a delight that

I did not wish to move or go away.

"Into my young soul there came a longing. 'Oh!' I said to myself,

'that my parents had belonged to the same social grade as that worthy

couple reposing in that bed; and oh! that I, in my infancy, had been

as beautiful and as likely to be so carefully nurtured and cultured

as that sweet babe in the next room.' I almost heaved a sigh as I

thought of the difference between these surroundings and my own, but

I checked myself; it would not do to make a noise and spoil my

father's joke.

"There were a great many things in that luxurious apartment which it

would have delighted me to look upon and examine, but I forebore.

"I wish I'd been there," said the stout man; "there wouldn't have

been any forbearin'."

The speaker turned sharply upon him.

"Don't you interrupt me again," he said angrily. Then, instantly

resuming his deferential tone, he continued the story.

"But I had come there by the command of my parent, and this command

must be obeyed without trifling or loss of time. My father did not

approve of trifling or loss of time. I moved quietly toward the

table in the corner, on which stood my father's box. I was just

about to put my hand upon it when I heard a slight movement behind

me. I gave a start and glanced backward. It was Mr. Williamson

Green turning over in his bed; what if he should awake? His back was

now toward me, and my impulse was to fly and leave everything behind

me; but my father had ordered me to bring the box, and he expected

his orders to be obeyed. I had often been convinced of that.

"I stood perfectly motionless for a minute or so, and when the

gentleman recommenced his regular and very audible breathing I felt

it safe to proceed with my task. Taking hold of the box I found it

was much heavier than I expected it to be; but I moved gently away

with it and passed into the back room.

"There I could not refrain from stopping a moment by the side of the

sleeping babe, upon whose cherub-like face the light of the night

lamp dimly shone. The little child was still sleeping sweetly, and

my impulse was to stop and kiss it; but I knew that this would be

wrong. The infant might awake and utter a cry and my father's joke

be spoiled. I moved to the open window, and with some trouble, and,

I think, without any noise, I succeeded in getting out upon the

trellis with the box under my arm. The descent was awkward, but my

father was a tall man, and, reaching upward, relieved me of my burden

before I got to the ground.

"'I didn't remember it was so heavy,' he whispered, 'or I should have

given you a rope to lower it down by. If you had dropped it and

spoiled my instruments, and made a lot of noise besides, I should

have been angry enough.'

"I was very glad my father was not angry, and following him over the

greensward we quickly reached the boat, where the box was stowed away

under the bow to keep it from injury.

"We pushed off as quietly as possible and rowed swiftly down the

river. When we had gone about a mile I suddenly dropped my oar with

an exclamation of dismay.

"'What's the matter?' cried my father.

"'Oh, I have done a dreadful thing!' I said. 'Oh, father, I must go

back!'

"I am sorry to say that at this my father swore.

"'What do you want to go back for?' he said.

"'Just to think of it! I have left open the window in which that

beautiful child was sleeping. If it should take cold and die from

the damp air of the river blowing upon it I should never forgive

myself. Oh, if I had only thought of climbing up the trellis again

and pulling down that sash! I am sure I could go back and do it

without making the least noise.' My father gave a grunt; but what

the grunt meant I do not know, and for a few moments he was silent,

and then he said:

"'Thomas, you cannot go back; the distance is too great, the tide is

against us, and it is time that you and I were both in our beds.

Nothing may happen to that baby; but, attend to my words now, if any

harm should come to that child it will go hard with you. If it

should die it would be of no use for you to talk about practical

jokes. You would be held responsible for its death. I was going to

say to you that it might be as well for you not to say anything about

this little venture until I had seen how Williamson Green took the

joke. Some people get angry with very little reason, although I

hardly believe he's that sort of a man; but now things are different.

He thinks all the world of that child, which is the only one they've

got; and if you want to stay outside of jail or the house of refuge I

warn you never to say a word of where you have been this night.'

"With this he began to row again, and I followed his example, but

with a very heavy heart. All that night I dreamt of the little child

with the damp night winds blowing in upon it."

"Did you ever hear if it caught cold?" asked Aunt Martha.

"No," replied the burglar, "I never did. I mentioned the matter to

my father, and he said that he had great fears upon the subject, for

although he had written to Williamson Green, asking him to return the

instruments, he had not seen him or heard from him, and he was afraid

that the child had died or was dangerously sick. Shortly after that

my father sent me on a little trip to the Long Island coast to

collect some bills from people for whom he had done work. He gave me

money to stay a week or two at the seashore, saying that the change

would do me good; and it was while I was away on this delightful

holiday that an event occurred which had a most disastrous effect

upon my future life. My father was arrested for burglary!

"It appeared--and I cannot tell you how shocked I was when I

discovered the truth:--that the box which I had carried away did not

contain nautical instruments, but was filled with valuable plate and

jewels. My unfortunate father heard from a man who had been

discharged from the service of the family whose house he had

visited--whose name, by the way, was not Green--where the box

containing the valuables mentioned was always placed at night, and he

had also received accurate information in regard to the situation of

the rooms and the best method of gaining access to them.

"I believe that some arrangement had been made between my father and

this discharged servant in regard to a division of the contents of

the box, and it was on account of a disagreement on this subject that

the man became very angry, and after pocketing what my father thought

was his fair share he departed to unknown regions, leaving behind a

note to the police which led to my father's arrest."

"That was a mean trick," said Aunt Martha.

The burglar looked at her gratefully.

"In the lower spheres of life, madam, such things often happen. Some

of the plate and jewels were found in my father's possession, and he

was speedily tried and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. And

now, can you imagine, ladies," said the tall burglar, apparently

having become satisfied to address himself to Aunt Martha as well as

my wife, "the wretched position in which I found myself? I was

upbraided as the son of a thief. I soon found myself without home,

without occupation, and, alas! without good reputation. I was

careful not to mention my voluntary connection with my father's crime

for fear that should I do so I might be compelled to make a statement

which might increase the severity of his punishment. For this reason

I did not dare to make inquiries concerning the child in whom I had

taken such an interest, and whose little life I had, perhaps,

imperilled. I never knew, ladies, whether that infant grew up or not.

"But I, alas! grew up to a life of hardship and degradation. It

would be impossible for persons in your sphere of life to understand

what I now was obliged to suffer. Suitable employment I could not

obtain, because I was the son of a burglar. With a father in the

State prison it was of no use for me to apply for employment at any

respectable place of business. I labored at one thing and another,

sometimes engaging in the most menial employments. I also had been

educated and brought up by my dear mother for a very different

career. Sometimes I managed to live fairly well, sometimes I

suffered. Always I suffered from the stigma of my father's crime;

always in the eyes of the community in which I lived--a community, I

am sorry to say, incapable, as a rule, of making correct judgments in

delicate cases like these--I was looked upon as belonging to the

ranks of the dishonest. It was a hard lot, and sometimes almost

impossible to bear up under.

"I have spoken at length, ladies, in order that you may understand my

true position; and I wish to say that I have never felt the crushing

weight of my father's disgrace more deeply than I felt it last

evening. This man," nodding toward the stout burglar, "came to me

shortly after I had eaten my supper, which happened to be a frugal

one, and said to me:

"'Thomas, I have some business to attend to to-night, in which you

can help me if you choose. I know you are a good mechanic.'

"'If it is work that will pay me,' I answered, 'I should be very glad

to do it, for I am greatly in need of money.'

"'It will pay,' said he; and I agreed to assist him.

"As we were walking to the station, as the business to be attended to

was out of town, this man, whose name is James Barlow, talked to me

in such a way that I began to suspect that he intended to commit a

burglary, and openly charged him with this evil purpose. 'You may

call it burglary or anything else you please,' said he; 'property is

very unequally divided in this world, and it is my business in life

to make wrong things right as far as I can. I am going to the house

of a man who has a great deal more than he needs, and I haven't

anything like as much as I need; and so I intend to take some of his

overplus--not very much, for when I leave his house he will still be

a rich man, and I'll be a poor one. But for a time my family will

not starve.'

"'Argue as you please, James Barlow,' I said, 'what you are going to

do is nothing less than burglary.'

"'Of course it is,' said he; 'but it's all right, all the same.

There are a lot of people, Thomas, who are not as particular about

these things as they used to be, and there is no use for you to seem

better than your friends and acquaintances. Now, to show there are

not so many bigots as there used to be, there's a young man going to

meet us at the station who is greatly interested in the study of

social problems. He is going along with us just to look into this

sort of thing and study it. It is impossible for him to understand

people of our class, or do anything to make their condition better,

if he does not thoroughly investigate their methods of life and

action. He's going along just as a student, nothing more; and he may

be down on the whole thing for all I know. He pays me five dollars

for the privilege of accompanying me, and whether he likes it or not

is his business. I want you to go along as a mechanic, and if your

conscience won't let you take any share in the profit, I'll just pay

you for your time.'

"'James Barlow,' said I, 'I am going with you, but for a purpose far

different from that you desire. I shall keep by your side, and if I

can dissuade you from committing the crime you intend I shall do so;

but if I fail in this, and you deliberately break into a house for

purposes of robbery, I shall arouse the inmates and frustrate your

crime.' Now, James Barlow," said he, turning to the stout man with a

severe expression on his strongly marked face, "is not what I have

said perfectly true? Did you not say to me every word which I have

just repeated?"

The stout man looked at the other in a very odd way. His face seemed

to broaden and redden, and he merely closed his eyes as he promptly

answered:

"That's just what I said, every blasted word of it. You've told it

fair and square, leavin' off nothin' and puttin' in nothin'. You've

told the true facts out and out, up and down, without a break."

"Now, ladies," continued the tall man, "you see my story is

corroborated, and I will conclude it by saying that when this house,

in spite of my protest, had been opened, I entered with the others

with the firm intention of stepping into a hallway or some other

suitable place and announcing in a loud voice that the house was

about to be robbed. As soon as I found the family aroused and my

purpose accomplished, I intended to depart as quickly as possible,

for, on account of the shadow cast upon me by my father's crime, I

must never be found even in the vicinity of criminal action. But as

I was passing through this room I could not resist the invitation of

Barlow to partake of the refreshments which we saw upon the table. I

was faint from fatigue and insufficient nourishment. It seemed a

very little thing to taste a drop of wine in a house where I was

about to confer a great benefit. I yielded to the temptation, and

now I am punished. Partaking even that little which did not belong

to me, I find myself placed in my present embarrassing position."

"You are right there," said I, "it must be embarrassing; but before

we have any more reflections, there are some practical points about

which I wish you would inform me. How did that wicked man, Mr.

Barlow I think you called him, get into this house?"

The tall man looked at me for a moment, as if in doubt what he should

say; and then his expression of mingled hopelessness and contrition

changed into one of earnest frankness.

"I will tell you, sir, exactly," he said; "I have no wish to conceal

anything. I have long wanted to have an opportunity to inform

occupants of houses, especially those in the suburbs, of the

insufficiency of their window fastenings. Familiar with mechanic

devices as I am, and accustomed to think of such things, the

precautions of householders sometimes move me to laughter. Your

outer doors, front and back, are of heavy wood, chained, locked, and

bolted, often double locked and bolted; but your lower windows are

closed in the first place by the lightest kind of shutters, which are

very seldom fastened at all, and in the second place by a little

contrivance connecting the two sashes, which is held in place by a

couple of baby screws. If these contrivances are of the best kind

and cannot be opened from the outside with a knife-blade or piece of

tin, the burglar puts a chisel or jimmy under the lower sash and

gently presses it upward, when the baby screws come out as easily as

if they were babies' milk-teeth. Not for a moment does the burglar

trouble himself about the front door, with its locks and chains and

bolts. He goes to the window, with its baby screws, which might as

well be left open as shut, for all the hindrance it is to his

entrance; and if he meddled with the door at all, it is simply to

open it from the inside, so that when he is ready to depart he may do

so easily."

"But all that does not apply to my windows," I said. "They are not

fastened that way."

"No, sir," said the man, "your lower shutters are solid and strong as

your doors. This is right, for if shutters are intended to obstruct

entrance to a house they should be as strong as the doors. When

James Barlow first reached this house he tried his jimmy on one of

the shutters in this main building, but he could not open it. The

heavy bolt inside was too strong for him. Then he tried another near

by with the same result. You will find the shutters splintered at

the bottom. Then he walked to the small addition at the back of the

house, where the kitchen is located. Here the shutters were smaller,

and of course the inside bolts were smaller. Everything in harmony.

Builders are so careful now-a-days to have everything in harmony.

When Barlow tried his jimmy on one of these shutters the bolt

resisted for a time, but its harmonious proportions caused it to

bend, and it was soon drawn from its staples and the shutter opened,

and of course the sash was opened as I told you sashes are opened."

"Well," said I, "shutters and sashes of mine shall never be opened in

that way again."

"It was with that object that I spoke to you," said the tall man. "I

wish you to understand the faults of your fastenings, and any

information I can give you which will better enable you to protect

your house, I shall be glad to give, as a slight repayment for the

injury I may have helped to do to you in the way of broken glass and

spoiled carpet. I have made window fastenings an especial study,

and, if you employ me for the purpose, I'll guarantee that I will put

your house into a condition which will be absolutely burglar proof.

If I do not do this to your satisfaction, I will not ask to be paid a

cent."

"We will not consider that proposition now," I said, "for you may

have other engagements which would interfere with the proposed job."

I was about to say that I thought we had enough of this sort of

story, when Aunt Martha interrupted me.

"It seems to me," she said, speaking to the tall burglar, "that you

have instincts, and perhaps convictions, of what is right and proper;

but it is plain that you allow yourself to be led and influenced by

unprincipled companions. You should avoid even the outskirts of

evil. You may not know that the proposed enterprise is a bad one,

but you should not take part in it unless you know that it is a good

one. In such cases you should be rigid."

The man turned toward my aunt, and looked steadfastly at her, and as

he gazed his face grew sadder and sadder.

"Rigid," he repeated; "that is hard."

"Yes," I remarked, "that is one of the meanings of the word."

Paying no attention to me, he continued:

"Madam," said he, with a deep pathos in his voice, "no one can be

better aware than I am that I have made many mistakes in the course

of my life; but that quality on which I think I have reason to be

satisfied with myself is my rigidity when I know a thing is wrong.

There occurs to me now an instance in my career which will prove to

you what I say.

"I knew a man by the name of Spotkirk, who had invented a liniment

for the cure of boils. He made a great success with his liniment,

which he called Boilene, and at the time I speak of he was a very

rich man.

"One day Spotkirk came to me and told me he wanted me to do a piece

of business for him, for which he would pay me twenty-five dollars.

I was glad to hear this, for I was greatly in need of money, and I

asked him what it was he wanted me to do.

"'You know Timothy Barker,' said he. 'Well, Timothy and I have had a

misunderstanding, and I want you to be a referee or umpire between

us, to set things straight.'

"'Very good,' said I, 'and what is the point of difference?'

"'I'll put the whole thing before you,' said he, 'for of course you

must understand it or you can't talk properly to Timothy. Now, you

see, in the manufacture of my Boilene I need a great quantity of good

yellow gravel, and Timothy Barker has got a gravel pit of that kind.

Two years ago I agreed with Timothy that he should furnish me with

all the gravel I should want for one-eighth of one per cent. of the

profits on the Boilene. We didn't sign no papers, for which I am

sorry, but that was the agreement; and now Timothy says that

one-eighth of one per cent. isn't enough. He has gone wild about it,

and actually wants ten per cent., and threatens to sue me if I don't

give it to him.'

"'Are you obliged to have gravel? Wouldn't something else do for

your purpose?'

"'There's nothing as cheap,' said Spotkirk. 'You see I have to have

lots and lots of it. Every day I fill a great tank with the gravel

and let water onto it. This soaks through the gravel, and comes out

a little pipe in the bottom of the tank of a beautiful yellow color;

sometimes it is too dark, and then I have to thin it with more water.'

"'Then you bottle it,' I said.

"'Yes,' said Spotkirk; 'then there is all the expense and labor of

bottling it.'

"'Then you put nothing more into it,' said I.

"'What more goes into it before it's corked,' said Spotkirk, 'is my

business. That's my secret, and nobody's been able to find it out.

People have had Boilene analyzed by chemists, but they can't find out

the hidden secret of its virtue. There's one thing that everybody

who has used it does know, and that is that it is a sure cure for

boils. If applied for two or three days according to directions, and

at the proper stage, the boil is sure to disappear. As a proof of

its merit I have sold seven hundred and forty-eight thousand bottles

this year.'

"'At a dollar a bottle?' said I.

"'That is the retail price,' said he.

"'Now, then, Mr. Spotkirk,' said I, 'it will not be easy to convince

Timothy Barker that one-eighth of one per cent. is enough for him. I

suppose he hauls his gravel to your factory?'

"'Hauling's got nothing to do with it,' said he; 'gravel is only ten

cents a load anywhere, and if I choose I could put my factory right

in the middle of a gravel pit. Timothy Barker has nothing to

complain of.

"'But he knows you are making a lot of money,' said I, 'and it will

be a hard job to talk him over. Mr. Spotkirk, it's worth every cent

of fifty dollars.'

"'Now look here,' said he; 'if you get Barker to sign a paper that

will suit me, I'll give you fifty dollars. I'd rather do that than

have him bring a suit. If the matter comes up in the courts those

rascally lawyers will be trying to find out what I put into my

Boilene, and that sort of thing would be sure to hurt my business.

It won't be so hard to get a hold on Barker if you go to work the

right way. You can just let him understand that you know all about

that robbery at Bonsall's clothing-store, where he kept the stolen

goods in his barn, covered up with hay, for nearly a week. It would

be a good thing for Timothy Barker to understand that somebody else

beside me knows about that business, and if you bring it in right, it

will fetch him around, sure.'

"I kept quiet for a minute or two, and then I said:

"'Mr. Spotkirk, this is an important business. I can't touch it

under a hundred dollars.' He looked hard at me, and then he said:

"'Do it right, and a hundred dollars is yours.'

"After that I went to see Timothy Barker, and had a talk with him.

Timothy was boiling over, and considered himself the worst-cheated

man in the world. He had only lately found out how Spotkirk made his

Boilene, and what a big sale he had for it, and he was determined to

have more of the profits.

"'Just look at it!' he shouted; 'when Spotkirk has washed out my

gravel it's worth more than it was before, and he sells it for

twenty-five cents a load to put on gentlemen's places. Even out of

that he makes a hundred and fifty per cent. profit.'

"I talked a good deal more with Timothy Barker, and found out a good

many things about Spotkirk's dealings with him, and then in an

off-hand manner I mentioned the matter of the stolen goods in his

barn, just as if I had known all about it from the very first. At

this Timothy stopped shouting, and became as meek as a mouse. He

said nobody was as sorry as he was when he found the goods concealed

in his barn had been stolen, and that if he had known it before the

thieves took them away he should have informed the authorities; and

then he went on to tell me how he got so poor and so hard up by

giving his whole time to digging and hauling gravel for Spotkirk, and

neglecting his little farm, that he did not know what was going to

become of him and his family if he couldn't make better terms with

Spotkirk for the future, and he asked me very earnestly to help him

in this business if I could.

"Now, then, I set myself to work to consider this business. Here was

a rich man oppressing a poor one, and here was this rich man offering

me one hundred dollars--which in my eyes was a regular fortune--to

help him get things so fixed that he could keep on oppressing the

poor one. Now, then, here was a chance for me to show my principles.

Here was a chance for me to show myself what you, madam, call rigid;

and rigid I was. I just set that dazzling one hundred dollars aside,

much as I wanted it. Much as I actually needed it, I wouldn't look

at it, or think of it. I just said to myself, 'If you can do any

good in this matter, do it for the poor man;' and I did do it for

Timothy Barker with his poor wife and seven children, only two of

them old enough to help him in the gravel pit. I went to Spotkirk

and I talked to him, and I let him see that if Timothy Barker showed

up the Boilene business, as he threatened to do, it would be a bad

day for the Spotkirk family. He tried hard to talk me over to his

side, but I was rigid, madam, I was rigid, and the business ended in

my getting seven per cent. of the profits of Boilene for that poor

man, Timothy Barker, and his large family; and their domestic

prosperity is entirely due--I say it without hesitation--to my

efforts on their behalf, and to my rigidity in standing up for the

poor against the rich."

"Of course," I here remarked, "you don't care to mention anything

about the money you squeezed out of Timothy Barker by means of your

knowledge that he had been a receiver of stolen goods, and I suppose

the Boilene man gave you something to get the percentage brought down

from ten per cent. to seven."

The tall burglar turned and looked at me with an air of saddened

resignation.

"Of course," said he, "it is of no use for a man in my position to

endeavor to set himself right in the eyes of one who is prejudiced

against him. My hope is that those present who are not prejudiced

will give my statements the consideration they deserve."

"Which they certainly will do," I continued. Turning to my wife and

Aunt Martha, "As you have heard this fine story, I think it is time

for you to retire."

"I do not wish to retire," promptly returned Aunt Martha. "I was

never more awake in my life, and couldn't go asleep if I tried. What

we have heard may or may not be true, but it furnishes subjects for

reflection--serious reflection. I wish very much to hear what that

man in the middle of the bench has to say for himself; I am sure he

has a story."

"Yes, ma'am," said the stout man, with animation. "I've got one, and

I'd like nothin' better than to tell it to you if you'll give me a

little somethin' to wet my lips with--a little beer, or whiskey and

water, or anything you have convenient."

"Whiskey and water!" said Aunt Martha with severity. "I should think

not. It seems to me you have had all the intoxicating liquors in

this house that you would want."

"But I don't think you're the kind of person who'd doctor the liquor.

This is the first gentleman's house where I ever found anything of

that kind."

"The worse for the gentleman," I remarked. The man grunted.

"Well, ma'am," he said, "call it anything you please--milk, cider,

or, if you have nothin' else, I'll take water. I can't talk without

somethin' soaky."

My wife rose. "If we are to listen to another story," she said, "I

want something to keep up my strength. I shall go into the

dining-room and make some tea, and Aunt Martha can give these men

some of that if she likes."

The ladies now left the room, followed by Alice. Presently they

called me, and, leaving the burglars in charge of the vigilant David,

I went to them. I found them making tea.

"I have been upstairs to see if George William is all right, and now

I want you to tell me what you think of that man's story," said my

wife.

"I don't think it a story at all," said I. "I call it a lie. A

story is a relation which purports to be fiction, no matter how much

like truth it may be, and is intended to be received as fiction. A

lie is a false statement made with the intention to deceive, and that

is what I believe we have heard to-night."

"I agree with you exactly," said my wife.

"It may be," said Aunt Martha, "that the man's story is true. There

are some things about it which make me think so; but if he is really

a criminal he must have had trials and temptations which led him into

his present mode of life. We should consider that."

"I have been studying him," I said, "and I think he is a born rascal,

who ought to have been hung long ago."

My aunt looked at me. "John," she said, "if you believe people are

born criminals, they ought to be executed in their infancy. It could

be done painlessly by electricity, and society would be the gainer,

although you lawyers would be the losers. But I do not believe in

your doctrine. If the children of the poor were properly brought up

and educated, fewer of them would grow to be criminals."

"I don't think this man suffered for want of education," said my

wife; "he used very good language; that was one of the first things

that led me to suspect him. It is not likely that sons of

boat-builders speak so correctly and express themselves so well."

"Of course, I cannot alter your opinions," said Aunt Martha, "but the

story interested me, and I very much wish to hear what that other man

has to say for himself."

"Very well," said I, "you shall hear it; but I must drink my tea and

go back to the prisoners."

"And I," said Aunt Martha, "will take some tea to them. They may be

bad men, but they must not suffer."

I had been in the library but a few moments when Aunt Martha entered,

followed by Alice, who bore a tray containing three very large cups

of tea and some biscuit.

"Now, then," said Aunt Martha to me, "if you will untie their hands,

I will give them some tea."

At these words each burglar turned his eyes on me with a quick

glance. I laughed.

"Hardly," said I. "I would not be willing to undertake the task of

tying them up again, unless, indeed, they will consent to drink some

more of my wine."

"Which we won't do," said the middle burglar, "and that's flat."

"Then they must drink this tea with their hands tied," said Aunt

Martha, in a tone of reproachful resignation, and, taking a cup from

the tray, she approached the stout man and held it up to his lips.

At this act of extreme kindness we were all amused, even the

burglar's companions smiled, and David so far forgot himself as to

burst into a laugh, which, however, he quickly checked. The stout

burglar, however, saw nothing to laugh at. He drank the tea, and

never drew breath until the cup was emptied.

"I forgot," said my aunt, as she removed the cup from his lips, "to

ask you whether you took much or little sugar."

"Don't make no difference to me," answered the man; "tea isn't malt

liquor; it's poor stuff any way, and it doesn't matter to me whether

it's got sugar in it or not, but it's moistenin', and that's what I

want. Now, madam, I'll just say to you, if ever I break into a room

where you're sleepin', I'll see that you don't come to no harm, even

if you sit up in bed and holler."

"Thank you," said Aunt Martha; "but I hope you will never again be

concerned in that sort of business."

He grinned. "That depends on circumstances," said he.

Aunt Martha now offered the tall man some tea, but he thanked her

very respectfully, and declined. The young man also said that he did

not care for tea, but that if the maid--looking at Alice--would give

him a glass of water he would be obliged. This was the first time he

had spoken. His voice was low and of a pleasing tone. David's face

grew dark, and we could see that he objected to this service from

Alice.

"I will give him the water myself," said Aunt Martha. This she did,

and I noticed that the man's thirst was very soon satisfied. When

David had been refreshed, and biscuits refused by the burglars, who

could not very well eat them with their hands tied, we all sat down,

and the stout man began his story. I give it as he told it, omitting

some coarse and rough expressions, and a good deal of slang which

would be unintelligible to the general reader.

"There's no use," said the burglar, "for me to try and make any of

you believe that I'm a pious gentleman under a cloud, for I know I

don't look like it, and wouldn't be likely to make out a case."

At this the tall man looked at him very severely.

"I don't mean to say," he continued, "that my friend here tried

anything like that. Every word he said was perfectly true, as I

could personally testify if I was called upon the stand, and what I'm

goin' to tell you is likewise solid fact.

"My father was a cracksman, and a first-rate one, too; he brought me

up to the business, beginning when I was very small. I don't

remember havin' any mother, so I'll leave her out. My old man was

very particular; he liked to see things done right. One day I was

with him, and we saw a tinner nailing a new leader or tin water-spout

to the side of a house.

"'Look here, young man,' says Dad, 'you're makin' a pretty poor job

of that. You don't put in enough nails, and they ain't half drove

in. Supposin' there was a fire in that house some night, and the

family had to come down by the spout, and your nails would give way,

and they'd break their necks. What would you think then? And I can

tell you what it is, young man, I can appear ag'in you for doing poor

work.'

"The tinner grumbled, but he used more nails and drove 'em tight, Dad

and me standin' by, an' looking at him. One rainy night not long

after this Dad took me out with him and we stopped in front of this

house. 'Now, Bobbie,' said he, 'I want you to climb into that open

second-story window, and then slip downstairs and open the front door

for me; the family's at dinner.'

"'How am I to get up, Dad?' said I.

"Oh, you can go up the spout,' says he; 'I'll warrant that it will

hold you. I've seen to it that it was put on good and strong.'

"I tried it, and as far as I can remember I never went up a safer

spout."

"And you opened the front door?" asked Aunt Martha.

"Indeed I did, ma'am," said the burglar, "you wouldn't catch me

makin' no mistakes in that line.

"After a while I got too heavy to climb spouts, and I took to the

regular business, and did well at it, too."

"Do you mean to say," asked Aunt Martha, "that you willingly and

premeditatedly became a thief and midnight robber?"

"That's what I am, ma'am," said he; "I don't make no bones about it.

I'm a number one, double-extra, back-springed, copper-fastened

burglar, with all the attachments and noiseless treadle. That's what

I am, and no mistake.

"There's all kinds of businesses in this world, and there's got to be

people to work at every one of 'em; and when a fellow takes any

particular line, his business is to do it well; that's my motto.

When I break into a house I make it a point to clean it out

first-class, and not to carry away no trash, nuther. Of course, I've

had my ups and my downs, like other people--preachers and doctors and

storekeepers--they all have them, and I guess the downs are more

amusin' than the ups, at least to outsiders. I've just happened to

think of one of them, and I'll let you have it.

"There was a man I knew named Jerry Hammond, that was a contractor,

and sometimes he had pretty big jobs on hand, buildin' or road-makin'

or somethin' or other. He'd contract to do anything, would Jerry, no

matter whether he'd ever done it before or not. I got to know his

times and seasons for collecting money, and I laid for him."

"Abominable meanness!" exclaimed my wife.

"It's all business," said the stout man, quite unabashed. "You don't

catch a doctor refusin' to practice on a friend, or a lawyer, nuther,

and in our line of business it's the same thing. It was about the

end of October, nigh four years ago, that I found out that Jerry had

a lot of money on hand. He'd been collectin' it from different

parties, and had got home too late in the day to put it in the bank,

so says I to myself, this is your time, old fellow, and you'd better

make hay while the sun shines. I was a little afraid to crack

Jerry's house by myself, for he's a strong old fellow, so I got a man

named Putty Henderson to go along with me. Putty was a big fellow

and very handy with a jimmy; but he was awful contrary-minded, and he

wouldn't agree to clean out Jerry until I promised to go halves with

him. This wasn't fair, for it wasn't his job, and a quarter would

have been lots for him.

"But there wasn't no use arguin', and along we went, and about one

o'clock we was standin' alongside Jerry's bed, where he was fast

asleep. He was a bachelor, and lived pretty much by himself. I give

him a punch to waken him up, for we'd made up our minds that was the

way to work this job. It wouldn't pay us to go around huntin' for

Jerry's money. He was such a sharp old fellow, it was six to four

we'd never find it. He sat up in bed with a jump like a hop-toad,

and looked first at one and then at the other of us. We both had

masks on, and it wasn't puzzlin' to guess what we was there fur.

"'Jerry Hammond,' says I, speakin' rather rough and husky, 'we knows

that you've got a lot o' money in this house, and we've come fur it.

We mean business, and there is no use foolin'. You can give it to us

quiet and easy, and keep a whole head on your shoulders, or we'll lay

you out ready fur a wake and help ourselves to the funds; and now you

pays your money and you can take your choice how you do it. There's

nothin' shabby about us, but we mean business. Don't we,

pard?'--'That's so,' says Putty.

"'Look here,' says Jerry, jest as cool as if he had been sittin'

outside on his own curbstone, 'I know you two men and no mistake.

You're Tommy Randall, and you're Putty Henderson, so you might as

well take off them masks.'--'Which I am glad to do,' says I, 'for I

hate 'em,' and I put mine in my pocket, and Putty he took off his."

"Excuse me," said Aunt Martha, interrupting at this point, "but when

Mr. Hammond mentioned the name of Tommy Randall, to whom did he

refer?"

"I can explain that, madam," said the tall burglar, quickly. "This

man by his criminal course of life has got himself into a good many

scrapes, and is frequently obliged to change his name. Since I

accidentally became acquainted with him he has had several aliases,

and I think that he very often forgets that his real name is James

Barlow."

"That's so," said the stout man, "there never was a more correct

person than this industrious and unfortunate man sittin' by me. I am

dreadful forgetful, and sometimes I disremember what belongs to me

and what don't. Names the same as other things.

"'Well, now, Jerry,' says I, 'you needn't think you're goin' to make

anythin' by knowin' us. You've got to fork over your cash all the

same, and if you think to make anything by peachin' on us after we've

cleared out and left you peaceful in your bed, you're mistook so far

as I'm concerned; for I've made the track clear to get out of this

town before daybreak, and I don't know when I'll come back. This

place is gettin' a little too hot for me, and you're my concludin'

exercise.' Jerry he sat still for a minute, considerin'. He wasn't

no fool, and he knowed that there wasn't no use gettin' scared, nor

cussin', nor hollerin'. What's more, he knowed that we was there to

get his money, and if he didn't fork it over he'd get himself laid

out, and that was worse than losin' money any day. 'Now, boys, says

he, 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make you an offer; a fair and

square offer. What money I've got I'll divide even with you, each of

us takin' a third, and I'll try to make up what I lose out of my next

contract. Now nothin' could be no squarer than that.'--'How much

money have you got, Jerry?' says I, 'that's the first thing to

know.'--'I've got thirty-one hundred dollars even,' says he, 'and

that will be one thousand and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three

cents apiece. I've got bills to pay to-morrow for lumber and bricks,

and my third will pay 'em. If I don't I'll go to pieces. You don't

want to see me break up business, do you?'--'Now, Jerry,' says I,

'that won't do. You haven't got enough to divide into three parts.

Putty and me agree to go halves with what we get out of you, and when

I lay out a piece of business I don't make no changes. Half of that

money is for me, and half is for Putty. So just hand it out, and

don't let's have no more jabberin'.'

"Jerry he looked at me pretty hard, and then says he: 'You're about

the close-fisted and meanest man I ever met with. Here I offer you a

third part of my money, and all you've got to do is to take it and go

away peaceable. I'd be willin' to bet two to one that it's more than

you expected to get, and yet you are not satisfied; now, I'll be

hanged if I'm going to do business with you.'--'You can be hanged if

you like,' says I, 'but you'll do the business all the same,'--'No, I

won't,' says he, and he turns to Putty Henderson. 'Now, Putty,' says

he, 'you've got a pile more sense than this pal of yourn, and I'm

goin' to see if I can't do business with you. Now, you and me

together can lick this Tommy Randall just as easy as not, and if

you'll help me do it I'll not only divide the money with you, but

I'll give you fifty dollars extra, so that instead of fifteen hundred

and fifty dollars--that's all he'd given you, if he didn't cheat

you--you'll have sixteen hundred, and I'll have fifteen hundred

instead of the thousand and thirty-three dollars which I would have

had left if my first offer had been took. So, Putty, what do you say

to that?' Now, Putty, he must have been a little sore with me on

account of the arguments we'd had about dividin', and he was mighty

glad besides to get the chance of makin' fifty dollars extry, and so

he said it was all right, and he'd agree. Then I thought it was

about time for me to take in some of my sail, and says I: 'Jerry,

that's a pretty good joke, and you can take my hat as soon as I get a

new one, but of course I don't mean to be hard on you, and if you

really have bills to pay to-morrow I'll take a third, and Putty'll

take another, and we'll go away peaceful.'--'No, you won't,' sings

out Jerry, and with that he jumps out of bed right at me, and Putty

Henderson he comes at me from the other side, and, between the two,

they gave me the worst lickin' I ever got in my born days, and then

they dragged me downstairs and kicked me out the front door, and I

had hardly time to pick myself up before I saw a policeman about a

block off, and if he hadn't been a fat one he'd had me sure. It

wouldn't have been pleasant, for I was a good deal wanted about that

time.

"So you see, ladies and gents, that it's true what I said--things

don't always go right in our line of business no more than any other

one."

"I think you were served exactly right," said Aunt Martha; "and I

wonder such an experience did not induce you to reform."

"It did, ma'am, it did," said the burglar. "I made a vow that night

that if ever again I had to call in any one to help me in business of

that kind I wouldn't go pards with him. I'd pay him so much for the

job, and I'd take the risks, and I've stuck to it.

"But even that don't always work. Luck sometimes goes ag'in' a man,

even when he's working by himself. I remember a thing of that kind

that was beastly hard on me. A gentleman employed me to steal his

daughter."

"What!" exclaimed my wife and Aunt Martha. "Steal his own daughter!

What do you mean by that?"

"That's what it was," said the stout burglar; "no more nor less. I

was recommended to the gent as a reliable party for that sort of

thing, and I met him to talk it over, and then he told me just how

the case stood. He and his wife were separated, and the daughter,

about eleven years old, had been given to her by the court, and she

put it into a boardin' school, and the gent he was goin' to Europe,

and he wanted to get the little gal and take her with him. He tried

to get her once, but it slipped up, and so there wasn't no good in

his showin' hisself at the school any more, which was in the country,

and he knowed that if he expected to get the gal he'd have to hire a

professional to attend to it.

"Now, when I heard what he had to say, I put on the strictly pious,

and, says I, 'that's a pretty bad thing you're askin' me to do, sir,

to carry away a little gal from its lovin' mother, and more 'an that,

to take it from a school where it's gettin' all the benefits of

eddication.'--'Eddication,' says he; 'that's all stuff. What

eddication the gal gets at a school like that isn't worth a row of

pins, and when they go away they don't know nothin' useful, nor even

anything tip-top ornamental. All they've learned is the pianer and

higher mathematics. As for anythin' useful, they're nowhere. There

isn't one of them could bound New Jersey or tell you when Washington

crossed the Delaware.'--'That may be, sir,' says I, 'but them higher

branches comes useful. If Washington really did cross the Delaware,

your little gal could ask somebody when it was, but she couldn't ask

'em how the pianer was played, nor what the whole multiplication

table came to added up. Them things she'd have to learn how to do

for herself. I give you my word, sir, I couldn't take a little gal

from a school, where she was gettin' a number one eddication, silver

forks and towels extry.' The gent looked pretty glum, for he was to

sail the next day, and if I didn't do the job for him he didn't know

who would, and he said that he was sorry to see that I was goin' back

on him after the recommend I'd had, and I said that I wouldn't go

back on him if it wasn't for my conscience. I was ready to do any

common piece of business, but this stealin' away little gals from

lovin' mothers was a leetle too much for me. 'Well,' says he, 'there

ain't no time to be lost, and how much more will satisfy your

conscience?' When I said a hundred dollars, we struck the bargain.

"Well, we cut and dried that business pretty straight. I took a cab

and went out to the school, and the gent he got the key of a house

that was to let about three miles from the school, and he was to stay

there and look at that empty house until I brought him the gal, when

he was to pay me and take her away. I'd like to have had more time,

so that I could go out and see how the land laid, but there wasn't no

more time, and I had to do the best I could. The gent told me they

all went a walkin' every afternoon, and that if I laid low that would

be the best time to get her, and I must just fetch her along, no

matter who hollered.

"I didn't know exactly how I was going to manage it, but I took along

with me a big bag that was made for the conveyance of an extinct

millionaire, but which had never been used, owin' to beforehand

arrangements which had been made with the party's family.

"I left the cab behind a bit of woods, not far from the school, and

then I laid low, and pretty soon I seed 'em all coming out, in a

double line, with the teacher behind 'em, for a walk. I had a

description of the little gal as was wanted, and as they come nearer

I made her out easy. She was the only real light-haired one in the

lot. I hid behind some bushes in the side of the road, and when they

come up, and the light-haired little gal was just opposite to me, I

jumped out of the bushes and made a dash at her. Whoop! what a row

there was in one second! Such a screamin' and screechin' of gals,

such a pilin' on top each other, and the teacher on top the whole of

'em, bangin' with her umbrella; they pulled at the gal and they

pulled at me, an' they yelled and they howled, and I never was in

such a row and hope I never shall be again, and I grabbed that girl

by her frock, and I tumbled some over one way and some another, and I

got the umbrella over my head, but I didn't mind it, and I clapped

that bag over the little gal, and I jerked up her feet and let her

slip into it, and then I took her up like a bag of meal, and put

across the field, with the whole kit and boodle after me. But I

guess most of 'em must have tumbled down in hysterics, judgin' from

the screechin', and I got up to the cab and away we went. Well, when

we got to the house where I was to meet the gent, he began straight

off to blow at me. 'What do you mean,' he yelled, 'bringin' my

daughter in a bag?'--'It's the only way to do it, sir,' says I; 'they

can't holler and they can't kick, and people passin' by don't know

what you've got,' and so sayin' I untied the strings, put the little

gal on her feet, and pulled off the bag, and then I'd be hanged if I

ever saw a man so ragin' mad as he was. 'What do I want with that

gal?' he cried; 'that's not my daughter. That girl's hair is as

black as a coal, and she's a Jew besides.' As soon as I sot my eyes

on the little varmint it come over me that I got the thing crooked,

and in the scrimmage I let go of the right gal and grabbed another.

"I don't see how a man could help makin' mistakes with that

school-teacher's umbrella whanging away at his knowledge box, but I

wasn't goin' to let on. 'She ain't no Jew, nuther,' says I, 'and

she's your daughter, too; you needn't try to play no tricks on me.

Pay me my money and take her away as quick as you can, that's my

advice, or before you know it you'll be nabbed.'--'Pay ye!' he

yelled; 'do you think I'd pay you anything for that little

Jew?'--'She's just as much a Christian as you are,' says I. 'Ain't

you a Christian, little gal? and isn't this gentleman your father?

and ain't you surprised that he wants to give you back to be put in

the bag?' I said this hopin' she'd have sense enough to say he was

her father so's to get rid of me.

"The wretched gal had been clean dumbfounded when she was took out of

the bag, and hadn't done nothin' so far but blubber and cry, and try

to get away, which she couldn't, because I held her frock; but now

she ups and screams he wasn't her father, and she'd never seen him

before, and then he storms and swears, and tells me to take her back

where I got her, and I tell him I'll see him hanged first, and what I

want is my money; she screams, and he swears he'll not pay me a cent,

and I squares off and says that I'll thrash him out of his skin, and

then he calls in his coachman, and they both make at me, and I backs

out the door to get my cabby to stand by me, and I found that he'd

cut out, havin' most likely got frightened, afraid of bein' mixed up

in trouble. Then I seed on the high road, some half a mile away,

some men comin' gallopin', and the gent he looked out and seed 'em,

too, and then says he to me, 'You'll jist take that little Jew gal

back where you got her from; she's no use to me; I'm goin';' and at

that I hollered for my money, and made a grab at him, but the

coachman he tripped me over backward, and before I could git up again

they was both off with the horses on a run.

"I was so mad I couldn't speak, but there wasn't no time for foolin',

and I hadn't made up my mind which door I should cut out of, when the

fellows on horseback went ridin' past as hard as they could go. They

must have seed the carriage drivin' away, and thought for sure it had

the gal in it, and they was after it, lickety-split.

"When they was clean gone I looked round for the little gal, but

couldn't see her, but all a-sudden she came out of the fireplace,

where she'd been hidin'. She'd got over her cryin', and over her

scare, too, judgin' from her looks. 'I'm glad he's gone,' says she,

'and I'm mighty glad, too, that Mr. Haskins and them other men didn't

see me.'--'Who's they?' says I.--'They's neighbors,' says she; 'if

they knew I was here they'd took me back.'--'Well, you little minx,'

says I, 'isn't that what you want?'--'No,' says she. 'I didn't want

to go with that man, for I don't know him, and I hate him, but I

don't want to go back to that school. I hate it worse than anything

in the whole world. You haven't no idea what a horrid place it is.

They just work you to death, and don't give you half enough to eat.

My constitution won't stand it. I've told Pop that, and he thinks so

too, but Marm, she don't believe in it, and my stayin' there is all

her doin'. I've been wantin' to get away for ever so long, but I

didn't want to be took off in a bag; but now that I'm out of that

horrid hole I don't want to go back, and if you'll take me home to

Pop, I know he won't let me go back, and he'll pay you real handsome

besides.'--'Who's your Pop?' says I.--'He's Mr. Groppeltacker, of

Groppeltacker & Mintz, corset findings, seven hundred and something

or other, I forget the number now, Broadway. Oh, Pop does a lot of

business, I tell you, and he's got lots of money. He sends corset

findings to South America, and Paris, and Chicago, and Madagascar,

and the uttermost parts of the earth. I've heard him say that often,

and you needn't be afraid of his not bein' able to pay you. A lot

more than that man would have paid you for his little gal, if you'd

catched the right one. So if you take me to Pop, and get me there

safe and sound, it will be an awful good speck for you.'

"Now, I begins to think to myself that perhaps there was somethin' in

what that little Jew gal was sayin', and that I might make something

out of the gal after all. I didn't count on gettin' a big pile out

of old Groppeltacker--it wasn't likely he was that kind of a man--but

whatever I did get would be clean profit, and I might as well try it

on. He couldn't make no charge ag'in me fur bringin' him his

daughter, if she asked me to do it; so says I to her, 'Now, if I take

you home to your Pop, will you promise on your word an' honor, that

you won't say nothin' about my carryin' you off in a bag, and say

that you seed me walkin' along the road and liked my looks, and told

me you were sufferin', and asked me to take you home to your kind

parents, where you might be took proper care of; and that I said I

wasn't goin' that way, but I'd do it out of pure Christian charity,

and nothin' more or less, and here you was? And then, of course, you

can tell him he ought to do the handsome thing by me.'--'I'll do

that,' says she, 'and I tell how you talked to me awful kind for more

than an hour, tryin' to keep me to stay at the school, and it wasn't

till I got down on my knees and weeped that you agreed to take me to

my kind father.'--'All right,' says I, 'I might as well take you

along, but we'll have to go back by the railroad and foot it, at

least two miles, to the station, and I don't know about walkin'

across the country with a little girl dressed as fine as you are. I

might get myself suspicioned.'--'That's so,' says she; 'we might meet

somebody that'd know me,' and then she wriggled up her little

forehead and began to think. I never did see such a little gal as

sharp as that one was; needles was nothin' to her. In about a minute

she says, 'Where's that bag of yourn?--'Here it is,' says I; and then

she took it and looked at it up and down, with her head cocked on one

side. 'If I'd somethin' to cut that bag with,' says she, 'I could

fix myself up so that nobody'd know me, don't care who it was.'--'I

don't want that bag cut,' says I; 'it's an extry good bag; it was

made for a particular purpose, and cost money.'--'Pop will pay

expenses,' says she; 'how much did it cost?'--'It was four dollars

cash,' said I.--'They cheated you like everything,' says she; 'you

could get a bag like that any day for a dollar and seventy-five

cents. Will you let it go at that?'--'All right,' says I, for I was

tickled to see how sharp that little Jew gal was, and ten to one I'd

throwed away the bag before we got to town; so she pulled a little

book out of her pocket with a pencil stuck in it, and turnin' over to

a blank page she put down, 'Bag, one dollar and seventy-five;' then

she borrows my big knife, and holdin' the top of the bag up ag'in her

belt, she made me stick a pin in it about a hand's-breadth from the

floor; then she took the knife and cut the bag clean across, me

a-holdin' one side of it; then she took the top end of that bag and

slipped it on her, over her head and shoulders, and tied the drawin'

strings in it round her waist, and it hung around her just like a

skirt, nearly touchin' the ground; then she split open the rest of

the bag, and made a kind of shawl out of it, puttin' it into shape

with a lot o' pins, and pinnin' it on herself real clever. She had

lots of pins in her belt, and she told me that she never passed a pin

in that school without pickin' it up, and that she had four hundred

and fifty-nine of them now in her room, which she was mighty sorry to

leave behind, and that these she had now was this day's pickin' up.

"When she got done workin' at herself you couldn't see not a ribbon

nor a hem of her fine clothes; it was all black skirt and shawl, and

she'd put up her sleeve, so that when her arm stuck out it was bare.

Then she took all the ribbons and flowers off her hat, and crumpled

it up, and when she tied it on what a guy she was. 'Now,' says she,

'I can go barefoot.'--'Which you won't,' says I, 'for you'll get your

feet all cut, but you can muddy your shoes,' which she did, I pumpin'

on 'em, so that the dust in the back yard would stick. Then we

starts off across the country, and, upon my word, I was pretty nigh

ashamed to be seen walkin' with such a little scarecrow. When I

bought the tickets at the station she asked me how much they was, and

put it down in her book. When we got into the cars the people all

looked hard at her, and I reckon they thought some kind of a home had

been burnt down, and this was one of the orphans that had been saved.

But they didn't say nothin', and she fixed herself as comfortable as

you please; and before long a boy came through the car with fruit in

a basket, and then says she to me, 'I want two apples.' The boy had

gone past us, but I got up and followed him and bought her two

apples. 'How much did you give for them?' says she, when I come

back.--'They was two for five cents,' says I.--'Well,' says she,

'they do stick you dreadful. Two for three cents is all papa or I

pays for apples like them,' and she took out her little book and put

down, 'Apples, three cents.'--'Very well, miss,' says I, 'but if you

want any more refreshments you buy 'em yourself.'--'I think I'd

better,' says she, and she went to work eatin' them two apples. She

hadn't more than got through with 'em when the boy came around ag'in.

'I want a banana,' says she; 'lend me five cents,' which I did, and

she put down, 'Cash, five cents.' Then the boy come up, and says

she, 'How much are your bananas?'--'Five cents,' said he.--'For two?'

says she.--'No,' says he, 'for one,'--'What do you take me for?' says

she. 'I've bought bananas before. I'll give you three cents for

that one,' pointin' to the biggest in the lot.--'I can't do that,'

said the boy, 'the price is five cents.'--'I'd like a banana,' says

she, 'but I don't pay more'n three cents; take it or leave it,' and

with that the boy went on. 'Now,' says I, 'you've gouged yourself

out of a banana.'--'Not a bit of it,' says she; 'he'll be back,' and

in two minutes he was back, and said she might have it for three

cents. 'Have you got two coppers?' said she. 'Let me see 'em.' He

said he had, and showed 'em to her, and she took 'em and the banana,

and then give him five cents, and then she didn't give the change to

me, but put it in her pocket. 'Now,' says she, 'if you'd buy things

that way, you'd be rich in time.'

"When we got to the city we took the elevated and went up town to

Forty-eighth street, and then walked over to her father's house. It

was a big one, on one of the cross streets. When we got there, she

told me to wait a minute, and, lookin' around to see that nobody was

comin', she slipped off the skirt and the cape she had made and

rolled 'em up in a bundle. 'It don't matter about my hat and shoes,'

says she, 'but they wouldn't know me in such duds.' Then, handin' me

the bundle, she said, 'For twenty-five cents you can get that bag

mended just as good as new, so you can take it, and it will save us a

dollar and a half.'--'No, you don't,' says I, for I'd had enough of

her stinginess. I don't touch that bag ag'in, and I made up my mind

that minute to charge the old man five dollars' worth. When the

front door was opened, the servant gal looked as if she couldn't

believe her eyes, but my young woman was as cool as you please, and

she had me showed into a room off the hall, and then she went

upstairs.

"I sat a-waitin' a long time, which gave me a good chance to look

around at things. The room was real handsome, and I took a peep at

the window fastenin's and the lay of the doors, thinkin' the

knowledge might come in handy some time. Right in front of me on a

table was a little yellow mouse, and it struck me as I looked at it

that that must be gold. I listened if anybody was comin', and then I

picked it up to see if it really was. I thought I heard the

door-bell ring just then, and shut it up in my hand quick, but

nobody; went to the door; and then I looked at the little mouse, and

if it wasn't pure gold it was the best imitation ever I see, so I

slipped it quietly in my pocket to look at it ag'in when I had time.

"Pretty soon old Groppeltacker come in, shut the door, and sot down.

'So you brought my daughter back,' says he.--'Yes,' says I.--'And you

expect to be paid for it,' says he.--'Yes,' says I, 'I do.'--'How

much do you ask for your services?' says he. Now, this was a sort of

a staggerer, for I hadn't made up my mind how much I was goin' to

ask; but there wasn't time for no more thinkin' about it, and so says

I, plum, 'A hundred dollars, and there was some expenses

besides.'--'Well, well,' says he, 'that seems like a good deal, just

for bringin' a little gal from school. It couldn't have took you

more'n a couple of hours.'--'I don't charge for time,' says I, 'it's

for the risks and the science of the thing. There's mighty few men

in this town could have brought your daughter home as neat as I

did.'--'Well, well,' says he, rubbin' his hands, 'I expect I'll have

to pay for the whole term of the school, whether she's there or not,

and the business will come heavy on me. Don't you think sixty

dollars would pay you?' Now, I know when you deal with this sort of a

man there's always a good deal of difference splittin'; and so, says

I, 'No, it won't. I might take ninety dollars, but that's the very

lowest peg.'--'The very lowest?' says he, gettin' up and walkin'

about a little; and then I thought I heard the doorbell ring again,

and I was dreadful afraid somebody would come and call off the old

man before he finished the bargain. 'Well,' says I, 'we'll call it

eighty-five and expenses, and there I'll stop.'

"Groppeltacker, now he sot down ag'in and looked hard at me. 'I

didn't ask you to bring my daughter back,' says he, speakin' gruff,

and very different from the way he spoke before, 'and what's more, I

didn't want her back, and what's more yet, I'm not goin' to pay you a

red cent.'--'Now, look a-here,' says I, mighty sharp, 'none o' that,

old man; fork over the money or I'll lay you out stiff as a poker,

and help myself. I'm not a fellow to be fooled with, and there's

nobody in this house can stop me.' Old Groppeltacker, he didn't turn

a hair, but just sot there, and says he, 'Before you blow any more,

suppose you take my little gold mouse out of your pocket and hand it

to me.' I must say I was took back at this, but I spoke back, as

bold as brass, and said I never seed his gold mouse. 'O, ho!' says

he, 'what you didn't see was the electric button under the table

cover which rung a bell when the mouse was picked up. That's what I

call my mouse-trap.'

"At this I jist b'iled over. 'Now,' says I, 'just you hand out every

cent you've got, and your watch, too; not another word.' And I

jumped up and clapped my hand on my pistol in my hip-pocket, and just

at that minute there was a click and the nippers were on me, and

there was a big policeman with his hand on my shoulder. I couldn't

speak, I was so b'ilin' and so dumbfounded both at once. Old

Groppeltacker he just leaned back and he laughed. 'You came in,' he

said to the cop, 'jest the second I rang, and as soft as a cat, and

the first thing that I want you to do is to take that gold mouse out

of his pocket, and I'll be on hand whenever you let me know I'm

wanted.' The cop he took the gold mouse out of my pocket, and says

he, 'I know this fellow, and if I'm not mistook, they'll be more

charges than yourn made ag'in him.' There wasn't no chance to show

fight, so I didn't do it, but I says to old Groppeltacker, 'There's

my expenses, you've got to pay them, anyway.'--'All right,' says he,

'jist you send in your bill, marked correct by my daughter, and I'll

settle it,' and he laughed again, and the cop he took me off. Well,

ladies and gents, that little piece of business, together with some

other old scores, took me to Sing Sing for three years, and it tain't

six months since I got out, so you can see for yourselves what hard

times a fellow in my line of business sometimes has."

"Well," said Aunt Martha, "I don't approve of the Groppeltacker sort

of people, but if there were more of that kind I believe there would

be fewer of your kind. That story shows you in such a bad light that

I believe it's true."

"Every word of it," said the man. "I wish it wasn't."

And now I spoke. "Since you claim to be a truth-telling being," I

said to the stout burglar, "suppose you tell me why you never

attempted before to break into my house. Every considerable dwelling

in this neighborhood has been entered, and I have no doubt you are

the men who committed all the burglaries."

"No, sir," said he; "not men, I am the man who did 'em all; but these

two friends of mine was never with me before in a bit of business

like this. 'Tain't in their line. I have had pals with me, but they

was professionals. These ain't cracksmen, they don't know nothin'

about it; but this one is handy at tools, and that's the reason I

brung him along, but you see he kicked, and was goin' to give me

away, and this young gentleman"--

"Never mind about that young gentleman," I said; "I have a certain

curiosity to know why my house was not entered when the others were."

"Well," said he, "I don't mind tellin' yer how that was. It was on

account of your baby. We don't like to crack a house where there's a

pretty small baby that's liable to wake up and howl any minute, and

rouse up the rest of the family. There's no workin' in a house with

comfort when there's such a young one about. I'll tell you what it

is, all your burglar-alarms and your dogs ain't worth nuthin'

alongside of a baby for guardin' a house. If a cracksman ain't

careful the alarms will go off, and if he don't know how to manage

dogs, the dogs will bark. But by George, sir, there ain't no

providin' ag'in a baby. He'll howl any time, and nobody can tell

when, so I waited till your baby was a little more settled in its

ways and slept soundly, and then we come along, and here we are."

This statement very much surprised me, and did not elate me. Without

saying so to any one, I had flattered myself that the burglars had

heard of my precautions, and of my excellent stock of firearms, and

perhaps had got a notion that I would be an intrepid man to deal

with, and it was somewhat humiliating to find that it was our baby

the burglars were afraid of, and not myself. My wife was amazed.

"Can it be possible," she said, "that these people know so much about

our baby, and that George William has been protecting this house?"

"It makes my flesh creep," said Aunt Martha. "Do you know everything

about all of us?"

"Wish I did, ma'am," said the stout burglar; "wish I'd known about

that beastly liquor."

"Well, we've had enough of this," said I, rising; "and, my dear, you

and Aunt Martha must be ready to go to bed, and David and I will keep

guard over these fellows until morning."

At this instant the youngest burglar spoke. His face wore a very

anxious expression.

"May I ask, sir," he said, "what you intend to do with me in the

morning?"

"I have already said," I answered, "that I shall then hand over all

of you to the officers of justice of this country."

"But, sir," said the young man, "you will surely except me. I am not

at all concerned in this matter, and it would be of the greatest

possible injury to me to be mixed up in it, or to be mentioned in

public reports as an associate of a criminal. I'm not acquainted

with the gentleman at the other end of the bench, but I have every

reason to believe from what he said to me that he intended to notify

you if this James Barlow proceeded to any open act. For myself, I

beg you will allow me to state who and what I am, and to tell you by

what a strange concatenation of circumstances I happen to find myself

in my present position--one which, I assure you, causes me the

greatest embarrassment and anxiety."

"We've had enough story-telling for one night," said I, "and you had

better reserve your statement for the magistrate."

Here Aunt Martha put in her voice.

"That is not fair," she said, "two of them have been allowed to

speak, and this one has just as much right to be heard as the others.

What do you say, Cornelia?"

I hoped that my wife would put herself on my side, and would say that

we had enough of this sort of thing; but female curiosity is an

unknown quantity, and she unhesitatingly replied that she would like

to hear the young man's story. I sat down in despair. It was

useless to endeavor to withstand this yearning for personal

information--one of the curses, I may say, of our present

civilization. The young man gave no time for change of opinion, but

immediately began. His voice was rich and rather low, and his manner

exceedingly pleasing and gentle.

"I wish to state in the first place," said he, "that I am a reporter

for the press. In the exercise of my vocation I have frequently

found myself in peculiar and unpleasant positions, but never before

have I been in a situation so embarrassing, so humiliating, as this.

In the course of my studies and experiences I have found that in

literature and journalism, as well as in art, one can make a true

picture only of what one has seen. Imagination is all very well,

often grand and beautiful; but imaginative authors show us their

inner selves and not our outer world; there is to-day a demand for

the real, and it is a demand which will be satisfied with nothing but

the truth. I have determined, as far as in me lies, to endeavor to

supply this demand, and I have devoted myself to the study of Realism.

"With this end in view, I have made it a rule never to describe

anything I have not personally seen and examined. If we would

thoroughly understand and appreciate our fellow-beings we must know

what they do and how they do it; otherwise we cannot give them credit

for their virtues, or judge them properly for their faults. If I

could prevent crime I would annihilate it, and when it ceased to

exist the necessity for describing it would also cease. But it does

exist. It is a powerful element in the life of the human race.

Being known and acknowledged everywhere, it should be understood;

therefore it should be described. The grand reality of which we are

a part can never be truly comprehended until we comprehend all its

parts. But I will not philosophize. I have devoted myself to

Realism, and in order to be a conscientious student I study it in all

its branches. I am frequently called upon to write accounts of

burglars and burglaries, and in order thoroughly to understand these

people and their method of action I determined, as soon as the

opportunity should offer itself, to accompany a burglarious

expedition. My sole object was the acquisition of knowledge of the

subject--knowledge which to me would be valuable, and, I may say,

essential. I engaged this man, James Barlow, to take me with him the

first time he should have on hand an affair of this kind, and thus it

is that you find me here to-night in this company. As I came here

for the purpose of earnest and thorough investigation, I will frankly

admit that I would not have interfered with his processes, but at the

same time I would have seen that no material injuries should result

to any members of this family."

"That was very kind of you," I said, at which my wife looked at me

somewhat reproachingly.

"If he really intended it," she remarked, "and I do not see why that

was not the case, it was kind in him."

"As for me," said Aunt Martha, very sympathetically, "I think that

the study of Realism may be carried a great deal too far. I do not

think that there is the slightest necessity for people to know

anything about burglars. If people keep talking and reading about

diseases they will get them, and if they keep talking and reading

about crimes they will find that iniquity is catching, the same as

some other things. Besides, this realistic description gets to be

very tiresome. If you really want to be a writer, young man, why

don't you try your hand on some original composition? Then you might

write something which would be interesting."

"Ah, madam," said the young man, casting his eyes on the floor, "it

would be far beyond my power to write anything more wonderful than

what I have known and seen! If I may tell you some of the things

which have happened to me, you will understand why I have become

convinced that in this world of realities imagination must always

take a second place."

"Of course we want to hear your story," said Aunt Martha; "that is

what we are here for."

"If I was unbound," said the young man, looking at me, "I could speak

more freely."

"No doubt of it," said I; "but perhaps you might run away before you

finished your story. I wouldn't have that happen for the world."

"Don't make fun of him," said Aunt Martha. "I was going to ask you

to cut him loose, but after what you say I think it would perhaps be

just as well to keep them all tied until the narratives are

completed."

With a sigh of resignation the young man began his story.

"I am American born, but my father, who was a civil engineer and of

high rank in his profession, was obliged, when I was quite a small

boy, to go to Austria, where he had made extensive contracts for the

building of railroads. In that country I spent the greater part of

my boyhood and youth. There I was educated in the best schools, my

father sparing no money to have me taught everything that a gentleman

should know. My mother died when I was a mere infant, and as my

father's vocation made it necessary for him to travel a great deal,

my life was often a lonely one. For society I depended entirely upon

my fellow-scholars, my tutors, and masters. It was my father's

intention, however, that when I had finished my studies I should go

to one of the great capitals, there to mix with the world.

"But when this period arrived I was in no haste to avail myself of

the advantages he offered me. My tastes were studious, my

disposition contemplative, and I was a lover of rural life.

"My father had leased an old castle in Carinthia, not far from the

mountains, and here he kept his books and charts, and here he came

for recreation and study whenever his arduous duties gave him a

little breathing-spell. For several months I had lived at this

castle, happy when my father was with me and happy when I was alone.

I expected soon to go to Vienna, where my father would introduce me

to some of his influential friends. But day by day I postponed the

journey.

"Walking one morning a few miles from the castle, I saw at the edge

of a piece of woodland a female figure seated beneath a tree.

Approaching nearer, I perceived that she was young, and that she was

sketching. I was surprised, for I knew that in this part of the

world young women, at least those of the upper classes, to which the

costume and tastes of this one showed her to belong, were not allowed

to wander about the country by themselves; but although I stood still

and watched the young lady for some time, no companion appeared upon

the scene.

"The path I had intended to take led past the piece of woodland, and

I saw no reason why I should diverge from my proposed course. I

accordingly proceeded, and when I reached the young lady I bowed and

raised my hat. I think that for some time she had perceived my

approach, and she looked up at me with a face that was half merry,

half inquisitive, and perfectly charming. I cannot describe the

effect which her expression had upon me. I had never seen her

before, but her look was not such a one as she would bestow upon a

stranger. I had the most powerful desire to stop and speak to her,

but having no right to do so, I should have passed on, had she not

said to me, in the best of English, 'Good-morning, sir.' Then I

stopped, you may be sure. I was so accustomed to speak to those I

meet in either French or German that I involuntarily said to her,

'_Bon jour, Mademoiselle._'--'You need not speak French,' she said;

'I am neither English nor American, but I speak English. Are you the

gentleman who lives in Wulrick Castle? If so, we are neighbors, and

I wish you would tell me why you live there all the time alone.'

"At this I sat down by her. 'I am that person,' I said, and handed

her my card. 'But before I say any more, please tell me who you

are.'--'I am Marie Dorfler. My father's house is on the other side

of this piece of woodland; you cannot see it from here; this is part

of his estate. And now tell me why you live all by yourself in that

old ruin.'--'It is not altogether a ruin,' I answered; 'part of it is

in very good condition.' And then I proceeded to give her an account

of my method of life and my reasons for it. 'It is interesting,' she

said, 'but it is very odd.'--'I do not think it half so odd,' I

answered, 'as that you should be here by yourself.'--'That is truly

an out-of-the-way sort of thing,' she said; 'but just now I am doing

out-of-the-way things. If I do not do them now, I shall never have

the opportunity again. In two weeks I shall be married, and then I

shall go to Prague, and everything will be by line and rule. No more

delightful rambles by myself. No more sitting quietly in the woods

watching the little birds and hares. No more making a sketch just

where I please, no matter whether the ground be damp or not.'--'I

wonder that you are allowed to do these things now,' I said.--'I am

not allowed,' she answered. 'I do them in hours when I am supposed

to be painting flower pieces in an upper room.'--'But when you're

married,' I said, 'your husband will be your companion in such

rambles.'--'Hardly,' she said, shrugging her shoulders; 'he will be

forty-seven on the thirteenth of next month, which I believe is July,

and he is a great deal more grizzled than my father, who is past

fifty. He is very particular about all sorts of things, as I suppose

he has to be, as he is a Colonel of infantry. Nobody could possibly

disapprove of my present performances more than he would.' I could

not help ejaculating, 'Why, then, do you marry him?' She smiled at

my earnestness. 'Oh, that is all arranged,' she said, 'and I have

nothing to do with it. I have known for more than a year that I'm to

marry Colonel Kaldhein, but I cannot say that I have given myself

much concern about it until recently. It now occurs to me that if I

expect to amuse myself in the way I best like I must lose no time

doing so.' I looked at the girl with earnest interest. 'It appears

to me,' said I, 'that your ways of amusing yourself are very much

like mine.'--'That is true,' she said, looking up with animation,

'they are. Is it not delightful to be free, to go where you like,

and do what you please, without any one to advise or interfere with

you?'--'It is delightful,' said I; and for half an hour we sat and

talked about these delights and kindred subjects. She was much

interested in our castle, and urged me to make a sketch of it, so

that she may know what it now looked like. She had seen it when a

little girl, but never since, and had been afraid to wander very far

in this direction by herself. I told her that it would be far better

for her to see the castle with her own eyes, and that I could conduct

her to an eminence, not half a mile away, where she could have an

excellent view of it. This plan greatly pleased her; but looking at

her watch she said that it would be too late for her to go that

morning, but if I happened to come that way the next day, and she

should be there to finish her sketch, she would be delighted to have

me show her the eminence."

"I think," interrupted Aunt Martha, "that she was a very imprudent

young woman."

"That may be," he replied, "but you must remember, madam, that up to

this time the young lady had been subjected to the most conventional

trammels, and that her young nature had just burst out into temporary

freedom and true life. It was the caged bird's flight into the

bright summer air."

"Just the kind of birds," said Aunt Martha, "that shouldn't be

allowed to fly, at least until they are used to it. But you can go

on with your story."

"Well," said the young man, "the next day we met I took her to the

piece of high ground I had mentioned, and she sketched the castle.

After that we met again and again, nearly every day. This sort of

story tells itself. I became madly in love with her, and I am sure

she liked me very well; at all events I was a companion of her own

age and tastes, and such a one, she assured me, she had never known

before, and probably would never know again."

"There was some excuse for her," said Aunt Martha; "but still she had

no right to act in that way, especially as she was so soon to be

married."

"I do not think that she reasoned much upon the subject," said the

young man, "and I am sure I did not. We made no plans. Every day we

thought only of what we were doing or saying, and not at all what we

had done or would do. We were very happy.

"One morning I was sitting by Marie in the very place where I had

first met her, when we heard some one rapidly approaching. Looking

up I saw a tall man in military uniform. 'Heavens!' cried Marie, 'it

is Colonel Kaldhein.'

"The situation was one of which an expectant bridegroom would not be

likely to ask many questions. Marie was seated on a low stone with

her drawing-block in her lap. She was finishing the sketch on which

she was engaged when I first saw her, and I was kneeling close to

her, looking over her work and making various suggestions, and I

think my countenance must have indicated that I found it very

pleasant to make suggestions in that way to such a pretty girl. Our

heads were very close together. Sometimes we looked at the paper,

sometimes we looked at each other. But in the instant I caught sight

of the Colonel the situation had changed. I rose to my feet, and

Marie began to pick up the drawing materials, which were lying about

her.

"Colonel Kaldhein came forward almost at a run. His eyes blazed

through his gold spectacles, and his close-cut reddish beard seemed

to be singeing with the fires of rage. I had but an instant for

observation, for he came directly up to me, and with a tremendous

objurgation he struck me full in the face with such force that the

blow stretched me upon the ground.

"I was almost stunned; but I heard a scream from Marie, a storm of

angry words from Kaldhein, and I felt sure he was about to inflict

further injury. He was a much stronger man than I was, and probably

was armed. With a sudden instinct of self-preservation I rolled down

a little declivity on the edge of which I had fallen, and staggering

to my feet, plunged into a thicket and fled. Even had I been in the

full possession of my senses, I knew that under the circumstances I

would have been of no benefit to Marie had I remained upon the scene.

The last thing I heard was a shout from Kaldhein, in which he

declared that he would kill me yet. For some days I did not go out

of my castle. My face was bruised, my soul was dejected. I knew

there was no possible chance that I should meet Marie, and that there

was a chance that I might meet the angry Colonel. An altercation at

this time would be very annoying and painful to the lady, no matter

what the result, and I considered it my duty to do everything that

was possible to avoid a meeting with Kaldhein. Therefore, as I have

said, I shut myself up within the walls of old Wulrick, and gave

strict orders to my servants to admit no one.

"It was at this time that the strangest events of my life occurred.

Sitting in an upper room, gazing out of the window, over the fields,

through which I had walked so happily but two days before to meet the

lady whom I had begun to think of as my Marie, I felt the head of a

dog laid gently in my lap. Without turning my head I caressed the

animal, and stroked the long hair on his neck.

"My hound Ajax was a dear companion to me in this old castle,

although I never took him in my walks, as he was apt to get into

mischief, and when I turned my head to look at him he was gone; but

strange to say, the hand which had been stroking the dog felt as if

it were still resting on his neck.

"Quickly drawing my hand toward me it struck the head of the dog,

and, moving it backward and forward, I felt the ears and nose of the

animal, and then became conscious that its head was still resting

upon my knee.

"I started back. Had I been stricken with blindness? But no;

turning my head, I could plainly see everything in the room. The

scene from the window was as distinct as it ever had been. I sprang

to my feet, and, as I stood wondering what this strange thing could

mean, the dog brushed up against me and licked my hand. Then the

idea suddenly flashed into my mind that by some occult influence Ajax

had been rendered invisible.

"I dashed downstairs, and although I could neither see nor hear it, I

felt that the dog was following me. Rushing into the open air, I saw

one of my men. 'Where's Ajax?' I cried. 'A very strange thing has

happened, sir,' he said, 'and I should have come to tell you of it,

had I not been unwilling to disturb your studies. About two hours

ago Ajax was lying here in the courtyard; suddenly he sprang to his

feet with a savage growl. His hair stood straight upon his back, his

tail was stiff, and his lips were drawn back, showing his great

teeth. I turned to see what had enraged him, but there was

absolutely nothing, sir--nothing in the world. And never did I see

Ajax so angry. But this lasted only for an instant. Ajax suddenly

backed, his tail dropped between his legs, his head hung down, and

with a dreadful howl he turned, and, leaping the wall of the

courtyard, he disappeared. I have since been watching for his

return. The gate is open, and as soon as he enters I shall chain

him, for I fear the dog is mad.'

"I did not dare to utter the thoughts that were in my mind, but,

bidding the man inform me the moment Ajax returned, I re-entered the

castle and sat down in the great hall.

"The dog was beside me; his head again lay upon my knees. With a

feeling of awe, yet strangely enough without fear, I carefully passed

my hand over the animal's head. I felt his ears, his nose, his jaws,

and his neck. They were not the head, the ears, the nose, the jaws,

or the neck of Ajax!

"I had heard of animals, and even human beings, who were totally

invisible, but who still retained their form, their palpability, and

all the powers and functions of life. I had heard of houses haunted

by invisible animals; I had read De Kay's story of the maiden

Manmat'ha, whose coming her lover perceived by the parting of the

tall grain in the field of ripe wheat through which she passed, but

whose form, although it might be folded in his arms, was yet as

invisible to his sight as the summer air. I did not doubt for a

moment that the animal that had come to me was one of those strange

beings. I lifted his head; it was heavy. I took hold of a paw which

he readily gave me; he had every attribute of a real dog, except that

he could not be seen."

"I call that perfectly horrible," said Aunt Martha with a sort of a

gasp.

"Perhaps," said the young man, "you would prefer that I should not

continue."

At this both my wife and Aunt Martha declared that he must go on, and

even I did not object to hearing the rest of the story.

"Well," said the young man, "Ajax never came back. It is generally

believed that dogs can see things which are invisible to us, and I am

afraid that my faithful hound was frightened, perhaps to death, when

he found that the animal whose entrance into the courtyard he had

perceived was a supernatural thing.

"But if I needed a canine companion I had one, for by day or night

this invisible dog never left me. When I slept he lay on the floor

by the side of my bed; if I put down my hand I could always feel his

head, and often he would stand up and press his nose against me, as

if to assure me that he was there. This strange companionship

continued for several days, and I became really attached to the

invisible animal. His constant companionship seemed to indicate that

he had come to guard me, and that he was determined to do it

thoroughly. I felt so much confidence in his protection, although I

knew not how it could be exerted, that one morning I decided to take

a walk, and with my hand on the head of the dog, to make sure that he

was with me, I strolled into the open country.

"I had walked about a mile, and was approaching a group of large

trees, when suddenly from behind one of them the tall figure of a man

appeared. In an instant I knew it to be Colonel Kaldhein; his was a

face which could not easily be forgotten. Without a word he raised a

pistol which he held in his hand and fired at me. The ball whistled

over my head.

"I stopped short, startled, and frightened almost out of my senses.

I was unarmed, and had no place of refuge. It was plain that the man

was determined to kill me.

"Quickly recocking his pistol, Kaldhein raised it again. I

involuntarily shrank back, expecting death; but before he could fire

his arm suddenly dropped, and the pistol was discharged into the

ground. Then began a strange scene. The man shouted, kicked, and

beat up and down with his arms; his pistol fell from his hand, he

sprang from side to side, he turned around, he struggled and yelled.

"I stood astounded. For an instant I supposed the man had been

overtaken by some sort of fit; but in a flash the truth came to

me--Kaldhein was being attacked by my protector, the invisible dog.

"Horrified by this conviction, my first impulse was to save the man;

and, without knowing what I was going to do, I stepped quickly toward

him, but stumbling over something I did not see I fell sprawling.

Before I could regain my feet I saw Kaldhein fall backward to the

ground, where a scene took place, so terrible that I shall not

attempt to describe it. When, with trembling steps, I approached,

the man was dead. The invisible dog had almost torn him to pieces.

"I could do nothing. I did not remain upon the spot another minute,

but hurried home to the castle. As I rapidly walked on I felt the

dog beside me, and, putting my hand upon him, I felt that he was

panting terribly. For three days I did not leave the house.

"About the end of this time I was sitting in an upper room of the

castle, reflecting upon the recent dreadful event, when the thought

struck me that the invisible dog, who was by my side, apparently

asleep, must be of an unusually powerful build to overcome so easily

such a strong man as Kaldhein. I felt a desire to know how large the

creature really was, and, as I had never touched any portion of his

body back of his shoulders, I now passed my hand along his back. I

was amazed at his length, and when I had moved my hand at least seven

feet from his head it still rested upon his body. And then the form

of that body began to change in a manner which terrified me; but

impelled by a horrible but irresistible curiosity, my hand moved on.

"But I no longer touched the body of a dog; the form beneath my hand

was cylindrical, apparently about a foot in diameter. As my hand

moved on the diameter diminished, and the skin of the creature became

cold and clammy. I was feeling the body of a snake!

"I now had reached the open door of the room. The body of the snake

extended through it. It went on to the top of the stairs; these I

began to descend, my heart beating fast with terror, my face

blanched, I am sure, but my hand still moving along the body of the

awful creature. I had studied zoology, giving a good deal of

attention to reptiles, and I knew that, judged by the ordinary ratio

of diminution of the bodies of serpents, this one must extend a long

distance down the stairs.

"But I had not descended more than a dozen steps before I felt a

shiver beneath my hand, and then a jerk, and the next moment the

snake's body was violently drawn upward. I withdrew my hand and

started to one side, and then, how, I know not, I became aware that

the dog part of the creature was coming downstairs.

"I now became possessed by a wild terror. The creature must be

furious that I had discovered his real form. He had always been

careful to keep his head toward me. I should be torn to pieces as

Kaldhein had been! Down the stairs I dashed, across the courtyard,

and toward a lofty old tower, which stood in one corner of the

castle. I ran up the winding stairs of this with a speed which

belongs only to a frantically terrified creature, until I reached the

fourth story, where I dashed through an open doorway, slammed behind

me an iron door, which shut with a spring, and fell gasping upon the

floor.

"In less than a minute I was aware, by a slight rattling of the

grate-hinges, that something was pushing against the door; but I did

not move. I knew that I was safe. The room in which I lay was a

prison dungeon, and in it, in the olden times, it is said, men had

been left to perish. Escape or communication with the outer world

was impossible. A little light and air came through a narrow slit in

the wall, and the door could not be forced.

"I knew that the invisible dog, or whatever it was, could not get in

unless the door was open. I had frequently noticed that when he

entered a room it was through an open door, and I sometimes knew of

his approach by seeing an unlatched door open without visible cause;

so, feeling secure for the present, I lay and gasped and panted.

"After the lapse of a few hours, however, I was seized by a new

terror. How was I ever to get out of this horrible dungeon? Even if

I made up my mind to face the dog, trusting that he had recovered

from his momentary anger, I had no means of opening the door, and as

to making any one hear me I knew that was impossible.

"I had no hope that my servants would seek me here. I had not seen

any one when I ran into the tower, and if they should discover that I

was in this dungeon, how could they open the door? The key was in my

father's possession. He had taken it to Vienna to exhibit it as a

curiosity to some of his mechanical friends. He believed that there

was not such another key in the world. I was in the habit of making

long absences from the castle, and if I should be looked for I

believed that the tower would be the last place visited.

"Night came on; the little light in the room vanished, and, hungry,

thirsty, and almost hopeless, I fell asleep.

"During the night there was a most dreadful storm. The thunder

roared, the lightning flashed through the slit in the wall, and the

wind blew with such terrific violence that the tower shook and

trembled. After a time I heard a tremendous crash as of falling

walls, and then another, and now I felt the wind blowing into my

prison.

"There was no further sleep for me. Trembling with a fearful

apprehension of what might happen next, I cowered against the wall

until the day broke, and then I perceived that in front of me was a

great hole in the wall of the dungeon, which extended for more than a

yard above the floor. I sat and gazed at this until the light became

stronger, and then I cautiously approached the aperture and looked

out. Nearly the whole of the castle lay in ruins before me!

"It was easy to see what had happened. The storm had demolished the

crumbling walls of the old building, and the tower, itself frail and

tottering, stood alone, high above the prostrate ruins. If the winds

should again arise it must fall, and at any moment its shaken

foundations might give way beneath it.

"Through the hole in the wall, which had been caused by the tearing

away of some of the connection between the tower and main building, I

could look down on the ground below, covered with masses of jagged

stone; but there was no way in which I could get down. I could not

descend that perpendicular wall. If I leaped out, death would be

certain.

"As I crouched at the opening I felt the head of a dog pushed against

me. A spasm of terror ran through me, but the moment the creature

began to lick my hands I knew that I had nothing to fear from him.

Instantly my courage returned. I felt that he was my protector. I

patted his head and he renewed his caresses.

"Passing my hand over him, I found he was holding himself in his

present position by means of his forelegs, which were stretched out

upon the floor. What a dog this must be, who could climb a wall!

But I gave no time to conjectures of this sort. How could I avail

myself of his assistance? In what manner could he enable me to

escape from that dangerous tower?

"Suddenly a thought came to me. I remembered the snake part of him.

Judging from the ratio of diminution, which I have mentioned before,

that part, if hanging down, must reach nearly, if not quite, to the

ground. By taking advantage of this means of descent I might be

saved, but the feat would require dexterity and an immense amount of

faith. This serpent-like portion of the animal was invisible. How

could I know how long it was!

"But there was no time for consideration; the wind had again arisen,

and was blowing with fury. The tower shook beneath me; at any moment

it might fall. If I should again escape from death, through the

assistance of my invisible friend, I must avail myself of that

assistance instantly.

"I stopped and felt the animal. He still hung by part of his body

and by his forelegs to the floor of the dungeon, and by reaching out

I could feel that the rest of him extended downward. I therefore

seized his body in my arms, threw myself out of the aperture, and

began to slide down.

"In a very short time I found that I had reached the snake portion of

the creature, and, throwing my arms and legs around it, I endeavored

with all my strength to prevent a too rapid descent; but in spite of

all my efforts, my downward progress was faster than I would have

wished it to be. But there was no stopping; I must slip down.

"In these moments of rapid descent my mind was filled with wild

anxiety concerning the serpent-like form to which I was clinging. I

remembered in a flash that there were snakes whose caudal extremity

dwindled away suddenly into a point. This one might do so, and at

any instant I might come to the end of the tail and drop upon the

jagged stones below.

"Calculation after calculation of the ratio of diminution flashed

through my mind during that awful descent. My whole soul was

centered upon one point. When would this support end? When would I

drop?

"Fortunately I was on the leeward side of the tower, and I was not

swung about by the wind. Steadily I descended, and steadily the

diameter of the form I grasped diminished; soon I could grasp it in

my hand; then with a terrified glance I looked below. I was still at

a sickening distance from the ground. I shut my eyes. I slipped

down, down, down. The tail became like a thick rope which I

encircled with each hand. It became thinner and thinner. It grew so

small that I could not hold it; but as I felt it slip from my fingers

my feet rested on a pile of stones.

"Bewildered and almost exhausted, I stumbled over the ruins, gained

the unencumbered ground, and ran as far from the tower as I could,

sinking down at last against the trunk of a tree in a neighboring

field. Scarcely had I reached this spot when the fury of the

wind-storm appeared to redouble, and before the wild and shrieking

blast the tower bent and then fell with a crash upon the other ruins.

"The first thought that came into my mind when I beheld the dreadful

spectacle concerned the creature who had twice saved my life. Had he

escaped, or was he crushed beneath that mass of stone? I felt on

either side to discover if he were near me, but he was not. Had he

given his life for mine?

"Had I been stronger I would have searched for him; I would have

clambered among the ruins to see if I could discover his mangled

form. If I could but reach his faithful head I would stroke and

caress it, living or dead. But excitement, fatigue, and want of food

had made me so weak that I could do nothing but sit upon the ground

with my back against the tree.

"While thus resting I perceived that the whole of the tower had not

been demolished by the storm. Some of the rooms in which we had

lived, having been built at a later date than the rest of the great

edifice, had resisted the power of the wind and were still standing.

"From the direction of the uninjured portion of the castle I now saw

approaching a light-colored object, which seemed to be floating in

the air about a foot from the ground. As it came nearer I saw that

it was a basket, and I immediately understood the situation. My

faithful friend was alive, and was bringing me some refreshments.

"On came the basket, rising and falling with the bounds of the dog.

It was truly an odd spectacle, but a very welcome one. In a few

moments the basket was deposited at my side, and I was caressing the

head of the faithful dog. In the basket I found a bottle of wine and

some bread and meat, which the good creature had doubtless discovered

in the kitchen of the castle, and it was not long before I was myself

again. The storm had now almost passed away, and I arose and went to

my own rooms, my friend and protector still keeping close to my side.

"On the morning of the next day, as I sat wondering what had happened

to my servants, and whether my father had been apprised of the

disaster to the castle, I felt something pulling at the skirt of my

coat. I put out my hand and found that it was the invisible dog.

Imagining that he wished me to follow him, I arose, and, obeying the

impulse given me by his gentle strain upon my coat, I followed him

out of the door, across the courtyard, and into the open country. We

went on for a considerable distance. A gentle touch of my coat

admonished me when I turned from the direction in which it was

desired that I should go.

"After a walk of about half an hour I approached a great oak-tree,

with low, wide-spreading branches. Some one was sitting beneath it.

Imagining the truth, I rushed forward. It was Marie!

"It was needless for us to say anything, to explain the state of our

feelings toward each other. That tale was told by the delight with

which we met. When I asked her how she came to be there, she told me

that about an hour before, while sitting in front of her father's

mansion, she had felt something gently pulling at her skirts; and,

although at first frightened, she was at length impelled to obey the

impulse, and, without knowing whether it was the wind or some

supernatural force which had led her here, she had come.

"We had a great deal to say to each other. She told me that she had

been longing to send me a message to warn me that Colonel Kaldhein

would certainly kill me the next time he saw me; but she had no means

of sending me such a message, for the Colonel had had her actions

closely watched.

"When the news came of Kaldhein's death she at first feared that I

had killed him, and would therefore be obliged to fly the country;

but when it was known that he had been almost torn to pieces by wild

beasts, she, like every one else, was utterly amazed, and could not

understand the matter at all. None but the most ferocious creatures

could have inflicted the injuries of which the man had died, and

where those creatures came from no one knew. Some people thought

that a pack of blood-hounds might have broken loose from some of the

estates of the surrounding country, and, in the course of their wild

journeyings, might have met with the Colonel, and fallen upon him.

Others surmised that a bear had come down from the mountains; but the

fact was that nobody knew anything about it.

"I did not attempt to acquaint Marie with the truth. At that moment

the invisible dog was lying at my side, and I feared if I mentioned

his existence to Marie she might fly in terror. To me there was only

one important phase of the affair, and that was that Marie was now

free, that she might be mine.

"Before we parted we were affianced lovers, pledged to marry as soon

as possible. I wrote to my father, asking for his permission to wed

the lady. But in his reply he utterly forbade any such marriage.

Marie also discovered that her parents would not permit a union with

a foreigner, and would indeed oppose her marriage with any one at

this time.

"However, as usual, love triumphed, and after surmounting many

difficulties we were married and fled to America. Since that time I

have been obliged to support myself and my wife, for my father will

give me no assistance. He had proposed a very different career for

me, and was extremely angry when he found his plans had been

completely destroyed. But we are hopeful, we work hard, and hope

that we may yet be able to support ourselves comfortably without aid

from any one. We are young, we are strong, we trust each other, and

have a firm faith in our success.

"I had only one regret in leaving Europe, and that was that my

faithful friend, the noble and devoted invisible dog, was obliged to

remain on the other side of the Atlantic. Why this was so I do not

know, but perhaps it was for the best. I never told my wife of his

existence, and if she had accidentally discovered it, I know not what

might have been the effects upon her nervous system.

"The dog accompanied me through Austria, Switzerland, and France to

Havre, from which port we sailed. I took leave of him on the

gang-plank. He licked my hands, and I caressed and stroked him.

People might have thought that my actions denoted insanity, but every

one was so greatly occupied in these last moments before departure,

that perhaps I was not noticed. Just as I left him and hastened on

board, a sailor fell overboard from the gang-plank. He was quickly

rescued, but could not imagine why he had fallen. I believe,

however, that he was tripped up by the snake part of my friend as he

convulsively rushed away."

The young man ceased, and gazed pensively upon the floor.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed Aunt Martha, "if those are the sort of

experiences you had, I don't wonder that Realism was wonderful enough

for you. The invisible creature was very good to you, I am sure, but

I am glad it did not come with you to America."

David, who had been waiting for an opportunity to speak, now

interrupted further comments by stating that it was daylight, and if

I thought well of it, he would open the window-shutters, so that we

might see any one going toward the town. A milkman, he said, passed

the house very early every morning. When the shutters were opened we

were all amazed that the night should have passed so quickly.

The tall burglar and the young man now began to exhibit a good deal

of anxiety.

"I should like very much to know," said the former, "what you intend

to do in regard to us. It cannot be that you think of placing that

young gentleman and myself in the hands of the law. Of course, this

man," pointing to the stout burglar, "cannot expect anything but a

just punishment of his crimes; but after what we have told you, you

must certainly be convinced that our connection with the affair is

entirely blameless, and should be considered as a piece of very bad

luck."

"That," said I, "is a matter which will receive all the consideration

it needs."

At this moment David announced the milkman. Counseling my man to

keep strict guard over the prisoners, I went out to the road, stopped

the milkman, and gave him a message which I was certain would insure

the prompt arrival at my house of sufficient force to take safe

charge of the burglars. Excited with the importance of the

commission, he whipped up his horse and dashed away.

When I returned to the house I besought my wife and Aunt Martha to go

to bed, that they might yet get some hours of sleep; but both

refused. They did not feel in the least like sleep, and there was a

subject on which they wished to consult with me in the dining-room.

"Now," said Aunt Martha, when the door had been closed, "these men

have freely told us their stories; whether they are entirely true or

not, must, of course, be a matter of opinion; but they have laid

their cases before us, and we should not place them all in the hands

of the officers of the law without giving them due consideration, and

arriving at a decision which shall be satisfactory to ourselves."

"Let us take them in order," said I. "What do you think of the tall

man's case?"

"I think he is a thief and manufacturer of falsehoods," said my wife

promptly.

"I am afraid," said Aunt Martha, "that he is not altogether innocent;

but there is one thing greatly in his favor--when he told of the

feelings which overcame him when he saw that little child sleeping

peacefully in its bed in the house which he had unintentionally

robbed, I felt there must be good points in that man's nature. What

do you think of him?"

"I think he is worst of the lot," I answered, "and as there are now

two votes against him, he must go to the lock-up. And now what of

the stout fellow?" I asked.

"Oh, he is a burglar by his own confession," said my wife; "there can

be no doubt of that."

"I am afraid you are right," said Aunt Martha.

"I know she is," said I, "and James Barlow, or whatever his name may

be, shall be delivered to the constable."

"Of course, there can be no difference of opinion in regard to the

young man," said Aunt Martha quickly. "Both the others admitted that

he had nothing to do with this affair except as a journalist, and

although I do not think he ought to get his realistic ideas in that

way, I would consider it positively wicked to send him into court in

company with those other men. Consider the position in which he

would be placed before the world. Consider his young wife."

"I cannot say," said my wife, "that I am inclined to believe all

parts of his story."

"I suppose," said I, laughing, "that you particularly refer to the

invisible dog-snake."

"I'm not so sure about all that," she answered. "Since the labors of

the psychic researchers began, we have heard of a great many strange

things; but it is evident that he is a young man of education and

culture, and in all probability a journalist or literary man. I do

not think he should be sent to the lock-up with common criminals."

"There!" cried Aunt Martha, "two in his favor. He must be released.

It's a poor rule that does not work both ways."

I stood for a few moments undecided. If left to myself, I would have

sent the trio to the county town, where, if any one of them could

prove his innocence, he could do so before the constitutional

authorities; but having submitted the matter to my wife and aunt, I

could not well override their decision. As for what the young man

said, I gave it no weight whatever, for of course he would say the

best he could for himself. But the testimony of the others had

weight. When they both declared that he was not a burglar, but

merely a journalist, engaged in what he supposed to be his duty, it

would seem to be a cruel thing to stamp him as a criminal by putting

him in charge of the constables.

But my indecision soon came to an end, for Aunt Martha declared that

no time should be lost in setting the young man free, for should the

people in town arrive and see him sitting bound with the others it

would ruin his character forever. My wife agreed.

"Whatever there may be of truth in his story," she said, "one of two

things is certain--either he has had most wonderful experiences out

of which he may construct realistic novels which will give him

fortune and reputation, or he has a startling imagination, which, if

used in the production of works in the romantic school, will be of

the same advantage to his future. Looking upon it, even in this

light and without any reference to his family and the possible

effects on his own moral nature, we shall assume a great

responsibility in deliberately subjecting such a person to criminal

prosecution and perhaps conviction."

This was enough. "Well," said I, "we will release the young fellow

and send the two other rascals to jail."

"That was not well expressed," said my wife, "but we will not

criticize words at present."

We returned to the library and I announced my decision. When he

heard it the stout burglar exhibited no emotion. His expression

indicated that, having been caught, he expected to be sent to jail,

and that was the end of it. Perhaps, he had been through this

experience so often that he had become used to it. The tall man,

however, took the announcement in a very different way. His face

grew dark and his eyes glittered. "You are making a great mistake,"

he said to me, "a very great mistake, and you will have to bear the

consequences."

"Very good," said I, "I will remember that remark when your trial

comes on."

The behavior of the young man was unexceptional. He looked upon us

with a face full of happy gratitude, and, as he thanked us for the

kind favor and the justice which we had shown him, his eyes seemed

dim with tears. Aunt Martha was much affected.

"I wonder if his mother is living," she whispered to me. "A wife is

a great deal, but a mother is more. If I had thought of her sooner I

would have spoken more strongly in his favor. And now you should

untie him at once and let him go home. His wife must be getting

terribly anxious."

The young man overheard this last remark.

"You will confer a great favor on me, sir," he said, "if you will let

me depart as soon as possible. I feel a great repugnance to be seen

in company with these men, as you may imagine, from wearing a mask on

coming here. If I leave immediately I think I can catch the first

train from your station."

I considered the situation. If I did what I was asked, there would

be two bound burglars to guard, three women and a child to protect,

an uncertain stranger at liberty, and only David and myself to attend

to the whole business. "No, sir," said I, "I shall not untie you

until the officers I sent for are near at hand; then I will release

you, and you can leave the house by the back way without being seen

by them. There are other morning trains which will take you into the

city early enough."

"I think you are a little hard on him," remarked Aunt Martha, but the

young man made no complaint.

"I will trust myself to you, sir," he said.

The officers arrived much sooner than I expected. There were five of

them, including the Chief of Police, and they were accompanied by

several volunteer assistants, among whom was the milkman who had been

my messenger. This morning his customers might wait for their milk,

for all business must give way before such an important piece of

sightseeing as this.

I had barely time to untie the young man and take him to the back of

the house before the officers and their followers had entered the

front door. There was now a great deal of questioning, a great deal

of explanation, a great deal of discussion as to whether my way of

catching burglars was advisable or not, and a good deal of talk about

the best method of taking the men to town. Some of the officers were

in favor of releasing the two men, and then deciding in what manner

they should be taken to town; and if this plan had been adopted, I

believe that these two alert and practical rascals would have taken

themselves out of my house without the assistance of the officers, or

at least would have caused a great deal of trouble and perhaps injury

in endeavoring to do so.

But the Chief of Police was of my mind, and before the men were

entirely released from the ropes by which I had tied them, they were

securely manacled.

A requisition made on David and myself to appear as witnesses, the

two men were taken from the house to the wagons in which the officers

and their followers had come. My wife and Aunt Martha had gone

upstairs before the arrival of the police, and were watching the

outside proceeding from a window.

Standing in the hallway, I glanced into the dining-room, and was

surprised to see the young man still standing by a side door. I had

thought him gone, but perhaps it was wise in him to remain, and not

show himself upon the road until the coast was entirely clear. He

did not see me, and was looking backward into the kitchen, a cheerful

and animated expression upon his face. This expression did not

strike me pleasantly. He had escaped a great danger, it was true,

but it was no reason for this rather obtrusive air of exultation.

Just then Alice came into the dining-room from the kitchen, and the

young man stepped back, so that she did not notice him. As she

passed he gently threw his arm quietly around her neck and kissed her.

At that very instant, even before the girl had time to exclaim, in

rushed David from the outer side door.

"I've been watching you, you rascal," he shouted; "you're done for

now!" and he threw his strong arms around the man, pinioning his arms

to his side.

The young fellow gave a great jerk, and began to struggle powerfully.

His face turned black with rage; he swore, he kicked. He made the

most frenzied efforts to free himself, but David's arms were strong,

his soul was full of jealous fury, and in a moment I had come to his

assistance. Each of us taking the young fellow by an arm, we ran him

into the hallway and out of the front door, Alice aiding us greatly

by putting her hands against the man's back and pushing most forcibly.

"Here's another one," cried David. "I'll appear against him. He's

the worst of the lot."

Without knowing what it all meant, the Chief clapped the nippers on

our prisoner, justly believing that if burglars were about to show

themselves so unexpectedly, the best thing to do was to handcuff them

as fast as they appeared, and then to ask questions. The reasons for

not having produced this man before, and for producing him now, were

not very satisfactory to the officer.

"Have you any more in the cellar?" he asked. "If so, I should like

to take a look at them before I start away."

At this moment Aunt Martha made her appearance at the front door.

"What are you going to do with that young man?" she asked sharply.

"What right have you to put irons upon him?"

"Aunt Martha," said I, stepping back to her, "what do you think he

has done?"

"I don't know," said she; "how should I know? All I know is that we

agreed to set him free."

I addressed her solemnly: "David and I believe him to be utterly

depraved. He availed himself of the first moments of his liberation

to kiss Alice." Aunt Martha looked at me with wide-open eyes, and

then her brows contracted.

"He did, did he?" said she. "And that is the kind of a man he is.

Very good. Let him go to jail with the others. I don't believe one

word about his young wife. If kissing respectable young women is the

way he studies Realism the quicker he goes to jail the better," and

with that she walked into the house.

When the men had been placed in the two vehicles in which the police

had come, the Chief and I made an examination of the premises, and we

found that the house had been entered by a kitchen window, in exactly

the manner which the tall burglar had described. Outside of this

window, close to the wall, we found a leathern bag, containing what

the Chief declared to be an excellent assortment of burglars' tools.

The officers and their prisoners now drove away, and we were left to

a long morning nap, if we were so fortunate as to get it, and a late

breakfast.

In the course of the trial of the three men who had entered my house

some interesting points in regard to them were brought out. Several

detectives and policemen from New York were present, and their

testimony proved that my three burglars were men of eminence in their

profession, and that which most puzzled the metropolitan detectives

was to discover why these men should have been willing to devote

their high talents to the comparatively insignificant business of

breaking into a suburban dwelling.

The tall man occupied a position of peculiar eminence in criminal

circles. He was what might be called a criminal manager. He would

take contracts for the successful execution of certain crimes--bank

robberies, for instance--and while seldom taking part in the actual

work of a burglary or similar operation, he would plan all the

details of the affair, and select and direct his agents with great

skill and judgment. He had never been arrested before, and the

detectives were delighted, believing they would now have an

opportunity of tracing to him a series of very important criminal

operations that had taken place in New York and some other large

cities. He was known as Lewis Mandit, and this was believed to be

his real name.

The stout man was a first-class professional burglar and nothing

more, and was in the employ of Mandit. The young man was a decidedly

uncommon personage. He was of a good family, had been educated at

one of our principal colleges, had traveled, and was in every way

qualified to make a figure in society. He had been a newspaper man,

and a writer for leading periodicals, and had shown considerable

literary ability; but a life of honest industry did not suit his

tastes, and he had now adopted knavery as a regular profession.

This man, who was known among his present associates as Sparky, still

showed himself occasionally in newspaper offices, and was generally

supposed to be a correspondent for a Western journal; but his real

business position was that of Mandit's head man.

Sparky was an expert in many branches of crime. He was an excellent

forger, a skilful lock-picker, an ingenious planner of shady

projects, and had given a great deal of earnest study to the subject

of the loopholes of the law. He had a high reputation in criminal

circles for his ability in getting his fellow-rascals out of jail.

There was reason to believe that in the past year no less than nine

men, some condemned to terms of imprisonment, and some held for

trial, had escaped by means of assistance given them by Sparky.

His methods of giving help to jail-birds were various. Sometimes

liberty was conferred through the agency of saws and ropes, at other

times through that of a habeas corpus and an incontestible alibi.

His means were adapted to the circumstances of the case, and it was

believed that if Sparky could be induced to take up the case of a

captured rogue, the man had better chance of finding himself free

than the law had of keeping him behind bars, especially if his case

were treated before it had passed into its more chronic stages.

Sparky's success was greatly due to his extremely specious manner,

and his power of playing the part that the occasion demanded. In

this particular he was even the superior of Mandit, who was an adept

in this line. These two men found no difficulty in securing the

services of proficient burglars, safe-robbers, and the like; for, in

addition to the high rewards paid these men, they were in a manner

insured against permanent imprisonment in case of misfortune. It was

always arranged that, if any of their enterprises came to grief, and

if either Mandit or Sparky should happen to be arrested, the working

miscreants should substantiate any story their superiors might choose

to tell of themselves, and, if necessary, to take upon themselves the

whole responsibility of the crime. In this case their speedy release

was to be looked upon as assured.

A great deal of evidence in regard to the character and practices of

these two men came from the stout burglar, commonly known as Barney

Fitch. When he found that nothing was to be expected from his two

astute employers, and that they were in as bad a place as himself, he

promptly turned State's evidence, and told all that he knew about

them.

It was through the testimony of this man that the motive for the

attempted robbery of my house was found out. It had no connection

whatever with the other burglaries of our neighborhood, those,

probably, having been committed by low-class thieves, who had not

broken into my house simply because my doors and windows had been so

well secured; nor had our boy, George William, any share whatever in

the protection of the household.

The burglary was undertaken solely for the purpose of getting

possession of some important law papers, which were to be used in a

case in which I was concerned, which soon would be tried. If these

papers could be secured by the opposite party, the side on which I

was engaged would have no case at all, and a suit involving a great

deal of property must drop. With this end in view the unscrupulous

defendants in the case had employed Mandit to procure the papers; and

that astute criminal manager had not only arranged all the details of

the affair, but had gone himself to the scene of action in order to

see that there should be no mistake in carrying out the details of

this most important piece of business.

The premises had been thoroughly reconnoitred by Sparky, who, a few

days before the time fixed for the burglary, had visited my house in

the capacity of an agent of a telescopic bookcase, which could be

extended as new volumes were required, therefore need never exhibit

empty shelves. The young man had been included in the party on

account of his familiarity with legal documents, it being, of course,

of paramount importance that the right papers should be secured. His

ingenuity was also to be used to cover up, if possible, all evidence

that the house had been entered at all, it being desirable to make it

appear to the court that I had never had these documents in my

possession, and that they never existed.

Had it not been for a very natural desire for refreshment that

interfered with their admirably laid plans, it is probable that the

mechanical skill of Mandit would have been equal to the noiseless

straightening of the bent bolt, and the obliteration of the scratches

and dents made by the attempts upon other shutters, and that Sparky,

after relocking all open desks or cabinets, and after the exit of the

others, would have closed and fastened the kitchen shutters, and

would then have left the house by means of an open window in the

upper hall and the roof of a piazza.

Thus it was that these three men, so eminent in their different

spheres of earnest endeavor, came to visit my comparatively humble

abode; and thus it was that they not only came to that abode, but to

the deepest grief. They were "wanted" in so many quarters, and on so

many charges, that before they had finished serving out their various

sentences their ability to wickedly avail themselves of the property

of others would have suffered greatly from disuse, and the period of

life left them for the further exercise of those abilities would be

inconveniently limited.

I was assured by a prominent detective that it had been a long time

since two such dangerous criminals as Mandit and Sparky had fallen

into the hands of the law. These men, by means of very competent

outside assistance, made a stout fight for acquittal on some of the

charges brought against them; but when they found that further effort

of this kind would be unavailing, and that they would be sentenced to

long terms of imprisonment, they threw off their masks of outraged

probity and stood out in their true characters of violent and brutal

ruffians. Barney Fitch, the cracksman, was a senior warden compared

to them.

It was a long time before my Aunt Martha recovered from her

disappointment in regard to the youngest burglar.

"Of course I was mistaken," she said. "That sort of thing will

happen; but I really had good grounds for believing him to be a

truthful person, so I am not ashamed for having taken him for what he

said he was. I have now no doubt before he fell in his wicked ways

that he was a very good writer, and might have become a novelist or a

magazine author; but his case is a very sad proof that the study of

Realism may be carried too far," and she heaved a sigh.

A Suspicious Character

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON OSBORNE

CHAPTER I

A Negro porter passed through the car making his announcement in

stentorian tones, tempered, however, by his expectant civility and

servility, for his train was the three-thirty p.m. express from Wall

Street to the shore.

"Ravenswood," he cried, "all out for Ravenswood by the Sea!"

His car was the Vashti, and in seat 9 of that car there sat a man who

for an hour had been staring absent-mindedly, perhaps dejectedly, at

the swiftly moving scenery. He was young, this man, and tall and

lithe, and well looking. But a strange pallor was upon his face; his

countenance was marked with lines of fatigue. He suffered, evidently

from jaded nerves.

As the porter reached him, this young man came suddenly to himself,

sprang to his feet, with one hand reached for his finely woven Panama

in the rack above, and with the other grabbed the porter.

"Ravenswood," he cried, "this is my stop, porter?" It was indeed a

question and not a statement of a fact. Immediately the porter shook

his head.

"Not _youah_ stop, sir, Elsmere--next station--is youah stop."

The young man sank back into his seat listlessly. He drew his hand

wearily across his face.

"Almost forgot where I'm bound for," he explained to the next

passenger, in a confused, embarrassed way. He toyed nervously with

his Panama, as though uncertain whether to replace it once more in

the rack, or to hold it, preparatory to alighting at Elsmere. All

this time the long train had been coming to a stop. Now it was

stationary before a small, artistic station, practically deserted

save for a rickety stage, and a huge, throbbing, steel-blue motor

car. The young man in seat 9 glanced at the small depot, at the

rickety stage, at the car--

Then his heart leaped into his mouth. For suddenly his glance had

lighted upon the girl in the car. He leaped forward on the instant,

gripping his chair with both hands and staring at her as though

completely fascinated, drinking in the glory of her face.

"It is she," he said softly to himself. He waited for an

imperceptible space of time and suddenly the girl looked at

him--looked him full in the face.

"She--and no mistake," he murmured. He jammed his hat well down upon

his head, seized his heavy Gladstone bag, and tore down the aisle

toward the only open door.

"All aboard," sang out the porter at the end, and the train began to

move.

"Hold on there," cried the passenger, "don't shut that door. This is

my station, after all. I've got to get out."

By the time he reached the platform, the train had picked up

considerable speed, and the porter tried to detain him, but without

success. He jerked himself away, swung free, and dashed down the

steps.

"Lawdy, boss," yelled the porter, "look out--they's another train

a-comin'--another train."

But the passenger never heard. Once on terra firma, he forgot that

trains existed. He sought and found the face--the girl he was

looking for, and as a mariner steers by a fixed star, so did the

lithe young man follow his straight course across three sets of

railroad tracks, toward the steel-blue car. In his ears, it is true,

he heard the porter's warning:

"-- th' other train, boss, on th' up track. Lawsy. Look out."

But he heard it only with his ears. The warning did not sink in. He

did not realize that upon one of the three tracks which he was

crossing, an express, bound cityward, was pounding its way at the

rate of sixty miles an hour, coming nearer to him every instant,

threatening him with instant destruction. He did not see it, did not

hear it. The porter's warning droned away in the distance. And the

passenger kept on--kept on, gladly realizing that his intuition had

been correct, that the girl was lovelier every step he took. He had

hoped, somehow to hold her gaze. But she had turned her head and was

glancing intently at something to his left. He followed her glance,

and his eye lighted upon three well dressed men, also crossing the

tracks--men who seemed to have dropped from the clouds. These three

men were bearing down upon him, following the porter's tactics,

waving their arms and shouting violently.

"Express--express," they yelled.

The foremost of these three well dressed men made a sudden dash

toward the tall young passenger, as one who would rescue him at the

risk of his own life, but the young passenger merely held to his

course, his glance returning to the girl.

She was looking at him now, and upon her face there was a look of

horror. She saw, then, what he had refused to see, the imminent

danger in which he was, and acting on the impulse of the moment, she

rose in her car and beckoned to him to come, to come at once. His

face lighted up, and he quickened his pace, and swung clear of the

last steel rail.

Then with a roar like thunder, the meteor swept past him, almost,

sucking him into its mighty swirl. By some strange circumstance he

had escaped where escape had seemed impossible. On the other side of

the express three men fell back and, by common consent, they mopped

their respective brows.

"Thunder," exclaimed one, the man who had dashed upon him--"I figured

that we'd both be ground to mincemeat. Closest squeak I ever had, I

tell you."

But the object of their solicitude gave no sign of their nervousness.

Gladstone in hand, he swarmed up the terraced bank, and strode softly

to the side of the car. He removed his hat and bowed to the girl.

"You beckoned to me--and I came," he stammered, in confusion. The

girl was hiding her face in her hands and quivering hysterically.

She turned her scared face toward him. "You were in--such terrible

danger," she cried, "I had to--do something."

For the first time he looked at the express as it dashed into the

distance, and for the first time he realized the situation.

Instinctively he held out his hand--an act in which both he and she

recognized as wholly without the conventions, but she, quite as

impulsively, held out hers and permitted him to take it for an

instant. There was silence--deep silence for a moment.

"You saved my life," he told her.

She shook her head. "I think you saved your own, by your coolness in

keeping right on," she answered, "don't make a heroine of me.

Besides, down there is a hero--he risked his life in trying to save

you. I saw it all."

The young passenger started down the bank and met the three men as

they came up. Gratefully he murmured his thanks to them, rebuking

himself to them, for his stupidity and his blundering in getting into

danger. The hero that the girl had pointed out, merely shrugged his

shoulders and stated, unconcernedly, in a rather rough and ready tone

that belied the Wall Street clothes he wore, that it was all in a

lifetime and there was nothing to pay. Whereupon he of the Panama

hat went back to the girl.

"Would you mind telling me," he asked, "where those chaps came from?"

She was cooler now--and colder, too. Civilly enough, she evinced a

purpose to end the conversation but she answered him categorically.

"They jumped off your train," she told him. "It seemed to me,

somehow, that they jumped because you got off."

"Do they belong here?" he queried. She shook her head, and turned to

her chauffeur.

"You can go on, Henri," she exclaimed. "He's missed his train. He

won't be down now until the five o'clock."

The chauffeur cranked his machine, and prepared to start. But the

young man still detained him.

"One thing more," he asked of her, "can you direct me to the best

hotel in Ravenswood?"

She nodded graciously enough, but kept her eyes upon the distances,

as one who would discourage a conversation involuntarily begun.

"There is only one hotel," she answered, "the Ravenswood Inn. The

stage will take you there."

Henri, the chauffeur, threw in the clutch, and she bowled away. The

passenger strode to the stage, clambered in. The three unknowns were

already ahead of him, clustered up in front near the driver, smoking

black cigars and telling witty stories. The minute he had swung

aboard, the driver lashed his horses, and the dilapidated conveyance,

like some weather-beaten craft tossed on turbulent seas, lurched and

staggered toward its destination.

The man with the Gladstone looked at the three men, but mused upon

the girl.

"I wonder who she is," he asked himself, "and who is coming down upon

the five o'clock."

As they teetered on, scraps of conversation from the three ahead,

forced their way into his inner consciousness, and he found himself

sizing up his three companions with considerable interest. At first

blush, he had taken them for Wall Street men. But as he looked and

listened, he realized his mistake. He knew Wall Street well, and he

knew men well, and he knew, instinctively, that these men were not

Wall Street men, and further, realized that they were

masquerading--that they were not what they seemed. Besides, there

was something familiar in their appearance--where had he seen them

before? And then like a flash, it came to him.

"They were the three I brushed against in front of the Tombs to-day,"

he told himself.

But his speculations went no farther, for the seaside Jehu had

brought his vehicle to a full stop under a ponderous _porte cochère_,

and the tall young passenger found himself clambering awkwardly out.

"Ravenswood Inn, gents," said the driver, "an'--twenty cents apiece."

A uniformed attendant seized the Gladstone and deposited it within a

discreet distance of the desk, giving the clerk some idea of the

amount of luggage carried by the guest.

The clerk bowed to the young man, and nodded to the three who came

behind.

"Together or separate?" he asked.

"I'm separate," smiled he of the Gladstone. He took the pen that the

clerk handed him, leaned over the register and for the first time,

hesitated before he wrote his name. His glance strayed toward his

bag, and riveted itself upon two black letters that appeared upon its

side: "O.P."

Then he turned back to the register and scribbled a signature: "Oscar

Pearson, New York City," was what he wrote.

"Most of my baggage," he explained, "went on to Elsmere--booked for

the Hotel Sandringham. Will you send and get it, please?"

The clerk nodded. "Glad to benefit by your change of mind,

Mr.--er--Pearson," he exclaimed. The new guest, Mr. Pearson, did not

answer at once. Through the broad doors that led to the Ocean Drive

he saw something that attracted his attention--something that sent

the color into his pale face. Then he looked once more at the clerk.

"Yes--so am I," he said.

The formalities over, he strolled out upon the broad, low-roofed

veranda.

"I thought so," he whispered to himself. He smiled gently at the

something that had attracted his attention. That something was

nothing more nor less than a steel-blue motor car, with Henri

lounging in the chauffeur's seat.

But the girl had disappeared.

He had been quite right about the three pseudo Wall Street men who

had registered with him at the Inn.

For at half past ten o'clock that very morning this young man of the

Gladstone bag--he who had registered as Pearson--had slowly descended

the outer steps of the Tombs in Centre Street, New York. Three men

had unquestionably been waiting for him to come out, for they had

skulked about the street, dodged about corners, stood in doorways,

walked up and down singly and together, for half an hour or more.

And when he had come out, running, singularly enough, plump into

them, they had been more or less startled by his appearance. His

face was unnaturally pale--and a new, anxious, worried, harried look

was fixed upon it.

Prom the Tombs he had stepped into a taxicab, and given a brief

direction:

"783 West 73rd."

The three in their taxicab had trailed him, and had seen his cab pull

up at 783 West 73rd, and had seen him get out. They knew an instant

later, that he was consulting McIntyre, M.D., the only real nerve

specialist in the world--and in their way, they were professionally

glad that he was seeking medical attention.

"Needs it bad enough," the three said among themselves, "looks like a

shadow, so he does."

Inside No. 783 their quarry sat facing McIntyre, a little bearded man

with glasses.

"But I can't go away," he was protesting at the suggestion of the

specialist.

The latter only smiled. "But you are going away, whether you can or

can't. If you don't, you'll be dead inside of three months. I've

kept track of you in the newspapers, and I know what you've been

through. Well, you've got to quit, and rest--and when I say rest, I

mean it. Don't go to Newport or Narragansett Pier."

"Thank Heaven for that," murmured the younger man, "where shall I go?"

The specialist ransacked a little drawer for a memo, that he needed.

Finally he found it. "This is the place," he said at last, "Jersey

Shore, Elsmere--the Sandringham Hotel. Quiet. Family place. No

excitement. High class. Good food and lots of salt water bathing.

That's the place for you." He leaned over and touched his patient on

the knee. "Don't let anybody know where you are," he said, "give

them the slip. That's my advice. Forget that you are who you are,

and don't let anybody know it. That's the trick. Do as I say, or--"

His young patient, with his characteristic gesture, had drawn a hand

across his face.

"Just left the Tombs half an hour ago," he began. But the physician

waved his hand.

"Never mind about the Tombs," he said, "I don't care anything about

the Tombs, or about anything else, and you don't either. You forget

the Tombs--forget the newspapers, and the bank, and everybody. Just

take care of yourself. Why don't you get married? Your wife would

take care of you. Haven't you ever thought of getting married? Eh?"

His patient had flushed. "Yes," he stammered in reply, "I

have--But--"

"But what?" persisted the specialist.

"She has never turned up," explained the other, "I've been looking

for her for months and months and months--"

"For--whom? Have you seen her--lost her?"

His patient shook his head. "I've never found her yet," he went on,

"all that I know is, that I'll know her when I see her."

"And--what then?" laughed the elder man.

"Then," said his patient earnestly, "then I'll marry her."

"Oho, you will, will you? How do you know you will? How do you know

she'll like you? How do you know she won't be spoken for--married

maybe?"

The other man shook his head. "I never thought of that," he said.

The physician rose and slapped him on the back. "Boy," he exclaimed,

"you're just as sound as a dollar--strong as an ox, if it wasn't for

fag. All you need is rest, and you've got to promise that you'll

follow my directions and begin right now. You'll go away to-day?"

"All right," assented the other, "I suppose I've got to, haven't I?"

He pressed McIntyre's hand, passed out, re-entered his taxi, and rode

away--with three men trailing behind him.

He had literally obeyed the specialist--up to the moment that he had

seen the girl from the window of the parlor car. Then he had

deviated into a path of his own choosing. And here he was on the

veranda of the Ravenswood Inn, staring interestedly at the steel-blue

motor car.

"I wonder," he thought to himself, "if she is already spoken

for--married, for instance. That would be awkward."

He fell to musing about this probable misfortune, and the lines

settled back into his face. There kept throbbing through his

overtaxed nerves a new and vital cause for worriment.

"It can't be," he told himself, "for, didn't she beckon to me--the

fates must have arranged that part, at least."

A bell boy touched him on the arm.

"Mr. Pearson," he exclaimed.

The guest started. "Who?" he demanded. "Who is Mr. Pearson and what

does he want?"

"Beg pardon, sir, thought you were Mr. Pearson."

"So I am, so I am," answered the guest hastily, "what do you want?"

"Gemmen to see you, sir--in the office, sir. Shall I send him out?"

"No, I'll go in," returned the guest named Pearson.

In the office, waiting for him, there stood an individual with a

pointed black Van Dyke beard--a man whom he had never seen before.

This individual held out a cordial hand.

"You're the man I'm looking for," he said, "I was afraid at first,

you weren't. I'm Dr. Crocheron from across the way. I've been

requested to take a look at you, if you don't mind." Oscar Pearson

was perplexed. "Who asked you to take a look at me?" he queried.

Dr. Crocheron smiled mysteriously. "You called on Dr. McIntyre in

little old New York to-day, didn't you, Mr.--er--Pearson?"

Pearson was relieved. "Ah, to be sure--so he's keeping his eye on

me--to see that I'm following directions." Then he stopped. "But I

didn't follow his directions," he exclaimed suddenly. "I was to go

to Elsmere, whereas I came to Ravenswood, instead. How did you know?"

The local practitioner shrugged his shoulder. "I treat everybody in

both places," he returned, "news travels fast."

Pearson moved toward the elevator. "Come up to my room and have a

smoke," he said. The physician complied, and the two men sat down in

an upper window for the space of a quarter of an hour and listened to

the beating of the surf along the shore.

They chatted in a desultory fashion. "The only thing I wanted to

warn you against, Mr.--er--Pearson," said the doctor finally, "is the

drinking water down here. It's rotten bad."

"Will it make me sick?"

"Quick as a wink."

Pearson laughed. "Then why do you warn me?" he queried. "If you

hadn't warned me, it would have made me sick, and that would have

added to your fees."

The physician tossed over a card. "Crocheron Spring Water is what

you want to drink," he remarked.

"Crocheron," mused Pearson, "why, that's your name."

The local man nodded. "I get it two ways," he admitted, "if they

drink my water they have to pay for it--and if they don't drink it,

they have to pay for it. Not a bad idea."

He started from the room. "Take good care of yourself, Mr. Pearson,"

he commented, "I've got to leave you. I've got a patient on this

floor--other end of the hall. A Mrs. Ingraham--asthma. See you

later. Good day."

The guest, Oscar Pearson, descended once more to the low-roofed

veranda. When he reached there, the steel-blue motor car was nowhere

in sight. But even while he smoked, pacing up and down, it hove into

view along the Ocean Drive, and finally drew up at the _porte

cochère_ of the Inn. The girl alighted, for she was in the car. And

so did her companion--a big, broad-shouldered, ruddy faced individual

with prosperity stamped all over him.

"Old enough to be her father, confound him," mused Pearson.

Without looking to the right or left, the girl swept on into the big

hall, and her big companion followed suit.

Pearson, strolling past, saw out of the tail of his eye, that the two

had waylaid Dr. Crocheron, as that eminent gentleman was coming down

the stairs.

"Better, much better," was the doctor's comment.

As he came out on the veranda Pearson buttonholed him.

"Doctor," he asked, "who is that big chap, anyway?"

Crocheron smiled. "He's Ingraham, the Cleveland banker. You ought

to meet him."

"I certainly ought," went on Pearson, "and--who's the girl?"

Crocheron laughed. "That's the way the wind sets, is it," he

exclaimed, "the girl is his daughter--she's too good for Cleveland,

let me tell you that, and too good for Ravenswood. Her places are

Manhattan Borough and the Pier. But the old man comes here because

it's quiet, and because it gives his wife--she's my patient--a rest

from keeping house. And the girl--" the doctor drew a long sigh.

"You know her?" queried Pearson.

"Yes, I know her," responded the physician, "that is, I have been

introduced to her, but she is as cool as a cucumber." His eyes

narrowed. "Funny thing, Mr. Pearson, I've known that girl for two

seasons, and I've known other men who know her, but she's just the

same to all of us, and I've figured out that they're waiting--she and

the old man and the old lady--just holding back and waiting for the

right man to come along. And I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that

when he does come along, he'll be the man that the old man wants and

the old lady, too. My notion of the girl is that she'll stand for

anybody that her family pick out."

Pearson flushed and smiled. "Do you know," he said, "I've formed

quite a different opinion of Miss Ingraham."

"Do you know her?" asked the doctor hastily.

"No," stammered Pearson, "I've only seen her, but my view is that the

old man and the old lady can go to thunder, so far as she is

concerned, when she makes up her mind."

The doctor crooked his finger. "I'll let you in on something, Mr.

Pearson," he confidently went on, "the girl does what her father

says, and the old man does what his wife says, and the old lady is

stuck on anybody that's got a good new remedy for her malady."

"What's her malady?" asked Pearson.

"Never you mind," retorted the doctor, "I'm the man that's going to

cure her."

"I should like to know the girl," said Pearson, quite casually.

Dr. Crocheron nodded. "There's a hop here to-morrow night, Mr.

Pearson," he said, "I always take them in. I'll be here and I'll

introduce you. Maybe you'll help fill in the time until the right

man shows up."

"Until to-morrow night," said Pearson.

"To-morrow night," echoed the doctor, striding away.

When he had reached the far corner of the hotel, he waved his hand

before he turned it.

"I wonder who the deuce that fellow Pearson is," he thought, "somehow

they're mighty particular about him."

And as for that fellow Pearson, he stood staring into the vistas,

with an unlighted cigar in his hand.

"I shouldn't wonder," he said to himself, "if the right man had come

along."

Now, in justice to this man Pearson, be it said, that not for one

instant had he expected the girl to renew the enforced acquaintance

so strangely begun at the railway station, without the observance of

the usual conventions, nor for one instant had he contemplated an

attempt to force himself upon her. He saw, therefore, in the

sprightly young Dr. Crocheron, the thin edge of the wedge. But it

was not the doctor, after all, who introduced him to the girl. That

office was performed by an individual of much greater importance, for

Pearson was still pacing the veranda when Ingraham, the Cleveland

banker, once more entered the arena of events.

He waddled to a settee, tossed upon it all the New York evening

papers, leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction, and also viewed the

vista that Pearson had been contemplating.

Pearson trembled. It's a delicate matter to strike up an

acquaintance, at any time, with a gentleman of prosperous appearance,

and if Pearson ever had been master of the art, his art now forsook

him. He went at it much in the same way that he had approached the

girl.

He paced back and forth in front of the banker and finally faced him.

"Down on the five o'clock, sir?" he inquired.

The banker swept the young man with his glance, and then turned away.

"Um," he murmured, and picked up one of his afternoon editions and

buried his face in it.

This brought Pearson to his senses. He knew he had made a mistake in

making the slightest advances to the old gentleman, for the old

gentleman ignored his presence as completely as though he were ten

miles away. But experience had taught him that there was a way to

remedy this mistake. He therefore seated himself upon the other end

of the settee and smoked silently and in meditation for many minutes.

Suddenly the Cleveland banker threw up his head and snorted.

"Confound these New York banks," he cried, "They're countrymen."

He looked at Pearson and waited for an answer.

"I say they're countrymen," repeated the old gentleman.

Pearson gave no sign.

This brought the old gentleman up all standing. For the first time

he looked Pearson over to determine what manner of young upstart this

might be, who declined to respond to a civil question from a

Cleveland banker.

He started slightly, for he had recognized the fact that Pearson,

stranger as he was, at least bore earmarks of a gentleman, so he

tried it on again.

"They don't know enough to go in when it rains," he added. Pearson

gave no sign.

This indifference made a deep impression upon the older man. He had

supposed when Pearson first addressed him, that Pearson, by reason of

that fact, must be his inferior. Pearson's present complacent

ignoring of him now, produced quite the opposite impression. He was

convinced that the stranger must be somebody quite superior, for he

could not recall, in all his prosperous middle west career, that

anybody had ever withstood his own advances.

But there was one thing that he had not noticed, that at the mention

of the New York banks, the face of the young stranger slightly

flushed. But the old man kept on with persistence.

"What do you think of it, sir?" he bellowed.

The younger man turned to him with a startled glance. "I beg your

pardon, sir," he returned, "were you addressing me?"

The old man's tones were those of one who crawled. "I was just

reading the account of this Tri-State robbery," he ventured. "The

Tri-State Trust Company must have been crazy to let a thing like that

happen under its nose."

This time the young stranger nodded complacently, but his face now

turned exceedingly pale.

"You're delving into rather ancient history, Mr.--

"Ingraham, of Cleveland, sir," exclaimed the other, "that's my name,

Ingraham."

Pearson smiled. "Has the news of the Tri-State robbery just filtered

through to Cleveland?" he inquired.

"No," snorted the banker, "I read about it--and you read about

it--and everybody read about it, six weeks ago, but I see by the

_Post_ they have just let their paying teller out on bail."

"What was the bail?" asked Pearson.

"Fifty thousand," said the banker.

"Pretty stiff," said Pearson, "no wonder it took him six weeks to get

it."

"It's not enough," returned the other. "That chap stole a couple of

hundred thousand if he stole a cent, and I want to tell you if I was

a depositor or stockholder in the Tri-State Trust, I'd rip up the

management from the president down to the runners, for letting a

fellow get away with that much coin."

The young stranger shrugged his shoulders. "They say the Tri-State

Trust is as solid as a rock," he ventured.

"Well, then, they ought to change their management," said he, of

Cleveland. "Here's this young paying teller--they hadn't had him for

more than five years--takes all that stuff out of the bank, walks

out, by George, in broad daylight, packs the stuff in somebody else's

suit case, steals the suit case from an officer of the bank, and then

like a fool runs away with some woman, and they caught him. No

wonder they caught him--blamed idiot, with that suit case and the

initials on it and his giving the name of Oliver Partridge to suit

the initials on the case, why a ten year old could have caught him."

At the other end of the settee the man Pearson was turning paler

still.

"You must confess, sir," he replied, "that the teller was pretty

slick, at any rate."

"Well," admitted the old man grumblingly, "he was slick in everything

but running away with that woman that he did. She gave him up and

made money by it too. I want to tell you," he went on, "that things

happen in New York that would never happen in my town of Cleveland,

nor in my bank."

The young man rose sniffing the salt air. Once or twice he passed

his hand over his face with that weary gesture that seemed part and

parcel of him. He drew out his cigar case and passed it over to his

new found friend, but on opening it discovered it was empty.

"I beg your pardon," he went on, "but I have some Duodecimos up in my

room, if you wouldn't mind stepping up there, sir."

The old man responded genially. "I'd walk a mile to get a

Duodecimo," he said.

Together they strolled up to the young stranger's room. No sooner

had they entered it than the young man's eyes lighted upon his

Gladstone bag, with the initials O.P. painted in glaring black

letters. He stooped hastily, swung the bag about and turned the

initials to the wall. Then he rang for the waiter, and the banker of

Cleveland and the mysterious young stranger from New York sat down

for a half hour's talk.

Suddenly Pearson pricked up his ears. For sometime a peculiar

rasping noise had penetrated into the room from some adjoining

apartment.

"They must have a rhinoceros--or an elephant--or an ostrich--or a

whole menagerie, in that room," he exclaimed, after a long silence.

But the Cleveland banker, warmed by the genial contents of a decanter

and soothed by the Duodecimos, merely shook his head.

"That is neither an elephant, nor a menagerie, nor an ostrich," he

informed his host.

"What is it, then?" demanded Pearson.

"That," said the banker, "is Mrs. Ingraham, my wife."

Pearson apologized profusely. "I certainly meant nothing

disrespectful, sir," he exclaimed. "But may I ask you, is she ill?"

The banker waved his hand. "It's chronic, sir," he returned. "A

case of asthma, she suffers like the dickens."

The eyes of his young host brightened. "You don't say so," he

replied, "and can't the doctor help her?"

"She's got one now," returned the banker, "that she swears by. Local

man, Crocheron. He's been treating her for three summers

here--that's why she comes here. She thinks he'll cure her in the

end."

"And you?" asked Pearson.

"Not a bit of it," returned the banker. "I've got no faith in any of

them. By the way," he added, "sometime I'd like to have you meet the

missus and Miss Ingraham."

"Miss Ingraham?" queried Pearson politely.

"My daughter," said the banker, "I want you to know them. By the

way, where are you from?"

"I'm a New Yorker," responded Pearson.

"And your business?' asked the other.

"Um," said Pearson, slowly, "Well, to tell the truth, I've always

been connected with a bank."

"By George," exclaimed the old man, "then you can tell me what I want

to know. My bank is looking for a new line of New York credit.

Maybe you can help me. Who can tell?"

"I should be very glad to, sir," said Pearson.

He strolled to the window and looked out. Across the way on the

board walk three men were lounging. They were natty, well dressed,

up to date. From time to time they glanced toward the Inn.

They were the three men, be it said, who had leapt from the moving

train behind the New York stranger that very afternoon.

III

Mr. Cutty Wortman, of the Borough of Manhattan, expanded his chest

with pride. He glanced with considerable complacency at his shining

shirt front.

"It was little Cutty pulled these glad rags out o' the wreck, Red,"

he remarked, "you was against it. When we made the get-away, it was

you who lost your nut, it was me who held me nerve. It was me knowed

then just as I'm tellin' you now, that there ain't no place that's

closed to a couple of guys that is rigged in a clawhammer swallow

tail full dress evenin' clothes, specially at a swell summer joint

like this." Mr. Cutty Wortman paused as though for a reply. There

was none save for the incessant pounding of the incoming sea and the

distant strains of the string orchestra at the Inn, for though Mr.

Wortman was of the Borough of Manhattan, he was not in it. He was,

in fact, at least sixty miles away from that old-fashioned town,

lounging genteelly upon half of a board walk bench. The other half

was occupied by his bosom friend, Mr. Red Cullen, also of New York.

His bosom, also, was in glittering expansive evidence. In front of

them stretched a narrow strip of white sand, and then the sea in its

majestic mystery. Behind them was the glitter of lights that railway

time-tables designated as Ravenswood, N.J. Past Mr. Cullen and his

friend surged the summer crowd, in pairs--always in pairs. The moon

cast a shimmering radiance over all and its rays were caught and cast

back from two glossy shirts as from a mirror.

"Say," persisted Mr. Wortman, nudging his friend, "Where would we've

been, if it hadn't been for me."

Mr. Cullen merely grunted. "Go on," he cried at length, "we'd have

been dippin' for supers on Broadway, and makin' money at it. See."

By which remark, Mr. Red Cullen meant to intimate that the art of

relieving metropolitan citizens of their gold time-pieces, was still

in its prime. "We'd 'a' made a barrel of money by this time," he

complained.

"Huh," said Mr. Wortman, "we'd look swell on Broadway--every cop on

every corner with his eyes peeled for us after that last get-away,

and Lord knows how many plain clothes pounders after us an'--"

"Plain clothes," retorted his companion, "that's what we need, plain

clothes an' nothin' else. Look at this crowd on this here board

walk--white flannels an' such. There ain't a glad rag in the bunch.

An' as for dicers--say," he cried, as he eyed Mr. Wortman's headgear

in disgust, "there ain't a brown derby in the bunch."

Mr. Cutty Wortman caught his companion's burly arm in a mighty grip.

"No," he returned, "you're pickin' now. And what I say is don't you

pick. I'm doing this. Of course," he commented, "you don't see glad

rags on the walk, but you wait till nine o'clock till the hop begins

up there. Then we'll go up and we'll find a whole bunch o' full

dress suits and brown derbys there, see if we don't. And besides you

know why we're here and who we've got to do."

Red Cullen slewed about in his seat and glanced longingly at the

Ravenswood Inn. It was a massive structure, was the Inn, with small

balconies in abundance on every floor. Red Cullen sighed. "Gee," he

complained, "I wish we had Nice Kelly with us. What a bloomin' busy

place for a second story man. Nice Kelly would certainly fit in--"

Cutty Wortman was seized with a fit of silent laughter. "He would be

a six story man when he finished up," laughed he. Suddenly with a

new and more insistent grip, his brawny hand tightened upon Red

Cullen's wrist.

"By George, Kiddo," he whispered, "Here comes our meat. Watch out."

Red Cullen sniffed in momentary excitement. "Show him to me," he

exclaimed. He followed the gaze of Mr. Cutty Wortman and noted that

it rested upon two figures that had stepped suddenly from the

darkness into the full glare of an electric light. They were coming

from the Ravenswood Inn. They were headed for the board walk.

"The swell," whispered Cutty Wortman, "now who was right about glad

rags? Watch out."

They watched out. The man they watched was a tall, cleanly built,

clean cut chap, who swung along with a certain lithe grace, due

partly to his shoulders and his slenderness, and partly to the

careful cut of his dinner coat, for he too, affected a shirt front.

Beside him swung along a girl--a girl who somehow seemed a fit mate

for him.

It is due, however, to the business fidelity of Messrs. Wortman and

Cullen to say here and now that though their eyes devoured the man,

they totally ignored the girl.

Red Cullen grunted in the ear of his companion. "Are you sure?" he

queried. "Sure," replied Wortman _sotto voce_. "I tell you he

carried the biggest roll I ever see anywheres, and he's always got it

with him. Maybe you never heard of a walkin' treasury. Well, you're

looking at one now."

After that, the moon, the crowds, the sea, the sand, everything faded

from the view of the two men on the bench. They became oblivious to

everything save this--a dark-clad figure stalking by the side of a

slender white one.

And as for the dark clad figure the night was playing tricks with

him, for it seemed to him as though he could see nothing save the

eyes of the girl beside him, hear nothing save her voice, feel

nothing save the unconscious pressure of her shoulder against his.

But, unfortunately, his conversation did not match his state of mind.

"Do you think that Crocheron--doctor fellow, is doing your mother any

good?" he queried.

"Oh," answered the girl, "if anybody can do her any good, he can, I

am sure. He is a terribly clever specialist, I think."

"You don't say," returned the young man, coldly, "and yet he's been

three summers at it, hasn't he?"

"Yes," she answered, "but mother has been at it for thirty summers,

and he's done her more good than anybody else."

"Well," grumbled her companion, "I'm no specialist, but I want to

tell you that my Aunt Charlotte--"

"I beg your pardon," said the girl, "your Aunt who?"

"Aunt Charlotte," replied he. "Stunning name, isn't it?"

The girl shivered. "It's a trifle more graceful than your own," she

answered gaily.

"Great Scott," he answered, "don't you like my name? Don't you like

the name of Oscar?"

The girl glanced daringly at him. "Do you want me to tell you

something," she began frankly. There was some strange quiver in her

voice that riveted his attention immediately.

"Yes," he said eagerly.

"Not now," she returned, "go on, tell me about your Aunt Charlotte."

"My Aunt Charlotte," he laughed, "is the dearest, most strait-laced

proposition in the family, but she was possessed of a few devils.

That little old maid had nothing but hay fever, colds in the head,

asthma, and very likely membranous croup, but asthma was her pet.

The point is that she doesn't have it any more."

"What cured her?" asked the girl.

"That's telling," responded Pearson, "and besides it's a secret--Aunt

Charlotte's secret and mine. All I can say is it was a cure Aunt

Charlotte didn't want to take. She had to break one of her most

stringent commandments and was compelled to adopt a method that

placed her, in her mind, in the ranks of a third rate actress. I

wonder how the old--your mother, Mrs. Ingraham, would feel about it."

Impulsively the girl laid a hand upon his arm. "I think mother would

go through anything to be cured," she said.

"Maybe I can help her," went on Pearson. "If she is willing to take

just what Aunt Charlotte did and bear the brunt. To this day Aunt

Charlotte claims that her hopes of reaching Heaven have been

seriously disturbed--" He broke off suddenly. "I interrupted you,"

he said. "Tell me what you were going to tell me when Aunt Charlotte

butted in upon our conversation."

They had reached the end of the board walk and the girl was about to

turn back when he held out his hand.

"Do you mind walking on the sand," he asked, "on down there, toward

Old Beach?"

The girl glanced back toward the Inn. "We're a long way from home,"

she faltered, for she felt that her disapproving mother was rocking

impatiently and with gasps, to and fro, in one of the big front

rooms, and she had told her mother that she would be gone for a half

hour and she was now upon her second hour with the young stranger who

had jumped from the moving train and nearly lost his life the day

before.

"I know," he answered, to her protest, "but it's summer, there's a

moon, and the beach is as firm as asphalt. Come."

They descended the steps and strolled along the beach.

"Now, what were you going to tell me?" he persisted.

Again the girl darted toward him a daring glance. "I was going to

tell you," she half whispered, "that the only thing I don't like

about you is your name."

"What part of my name," he queried, "is it that you don't like, the

first part or the last part?"

"Oscar," she exclaimed.

"Well," he answered lightly, "let's take another name. How is

Oliver?"

"Never," said the girl.

"Ordway, then," he ventured.

She smiled and nodded. "Ordway is not bad," she admitted. "Ordway

will do."

"For the present," he went on, "you can call me Ordway."

"For the present," she said, "I shall call you Mr. Pearson."

"Now," he asked, "is that all you had to say?"

"I can't think of any more," she answered.

"Then," he went on, "let me tell you something, let me tell you the

history of my jumping off that train. It's a short history, but it's

true. This was not my station. I merely looked up and out of the

window of my car and saw you, and then I jumped off. Do you believe

me?" he asked suddenly.

The girl tried to force a laugh. "I don't know that it signifies,"

she answered.

"Yes, it signifies," he went on breathlessly, "and this is a question

that you must answer, for there was just one instant yesterday when

you looked at me as I crossed the tracks that gave me the right to

say the things I do. Do you believe in love at first sight?" he

asked abruptly.

The girl drew herself up unconsciously. "You are getting to be very

ridiculous, Mr. Pearson," she returned.

"In nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of one thousand," he went

on, "I should be. This happens to be the thousandth case. It's the

one case that's not ridiculous, Say, look here," he blurted out, "I

don't believe your eyes were telling fibs yesterday afternoon when

the 3:30 pulled in, and I don't believe you're going to pick out some

fellow, whose name is not Oscar, just because the old--I mean, just

because your father and your mother tell you to."

The girl drew back. "Why, where did you get this fund of

information, Mr. Pearson?" she inquired.

"Never mind," he went on desperately. "I want to tell you something

about myself. Ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper, I have

been pushed--and pushed--and pushed. I've worked like a slave all my

life up to now, and the older I got the harder I worked. I've

thought of girls--lots of girls--girls by the dozens, but I've never

had time to think of _the_ girl." He drew his hand across his face

again. With all his apparent confusion and enthusiasm, there still

was upon him some terrible weariness that told. "I'm fagged out," he

went on, "it's nerves. I didn't know I had any until the last two

months."

"That's why you've been so white," the girl said suddenly.

"Yes," he answered, "and you've noticed that."

She nodded. "The sun did wonders with you to-day."

He went on. "They told me I had to go away," he said, "and I went on

the first vacation, the first real one, that I've ever had. I little

knew that I was going to look out of a car window and see you and

know--"

The girl shivered. She well knew she had no right to listen to all

this, which from any other man would have seemed to her like twaddle.

She felt, too, that a portly figure, gasping in a rocking chair, back

at the Inn, was forcing itself upon her consciousness. Yet there was

something about this man, this Oscar Pearson, that drew her out of

herself. She could not seem to hold him entirely at arm's length.

"Go on," she faltered, but he didn't answer. There was a reason for

it. He could not answer, for at that instant two burly figures

hurled themselves through the air, dropping as from the heavens, upon

this Oscar Pearson, and bore him to the ground.

"A-r-r-hh," he gurgled, for they had him by the throat, these two.

"Breast pocket, you dub," muttered Mr. Cutty Wortman of New York, for

it was indeed he--Mr. Cutty Wortman and his friend Mr. Cullen--strong

arm men par excellence.

The girl stood as though petrified--but for one instant only. Then

she uttered a piercing shriek that might have reached the heavens.

"I'll take care of her," said Red, "you do the rest." And it is due

to Mr. Cutty Wortman and to Red to state that on his part Mr. Wortman

tried to "do the rest" and Mr. Red Cullen tried to "take care of the

girl." But as a matter of fact he did not take care of her and as a

matter of fact Mr. Cutty Wortman did not do the rest, for at the

girl's shriek a strange thing happened.

Three men--three other men sprang immediately into view, and even as

the strong arm men had dropped from the heavens, these three seemed

to leap from the earth, and as well working parts of one machine,

they closed in upon Cutty Wortman and his friend and bore them to the

earth, and then the battle raged--a noble warfare.

At its end, two very much crumpled shirt fronts and four very black

eyes were tied together and marched along the beach. One man drove

them in front of him at the muzzle of a gun, the other two stepped to

the side of Oscar Pearson.

"Much hurt, sir," they inquired.

"Not a bit of it," answered he, "and much obliged."

"Come on, sir," they exclaimed, "we'll see you safely home."

But Pearson was staring wildly about him. "Where--where is she?" he

inquired, dazed.

"Beg pardon, sir?" said one of the men.

"She," cried Pearson, in alarm, "I had a lady with me. Wait, here

she is."

He was quite right. She had slumped into a little white heap on the

sand--had fainted dead away.

"We were not thinking of the lady, sir," said one, "beg your pardon,

sir."

She regained consciousness in an instant, and regained it only to

find herself lying somehow in his arms.

"H-H-Helen," he was stammering, very clumsily, but very earnestly,

and so softly that only she might hear, "you won't forget that it was

first sight for both of us."

The girl released herself and stood very straight. "What a terrible

thing to happen," she cried, referring to the hold-up rather than to

Mr. Pearson's floundering declaration. "Come, we must go home at

once."

They did. Pearson and the girl swinging on in front and two of their

rescuers bringing up the rear.

One of the latter nudged his friend. "Blamed if I didn't forget all

about the girl," he said.

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Can't take care of everybody in

the whole place, can we, eh?"

"I should say not," replied the first, "we ought to have six men to

take care of him alone. Blamed if I think three is enough for a

lively chap like him."

Miss Helen Ingraham and Mr. Oscar Pearson ascended the Inn steps side

by side. Miss Ingraham was hysterical. "I don't know what to tell

my mother," she exclaimed.

"Tell her the truth," said Pearson glibly, "tell her I proposed to

you and you accepted me."

"That is not the truth," replied Miss Ingraham, "and anyway I mean

about the accident--and where it happened--and why."

She told her, spent half the night telling her, in fact, conscious of

the terrible disapproval in her mother's eyes, but told her only

about the moonlight stroll and the attack.

"You had no right to leave the Inn," her mother said, "you know

nothing of this man, Pearson."

"Father does," replied the girl.

"Your father," went on her mother, "knows nothing about him, nobody

knows anything about him. I've asked everybody, sick as I've been--"

Suddenly she stopped. "Who were those three men who rescued you?"

she asked.

That was the mystery that troubled Ravenswood from that time on.

Through all the subsequent excitement--for the hold-up made big

talk--that one feature over-shadowed all the others. It was a

pleasant diversion for Ravenswood to stop talking and to hold its

breath next morning as the tall and interesting Mr. Oscar Pearson

entered the dining-room and nodded to Miss Ingraham. Pleasanter

still, perhaps, for all Ravenswood to stand in line at the lock-up

and look upon the countenances of Mr. Cutty Wortman and Mr. Red

Cullen of New York. Pleasant to discuss the impending romance.

But--_who were the three men?_ In the day time they were but little

in evidence, they kept somehow out of sight; but at night denizens of

Ravenswood, grown accustomed to traveling in pairs, were startled now

and then by three skulking shadows--here, there, everywhere. And

these shadows meant one thing and only one; that somewhere near,

pacing the board walk or on the sand, gazing out to sea, there might

be found Mr. Oscar Pearson and Miss Ingraham.

"Swim to-morrow?" inquired he of her on the morning after. "The tide

will be about right for us at half past ten."

"Just as you say," she answered, "only my mother's case is getting

desperate. Even Dr. Crocheron admits his failure, and I've got to

spend most of my time with her."

Pearson smiled insinuatingly, "And if you didn't spend most of your

time with her," he asked, "who would you spend it with? I think," he

went on hastily, "that I'll have to bring down my Aunt Charlotte's

remedy from New York. Of course, I sympathize with your mother, but

it's mighty serious that most of your time is taken up with her.

That's the thing that Aunt Charlotte's cure has got to fix. Then

we'll see who takes up most of your time."

"Of course," she answered, "there's Dr. Crocheron. I don't mind

saying that I'm very fond of him--"

"You'll surely swim to-morrow?" he said.

"I promised you," she answered.

"All right," he said, "I'll bring my tires along." For by this time,

be it said, Pearson's luggage and his long, low racer had been

brought from Elsmere, his intended destination.

Next day they swam. Those were glorious days, as side by side, when

they tired of the long arm strokes, Pearson and the girl reclined on

the surface of the sea, each ensconced safely within the buoyant

circle of a Mastodon tire that rose and fell upon the waves like some

magic cockleshell.

"Rocked in the cradle of the deep," sang Pearson, in a baritone that

startled the crowd scattered in groups upon the beach. Side by side,

buoyed by the air inflated circles, they swam out--out--out,

forgetting everything save themselves and the magic of the sea.

Suddenly from the shore they heard hoarse shouts. It was then that

the girl lost her head. She glanced up to see the crowds waving, and

realizing for the first time that they were far out beyond the

hardiest swimmer--beyond the hardiest swimmer's distance. Someone on

shore had realized this and the shout invaded the girl with a sudden

sense of danger. All that she need do, in truth, was to lie still

and paddle back to shore as she had paddled out, but in her sudden

fright she slipped somehow out of her supporting tire and Pearson

caught her just as she disappeared beneath the waves.

"What's the matter," he cried sternly, "you're perfectly safe--you

can't sink--nothing can happen." But the girl was beside herself

with fright. She had lost confidence and her nerve had gone.

For answer she merely stretched forth two shapely arms and clung

tightly to the man's neck, sobbing hysterically.

Pearson, badly handicapped, could only thrust one arm through both

the tires and hang on. He could not swim, for her grip upon him was

too tight. All he could do was to support her and trust to luck that

she might regain her equilibrium. A forlorn hope, probably, and the

situation was one of real danger, for they were drifting out to sea.

The crowd on the shore were quite as helpless, all but three men.

Like parts of some machine, these three rose, dashed coats and shoes

to the ground, and swiftly ran out a canoe, head on across the

breakers. In less than ten minutes they had reached the pair and

checked their outward progress.

"Now," said one of the three, "climb in, while I hold her steady,

sir."

He was referring to the canoe, not to the girl. His two companions

each had a hand on Pearson, clutching him anxiously.

"Climb in, sir," they exclaimed.

"Climb in nothing," replied Pearson. "What about the girl."

"We'll take care of her, sir," they answered carelessly, "you climb

in."

Pearson laughed. "You're a great bunch," he said, glancing at them

quizzically, "who are you anyway?"

"Lifesavers, sir," they answered, without knowing just what else to

say.

Pearson grunted. "Women and children last, eh," he went on, "so

that's the lifesavers' code. Steady now, lift her in carefully. Now

I can swim to shore." He did, but they stood carefully by, making

sure he was safe. Twice, in their eagerness for him, they nearly

tipped over the canoe, but finally the brave little craft rose

bravely on top of a breaker, and before they knew it, they were all

upon the beach, and another page of Ravenswood romances had been

turned. Another link in the golden chain that the little cupids were

making, had been forged, and once more the mysterious triumvirate had

come to the front.

"Plays her cards mighty well anyhow," whispered the eighteen year old

wiseacres at the Inn, as the girl and Pearson drove back in his car,

after this episode.

"Who is he anyway?" asked one of them.

"Nobody knows," replied the other. And therein, like Mrs. Ingraham,

they spoke the truth.

Once more that estimable lady found herself under the necessity of

reproving her headstrong young daughter, but the girl suddenly and

unaccountably was defiant.

"Mother," she said, in a tone of voice that was new and unaccustomed,

"don't you think that perhaps I am the best judge of my actions,

after all?"

"Leave the girl alone," Ingraham, the banker, said to his wife that

night. "She's not going to marry this young chap, and from the

conversation I've had with him, he knows New York banks from A to Z.

I've got to get a line of credit, and I've got to get it right away,

my dear, or there's going to be trouble out in Cleveland. This chap

can give me pointers, and I need pointers just now, as badly as our

bank needs money." He slumped down into a chair and wiped his brow.

"My, but I'm tired," he said, "I've been all over New York to get

what I want. I've tackled every big bank but the Tri-State Trust,

and to-morrow I'm going to tackle that."

The next day he left the Inn at eight a.m. just as Pearson, in his

low racer, pulled out of the garage.

"Hold on there," cried Pearson, "don't take that stage. Where are

you bound for, Mr. Ingraham?"

"New York," said Ingraham, "where are you?"

"I'll take you up," replied the younger man, "I'm going to make a

flying trip myself."

That afternoon, Ingraham, the banker, more fatigued than ever, strode

into his wife's room at the Inn.

"By George," he said, "I couldn't see anybody at the Tri-State Trust.

They're all upside down there, probably due to this confounded thief

of a teller that robbed them. Everybody tells you that the Tri-State

Trust is as sound as a dollar, but it acts like a chicken with its

head cut off. Couldn't get hold of anybody that could do me any good

and--" He stopped suddenly. "What's the matter," he exclaimed.

Grouped around a couch were two figures, a man and a woman. The man

was Crocheron, M.D., and the woman was the banker's daughter Helen.

Propped up with many pillows was the banker's wife, wheezing her very

worst.

"Father," said Helen, "I think we'll have to go back to Cleveland at

once, mother has never been as bad as this, have you, mother?"

Her mother admitted it between gasps, and also asserted without

hesitation that Dr. Crocheron had seemingly fallen far short of

success.

Crocheron was wringing his hands. "I don't know what more I can do

for you, Mrs. Ingraham." he said, "I've applied all the known

remedies, and you know this is a thing that can't be cured and must

be endured."

Helen Ingraham held up her hand. "Wait a minute," she exclaimed,

"somebody told me of a remedy, a real remedy. I think we ought to

try it."

"Who told you?" inquired Crocheron.

"Mr. Pearson," she faltered.

"That's the first time I ever knew he was a specialist," exclaimed

the doctor.

"Pearson," echoed her father, "why, he's in New York, he took me up

this morning in his car, left me at the corner of Wall Street and

Broadway, and went up town. Maybe he's gone for good."

"No, he hasn't," returned his daughter, with an air of very positive

assurance.

For an instant the sufferer on the couch forgot her asthma. "How do

you know, my dear?" she asked her daughter.

Her daughter did not reply, for at that instant there was a knock

upon the door. Ingraham stepped to the door, opened it, held a

whispered consultation, and then came back into the room. "It's the

man we were talking about," he said, "and he wants to talk to you."

"To me?" asked Helen.

"No," returned her father, "to your mother. Wants to see her right

away."

Helen's face flushed. "Perhaps," she suddenly exclaimed, "he's got

Aunt Charlotte's cure."

"Aunt Charlotte," exclaimed her mother, "you have no Aunt Charlotte."

"This is his Aunt Charlotte," corrected, the girl, "not mine."

Ingraham once more opened the door and Pearson entered. He was still

pale, though the sun had made some inroads on his pallor. He still

had that air of weariness. He strode to the bedside. "Mrs.

Ingraham," he said, "I've brought you something that will cure you,

if you'll consent to try it."

Dr. Crocheron frowned with professional disdain. "What new remedy is

this, Mr. Pearson?" he inquired.

"That," returned the young man, "is something I shall divulge only to

Mrs. Ingraham. May I see her alone?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Ingraham, who was willing to submit to any

experiment, to go through anything to relieve her suffering.

"Certainly," echoed Helen.

The doctor and the banker looked at each other in amazement, but

Pearson with a considerable display of executive ability and

self-possession, stood at the door and politely bowed everybody out.

Then he locked the door, took a small packet from his breast pocket,

and sat down by the bedside.

"Mrs. Ingraham," he began, "my Aunt Charlotte--"

Fifteen minutes later a young man stepped into the center of a small

group of people clustered upon one of the many balconies' that clung

to the Inn. "She's very much better," he announced smilingly.

Helen pressed forward and touched his arm. "Did she take the

remedy?" she asked.

He nodded. "She did," he answered, "though I'm convinced that it

shocked her sense of the proprieties to a great extent."

"What the dickens did you give her?" queried Crocheron.

"That," said Pearson, "as I've already indicated, is her secret, and

it shall be mine."

These four people sitting in the balcony did not observe three men,

who casually strolled up and down in front of the Inn, nor did they

observe that these three men stopped short, and that one of them

pointed somewhat unconventionally toward a wide window of the Inn

that faced the ocean.

"Jerusalem," said one of these three men to his two companions, "look

at the old lady in that window. She certainly has all the earmarks

of a dead game sport."

"That's a queer note," said the other. "I always thought she was a

staid old proposition. She's the wife of that banker from the West."

"Well," said the third, "she certainly doesn't look like a staid old

proposition now."

The three passed on, and Mrs. Ingraham, totally unconscious of their

observation, but fully conscious that for the first time in many

years she had become wholly comfortable, sat complacently in the open

window and smoked one of Aunt Charlotte's long black medicinal cigars

with the utmost nonchalance of manner.

"I tell you, the man's a thief." Ingraham, the Cleveland banker,

strode nervously up and down the big rooms that composed his suite at

the Ravenswood Inn. Before him, hanging on his words, sat his wife,

still puffing on her fireside companion, one of Aunt Charlotte's

Perfectos. His daughter Helen sat at a broad window gazing out at

sea.

"A thief," echoed Mrs. Ingraham, "it can't be possible."

"I tell you it's true," went on the banker. "Haven't I been in his

rooms dozens of times, smoking his cigars, drinking his old port and

telling him stories; and haven't I seen that tell-tale Gladstone bag

with the letters 'O.P.' painted on it; and yet, by George, he fooled

me, even me. It never struck me until to-day that the man was an

impostor, that he's a masquerader, and it's as clear as daylight now.

This chap Pearson is the thieving teller of the Tri-State Trust."

He turned suddenly. Helen was coming toward him with blazing eyes.

"That isn't true," she said in a low voice, and yet some unusual

confusion seemed to rest upon her. "It can't be true."

The old man stalked to a big closet in the room, threw open the door

and pointed to a top shelf. "Your mother," he went on, "keeps every

newspaper that she lays her hands upon. There's the bunch up there,

every one of them since we landed here."

He disappeared into the closet and a grunt or two indicated some

unusual exertion on his part. He came back in a moment, bearing a

pile of newspapers a foot in height, and tossed them on the bed.

Then he shook his finger at them. "Those sheets there," he

exclaimed, his face reddening as he went on, "they will tell

you--read them again. They'll show you that the very day this fellow

came here--that that very day he got out of the Tombs--was let out on

bail. Why was he so pale? What was the matter with him? Six weeks'

confinement in the cooler, that's what's the matter with him. Follow

the story down. You remember his going to New York a week ago with

me, what did he go for?"

For answer his asthmatic wife held up her black cigars. "For these,"

she gasped gratefully.

"Not a bit of it," answered her husband. "Read your newspaper. He

went up to plead to another indictment they had found against him;

you can't tell me. Take an hour off and go through that bundle on

the bed and you'll find that the Tri-State teller and this man

Pearson are identical. I tell you," he repeated, "he's a thief."

"But his money," exclaimed the banker's wife. "He's made of money."

"Made of money," snorted the Cleveland banker, "of course he is.

Didn't he get away with hundreds of thousands."

"But they wouldn't let him keep it," she returned.

"Wouldn't let him keep it," he repeated, "of course they wouldn't if

they knew where he kept it, but in order to get it they've got to sue

him and get a judgment--they've got to issue execution and they've

got to find out where it is. That fellow only had to put up fifty

thousand cash on the first indictment. They were afraid to let the

public know that he had gotten away with more. Only fifty thousand

out of all that cash, and he's got the rest except what that woman

took away from him."

Helen Ingraham turned pale, but her eyes still flashed. "It's not

true," she said, but her tone exhibited more hesitation than

indignation this time.

"And there's his automobile, his racer, there's property that they

can take," exclaimed Mrs. Ingraham. "Why don't they take that?"

"Ha," returned her husband, "he's probably got it in his wife's name,

that's the reason. He's probably got everything fixed so that they

can't get at it."

"His wife," echoed Helen stammering. "Has he got a wife?"

"I should think he had," retorted Ingraham. "Why don't you read the

papers."

Helen drew herself up. For an instant she threw all uncertainty from

her. "Father," she exclaimed, "you are totally mistaken. You don't

know this man: if you really knew him you would understand that he is

incapable of being a thief, incapable of anything that you have

charged against him."

Ingraham smiled a supercilious smile. He knew that he could shatter

all their doubts at one stroke and he had reserved this stroke until

the last. His forefinger shot out toward his daughter as though to

pin her with the force of his argument. "The old man's wrong, eh?"

he demanded. "Well, then, just explain one thing to me, what in

thunder do these three men mean, who follow him? Tell me that."

The stroke was an effective one. The argument was absolutely

unanswerable. Helen sank into a seat at the window, her lips closed,

her hands clasped, thinking.

Mrs. Ingraham, wheezing a bit at this startling conclusion, only

puffed the harder on her cigar.

"These three men," went on Ingraham, "mean this and only this, that

the District Attorney of New York County is not going to let this

chap, who has put up less than one-third of what he stole as bail,

get out of his clutches."

Mrs. Ingraham regained her composure. "Maybe he stole these

antiseptic cigars," she cried. And added "I only hope he'll steal

some more."

Ingraham stood over Helen. "Helen," he said, "you've been having a

good deal to do with this chap. You've taken a long chance, even if

he were the best instead of the worst. Now, you know he's the

worst--you know all he's done, and from henceforth I want you to

leave him severely alone. Though I'm sure," he added with a bow,

"that I don't have to tell you that."

Helen didn't answer. She didn't change her position at the window,

but her mother waved her hand excitedly to attract attention.

"Helen," she spluttered, coughing, "don't say anything to offend the

man until he steals some more of these cigars."

Helen did not answer her father's seriousness nor her mother's

gayety. She rose and swept swiftly from this room into another,

closed the door, locked it, and sat down alone.

"Confounded shame," said Ingraham to his wife, "that fellow made a

deep impression on the girl. I don't blame her, for he's made a deep

impression upon me."

His wife blew smoke rings. "And on me," she added.

"However," sighed Ingraham, "she'll do as we say--she'll leave him

alone; she'll cast him off before these people find out who he is.

Let's hope they'll never find out."

Helen started in bravely to leave Pearson alone. Her first step

toward it was to indite a brief note to him and send it nis office,

requesting an interview that night.

Singularly enough, Pearson had done the same by her, and the two,

each in solitude, read and somehow gloated over these summons to a

tryst. But Pearson little knew what was in store for him.

Hours later, the girl sat upon a little hillock of dry sand,

listening to waves that she could barely see, for the night was dark

Pearson fumed and fretted at her side.

"What's the trouble with me," he exclaimed insistently. "Don't you

know that that one moment at the railway station made you as surely

mine as I am yours? Doesn't your inner consciousness tell you that?"

"It does not," replied the girl coldly. Suddenly she turned to him.

"Tell me one thing, Mr. Pearson," she exclaimed, in a cruel, hard,

uncompromising voice, "have you told me the whole truth about this?"

Pearson laughed. "No," he answered, "why should I do that. How can

it signify. I wanted to know that you wanted me for myself--for the

man that I am, if I'm any kind of a man at all. I didn't want to

tell you the truth until after we had settled that."

"Have you nothing to tell me?" she inquired, her voice growing harder

still as she proceeded.

Her belligerent manner affected him unpleasantly. Her coolness froze

him. Under other circumstances he might have made a clean breast of

everything, but something combative within him kept him from it. He

thought for a moment and then he answered her.

"I've just one thing to tell you," he replied. "My name is not

Oscar, thank Heavens, and my name is not Pearson, ditto. My name,"

he added in a low voice, "is Ordway Pelletier."

The name evidently signified nothing to the girl, and apparently he

hoped it would not, for she sat silent--listless, even dejected, by

his side.

Suddenly he seized her hand, but she drew it from him.

"Why?" he demanded. Then like a flash he had caught it and was

holding it, staring down at it in blank surprise. It was her left

hand and upon her third finger was a gem that gathered from the night

all the night's darkness and turned it into brilliant rays of light.

It was a solitaire diamond ring that he stared at for so long.

"This was not here yesterday--last week," he exclaimed.

"No," she replied, "it was not."

"Then," he returned, "there's somebody else."

She did not answer.

"Somebody else here in Ravenswood," he went on.

She still was silent.

"It's Dr. Crocheron," he exclaimed now, with tones of disgust,

"Crocheron, that piffling proposition of a doctor--the village

cut-up. What in Heaven's name can you see in him?"

For answer the girl stared into the darkness. For a long time they

sat thus after he had released that hand of hers, with its portentous

token. Finally he rose.

"Is that all you've got to say to me?" he asked.

"That is all," she answered.

She too, rose, and left him, a white figure against the blackness of

the night. She swept on straight to the Inn, avoided all the

loungers of both sexes on the broad veranda, sped swiftly to her room

and locked herself in. Her first act upon switching on the light was

to jerk from that third finger the sparkling gem and to cast it into

a jewel box on her dressing-table.

"He thought," she said softly to herself, "that it was what it seemed

to be. It was the best way after all--the best way out of it." She

drew her hand across her eyes. "Ordway Pelletier," she whispered

softly to herself, "somehow I can't believe that you are what they

say you are, and yet--" Suddenly she switched off the light and

threw herself face down sobbing upon her bed.

"Straight road down the beach?" asked Pearson.

"Sure," answered the attendant at the Inn garage, "twenty miles,

maybe, straight as you can go."

"Jove," answered Pearson, "just what I need. It's the only thing

that will brace me up. Where's my man?"

His man was sent for and he came. "Henri," said Pearson, "I want you

to put my racer in A No. 1 condition, and have it ready for me at

three o'clock."

"To-morrow afternoon?" inquired Henri indolently.

"Not a bit of it," replied his employer, "three o'clock this morning.

The moon will be up and I'm going to do something that I've never

done before."

"Yes, sir," said Henri, "and what may that be, sir?"

Pearson drew a long breath. "I'm going to beat the world's record in

a twenty-mile dash on the Shore Road, and I'm going to do it all

alone. Three o'clock, Henri, to the minute."

Henri nodded, and retiring to the recess where the racer stood,

switched on a dozen lights and started in to work.

Pearson gritting his teeth, digging his nails into the palms of his

hands, went back to the beach to sit alone upon that little hillock

of sand, to stare blankly for hours into the blackest of black nights.

No sooner had he left the Inn garage than Henri whistled to the

uniformed attendant. "Say," he whispered in a hoarse voice, "you go

an' tell one of them guys that is watching us, what you heard him

tell me, do you understand?"

"Who are them guys?" asked the other man. "I see them

here--there--everywhere. What are they watching for?"

"Search me," answered Henri, "all you got to do is to go and tell one

of them, do you understand?"

"What will they do," demanded the attendant, "stop him?"

"Search me," replied Henri, lighting up a cigarette, "that's their

business, not mine."

The attendant obeyed his orders, and Henri finishing his cigarette

and tossing it into the safety of the night, started in on his

allotted task.

In a half hour the three men he had sent for entered the garage.

"Anybody got a fast machine here?" one of them inquired.

The attendant, who had returned with them, nodded. "Mr. Pearson," he

returned.

"I know," said one of the three, "but I mean anybody else."

The attendant looked around the place, and finally placed his hand

upon a big machine. "This is the next fastest, gentlemen," he said.

"Who does it belong to?" demanded they.

"Mr. Ingraham, of the Inn," returned he of the garage.

The three put their heads together. "Well," they finally decided,

"we'll have to see Ingraham, that's all." So they saw Ingraham and

offered him a price to take out the car, and Ingraham, being a

practical man of the world, and being also curious as to their

mission, accepted their proposition and sent for his chauffeur. "And

I guess," said Ingraham to himself, "that I'll just hang around

to-night and see what's going on; there's something in the air." He

hung round on the grill side of the veranda, drinking Scotches, and

he was right about something being in the air, but that something did

not eventuate until the moon had peeped up above the horizon--until

the Cathedral clock inside was striking three.

Shortly after that the folding doors of the silent garage opened and

a long low racer, like some midnight marauding rat, thrust its nose

into the dispelling gloom, gave one or two squeaks of caution,

grunted a snort of defiance, and then silently darted past him, swung

into the Shore Road, and disappeared into the distance. He had only

time to note that the racer bore but a single figure, and that that

figure was Pearson. He waited then for a few minutes and waited not

in vain. Silently, his own ponderous steel-blue sixty horse power,

leaped in sight, François at the helm and the three mysteries as

passengers. That, too, darted past him and that, too, swung into the

Shore Road after the racer, like some huge rat terrier on the scent

of some huge rat.

"I'll bet dollars to doughnuts," exclaimed Ingraham to himself, "that

he's bound for Florida." And Ingraham went to bed.

It was at four o'clock in the morning that the night clerk

downstairs, drowsily nodding in the midst of his long vigil, was

aware that the night bell was insistently ringing. He rose, and

opened the door. Before him stood Dr. Crocheron.

"What's up, Doc," he demanded, "somebody 'phone you?"

"Nobody from here," answered Crocheron, "but they 'phoned me down the

line to come right over here and stay here until I was wanted.

What's up?" he asked.

"Blest if I know," said the clerk, "I haven't heard anything."

"Something must be doing," exclaimed the doctor, "I wonder what it

is."

He did not wonder long, for at that instant the toot-toot of a motor

car was heard in the distance, and before they knew it Ingraham's big

sixty horse power had pulled up under the _porte-cochère_ and three

men were lifting a heavy object out of the machine.

Crocheron peered at them across the broad veranda. "What's the

matter," he exclaimed.

"Matter enough," answered the three men in fearful tones, "smash up,

man killed, and a ten thousand dollar racer gone to the junk heap."

They swung their burden into the full light of the hotel office.

"Dead?" asked Crocheron.

"No," they whispered, "but mighty near it, that's why we sent for

you." They halted with Pearson's limp form between them and nodded

to the clerk. "Can you give us a ground floor room?" they asked.

"Sure," replied the clerk. He darted across the broad hall and threw

open the Governor's suite and ushered them in there. "Put him on

that bed," he said.

Once they had deposited their unconscious burden on the couch

reserved for high officials of the state, the three men fell back and

permitted Crocheron to examine him.

"Jove, but he's smashed up," said Crocheron, going over the man

carefully. He glanced at them interrogatively. "What was he trying

to do?" he asked.

"Nobody knows," they answered, "only he went past the lighthouse at

Shore Front faster than a streak of greased lightning. The night

watch saw him pass--he was going like mad--machine swung from side to

side--seemed almost beyond control."

At this juncture, Henri, who had been attracted by the hubbub, thrust

his countenance into the room. He wrung his hands in despair. "I

don't wonder, gents," he said, "I knew he'd get his, some time or

other, and he did it once too often.

"Has he done it before?" asked Crocheron.

"Sure," answered Henri. "Any time anything gets on his nerves, so he

can't stand it, he goes out and breaks the speed laws. Another man

would take to drink, he takes to this."

Crocheron sighed. "I don't know whether he'll take to any others,"

he returned. Then swiftly while he stripped his patient, he gave

brief directions in his professional low voice, directions for drugs,

splints, bandages, for surgical aid, for everything that occurred to

him, and not once during all this time did his patient regain

consciousness.

The three men stood about the couch, looking each other in the eye.

"It wasn't our fault," they assured each other, as though afraid of

some rebuke that waited for them in the future. "How could we have

helped it?"

VII

It was two days later. Ingraham, the banker of Cleveland, had sent

word to the New York specialist, who was waiting to see him, that he

would be glad to consent to an interview.

The specialist--and this specialist was the same man Pearson himself

had interviewed on the day he stepped out of the Tombs--came to the

point at once.

"Mr. Ingraham," he said, "this is a matter of life and death, and you

won't lift your finger to save a life."

"I won't do the thing you want me to do," returned the banker, "and I

don't see how it's going to save his life."

"Mr. Ingraham," went on the specialist, "this man's broken bones

don't cut any figure in his present condition. If it were only

broken bones, we could pull him through. It's a question of nerves,

shattered nerves, sir, and ever since that man recovered

consciousness, he's been calling for your daughter Helen. Sir, I'll

pit my knowledge against that of any expert in the world, and I say

to you that the presence of your daughter in that room is going to

save this man. Her absence is going to kill him."

"It will have to kill him, then," remarked the Cleveland banker.

In desperation the specialist left the room, and Helen, pushing open

her own door, entered it. "Father," she exclaimed, "I heard what he

said, and I know--I believe he speaks the truth. I'm going--going

down."

Ingraham gripped her wrist as in a vise and forced her into a chair.

"You'll do just what I say," he exclaimed. "I'm not going to have

your name in the papers, the talk of all New York, linked with the

name of this thief downstairs. You'll do just as I say, if you don't

I'll lock you up--do you understand?"

Helen understood. She leaned over, burying her face in her hands and

wept as though her heart would break.

Downstairs the specialist was 'phoning to New York. He was talking

to somebody in the Wall Street district. "You had better come down

here at once," he warned the man at the New York end of the wire,

"and knock something into this fellow's head, I can't."

Two hours later a natty looking individual was ushered into

Ingraham's apartment. "Mr. Ingraham," he said, "I'm the

representative of the International Insurance Company of New York.

We've got a branch in Cleveland."

"So you have," exclaimed Ingraham, passing his cigars, "and your

Cleveland branch banks at my bank."

"Exactly," replied the natty individual, "and it keeps large sums of

money on deposit there."

"Best customer I've got," murmured Ingraham gratefully.

The manner of the natty individual changed at once. "Mr. Ingraham,"

he exclaimed ferociously, "you don't want to lose your best customer,

do you?"

"No," returned Ingraham, paling.

"Well, you will," thundered this individual, "if you don't do what we

say."

"Wh--what do you say?" stammered Ingraham.

The stranger tapped Ingraham upon the shoulder. "You follow the

directions of our friend, the specialist, downstairs, friend

Ingraham," he remarked ominously. "Do everything he says, and we'll

stick to you. Decline, and you don't get a dollar of our money on

deposit. Do you understand?"

Ingraham, terribly agitated, threw open Helen's door, and called to

her. "Helen, my dear," he cried, "Helen, you must come with me."

Twenty minutes later Ingraham was standing outside of the Governor's

suite of rooms on the ground floor of the Inn. Inside, as he knew,

were Crocheron and the New York specialist--and his own daughter

Helen. From time to time, reports of the injured man's condition

filtered through the doors and were gobbled up by the groups of

guests who ranged themselves about the entries to hear every bit of

news.

Finally the specialist hustled out. He caught Ingraham by the lapel

of his coat. He seemed to have forgotten his resentment toward that

gentleman. "Mr. Ingraham," he exclaimed, "I've never seen anything

like it in all my experience. Talk about mental suggestion,

telepathy, or influence of one mind upon another. The instant that

your daughter entered that room, my man knew it without opening his

eyes. 'There she is,' he said, as she came in. These were the first

words he uttered, other than the constant calling of her name.

'There she is,' he said and opened his eyes and held out his

hand--his right arm, you know, is not broken--and then, Mr. Ingraham,

as your daughter stopped a minute and said, 'Mr. Pelletier,' he

smiled, actually smiled, sir, and he said, 'Can't you do better than

that?' and from the minute, Mr. Ingraham, that that girl uttered his

first name 'Ordway'--from that instant this young man's recovery has

been a fact assured."

The doctor beckoned to him the natty individual from the

International Insurance Company, and clutching him with his left

hand, while he held Ingraham with his right, he retold the tale with

gusto. "Most remarkable thing in my experience," he commented.

While they were standing there, two people approached them. Two

strangers they were. One was a woman in a long cloak with a veil

about her face, and the other was a youthful business man. The woman

started for the door and had her hand on the knob before she was

detained. She whispered some words to the man at the door and he

nodded toward the specialist. "You'll have to see him," said the

man. She swept toward the specialist and caught him by the arm.

"I must see him," she demanded.

"You can't," returned the specialist.

"I must," she answered, "it may be a matter of life and death; I

always have a wonderful effect upon him when he is ill, I don't know

why, but you must let me see him."

She pressed her card upon the specialist and he looked at it, though

it meant nothing to him, and under the force of her insistence, he

found himself entering the apartments with her. Once inside, he

found her not at all amenable to reason; she simply swept past him as

one who could not be stayed, and burst into the room where lay the

injured man, and then she stopped. And at the same instant she

stopped, the heart of Helen Ingraham seemed to stop beating, too, for

Helen noted that the injured man had turned to this woman with a new

light of something more than recognition in his eyes, and with a

clutch of fear upon her, she saw this other woman stride to the other

side of the bed, near Dr. Crocheron, and kneel down.

Crocheron tried to restrain her. "Who are you, madam," he exclaimed,

"his wife, or--what are you doing here?"

"She is neither," answered the patient, feebly, "she is only my Aunt

Charlotte. Let her stay."

Outside the door the youthful looking business man was arguing with

the representative of the International Insurance Company. "Do you

mean to tell me," he demanded, "that I can't see Mr. Pelletier.

Nonsense. I've got to see him."

"I'm on guard here," returned the insurance man, "and I'll see to it

that you don't see him. He's seen enough already."

"But this is a matter of life and death," pleaded the other. "I must

see him and he must see me. If he knew I was here he would insist

upon it."

The insurance man wavered. He felt after all, perhaps, that he was

not authorized to interfere quite as fully as he started out to do,

so by way of compromise he nodded and said: "Suppose you tell me your

business, if it's important, and I'll take the message to him."

The youthful business man looked about him, looked at Ingraham and

concluded, evidently, that he was to be trusted, although a stranger,

and then he went on to tell his troubles.

"We're all higgledy-piggledy up in the Tri-State Trust without

Pelletier," he said.

Ingraham interrupted him. "Pelletier," exclaimed Ingraham, "I've

heard that name somewhere. Who's Pelletier?"

"The man inside," returned the insurance man, jerking his thumb over

his shoulder.

But the other man went on. "You tell Mr. Pelletier," he said, "that

we won't bother him except about one thing. There's a cheap skate

banker over in Cleveland, of the name of Ingraham, who wants a line

of credit at our bank, and we've put him off and put him off until we

can't put him off any longer. Ask him what we'll do."

Ingraham turned scarlet. "Cheap skate banker," he exclaimed, "do you

know who you're talking about--do you know who you're talking to?

I'm Ingraham."

The other man was not even feezed. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Ingraham,"

he remarked, "even if you are a cheap skate banker." He held out his

hand. Ingraham ignored it.

"We don't let paying tellers like our friend inside," he thundered,

"loot our banks out in Cleveland, I can tell you. You New York chaps

have hayseed in your hair."

For answer the other stepped to the door and said a few words to the

doorkeeper, and finally was admitted.

The insurance man smiled mysteriously at Ingraham. "You don't

imagine, sir," he asked, "that Mr. Pelletier is an absconding paying

teller, do you?"

"I know he is," returned the banker. "I've followed that paying

teller's crime all through the papers, and this man's history has all

the earmarks of it. He's a thief."

The insurance man held up his hands. "Dear me," he exclaimed, "a

thief!"

At that instant the specialist returned and joined the little group

of two. The insurance man nodded to the specialist.

"Doctor," he laughed, "Mr. Ingraham here thinks that Pelletier is the

paying teller of his own bank."

"Why, my dear sir," interposed the specialist, "Pelletier is a

millionaire--he's the president of the Tri-State Trust--he's the man

whose dress suit case that paying teller stole when he stole the

funds, and this man Pelletier, overworked as he is anyway, worried

himself almost to death about the thing."

"Not about the dress suit case?" asked Ingraham.

"No," replied the insurance man, taking up the doctor's story, "but

because of this: he, the president of the Trust Company, was the only

official in the bank at the time when the paying teller stole the

money. The paying teller did it right under his nose, and for that

reason Pelletier felt responsible in the same degree as he would have

held a watchman responsible for letting a burglar get away. It

worried him to death."

"I should think it did," said the doctor, taking up the story, "and

after that Pelletier spent most of his time in the District

Attorney's office trying to get him to refuse bail, and up at the

Tombs trying to worm out of that paying teller the secret of his

hiding place where he had stowed away the loot. Pelletier told me,

in fact, that he thought he ought to pay back to the bank himself the

money that the paying teller robbed them of. Meantime, Pelletier's

nerves were going by the board. He had to get away from business--go

where business couldn't find him."

The insurance man shivered. "I should think so," he sighed, "with

business at his heels every minute of his time--he had to get away

incog."

Ingraham, his face flushed with these disclosures and with the

mistake of his own diagnosis, was silent for an instant. Then he

tightly clutched the doctor's arm.

"I think you're fooling me, gentlemen," he said slowly. "I think

this man is that paying teller, and you're merely friends of his,

trying to shield him. If I'm wrong, why is it that three New York

detectives follow this Pelletier about. Can you tell me that?"

The insurance man turned pale. "Did you know they were following him

about?" he asked.

The banker nodded. "Well, they didn't do their duty very well,

then," returned the representative of the International Insurance

Company. "Their instructions were never to show themselves, unless

necessary, and never to let Pelletier know that they were watching

him."

"It was necessary, several times, for them to show themselves down

here," burst in Ingraham, and he told about the incidents of the

hold-up and of the ocean rescue. "But," he persisted, "there's a

method in their madness that, I figure it, the District Attorney of

New York understands."

The insurance man hesitated for a moment, and then he looked Ingraham

in the eye.

"Mr. Ingraham," he exclaimed, "you're our banker out in Cleveland, I

suppose I may as well let you into the secret. The doctor here is

on. You didn't know that this young Pelletier is a crank on life

insurance. Millionaire as he is, he came to us for a Two Million

Five Hundred Thousand Dollar policy. After that, do you think we can

let him wander around alone, taking all kinds of risks? No, sir, we

can't even let him get sick safely. The International Life Insurance

has got to see that Ordway Pelletier lives out his three score years

and ten. Now, do you understand?"

Ingraham wilted. He understood, but he had no time to apologize, for

at that instant he felt a tug upon his coat sleeve, and his daughter

Helen drew him toward the door and into the room of the injured man.

"Father," she exclaimed, "if you want that line of credit in the

Tri-State Trust Company, you had better ask us now."

That evening as the dusk slowly settled down upon the Ravenswood Inn,

those who paced the board walk in the twilight, glanced from time to

time upward toward a moving spectacle. That moving spectacle

disported itself upon a balcony. It consisted of two elderly ladies,

apparently at peace with all the world.

Aunt Charlotte blew smoke rings into the heavens. "This is a lovely

spot," she murmured.

Mrs. Ingraham blew another set of smoke rings that rose and twisted

themselves about Aunt Charlotte's.

"Have you missed any of your cigars lately?" she inquired.

Aunt Charlotte lit a fresh one. "I should think I have," she

answered genially, her face widening to a broad but dignified grin,

"and Ordway has been filching them from me, the young thief."

Angelo

BY JOHN A. MOROSO

James Tierney pressed a pearl button on his desk in the handsome Wall

Street suite of James Tierney, Inc., and supplemented the electric

summons with a series of shouts for his first lieutenant, Mickey

Reilley.

Reilley bounced into his chief's office with a shameful apology for a

salute.

"Reilley," began the head of the famous private detective agency,

with the expression of a martyr on his clean shaven, homely

countenance, "y'gotta find me a Carrie again, a real nice Carrie, one

of those things with a little walking cane, a fried-egg hat, yellow

shoes and all the other frills."

Reilley looked his displeasure.

"Say," he asked, "what we runnin' now, a college annex?"

Tierney held before him a letter from one of his directors and

backers, a Broad Street banker who had gathered an almost criminal

share of the country's wealth.

"Yow! Wow!" he grunted as he studied the epistle. "Here's Mr. James

Frothingham Phillips, one of the guys what put us in business, asking

to have his daughter, Ione--get that name?--shadowed."

"What she doing, shoplifting?"

"Nix; making love to the family chauffeur."

Reilley dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands.

"Say," he groaned, "if they keep shootin' this kind of business at us

we'll get to be a set of nice old ladies, believe me. I t'ought we

was put here to look out f'r the banking business and watch the

yeggs."

Tierney looked at his aide with glassy eyes.

"We're here to do just what they tell us to do," he said. "If your

conscience hurts yuh, go up to police headquarters and work with the

bulls until you're cured and then come back f'r a job." He grinned

sarcastically.

"There's only one swell guy in reach," Reilley said, surrendering

promptly. "He's outside now smoking a perfumed cigarette and making

the office smell like--"

"Trot him in."

Reilley went to the waiting room and returned immediately with

William Winthrop, only that very morning rechristened "Boston Willie."

Willie nodded patronizingly to Tierney as he stood flickering at his

gray trousers with a silver-topped cane. He was a well set-up

youngster of twenty-five, with broad shoulders, bright, clear, blue

eyes, silky complexion and the hint of a smile playing about

patrician lips.

A gorgeous blue scarf relieved the neutral gray of his well made

morning suit. A black pearl set in carved gold for a stickpin was

his only ornament. His gloves were chamois and of such freshness

that it was evident that he was accustomed to having people open

doors.

"How-do, Mr. Tierney," he said in a Harvard drawl that would have

made an Eliot lecture sound like a Salvation Army appeal.

"How-do," repeated Tierney.

"It's--ah rawther a pleasant--ah morning."

"It's grand," said Tierney. "I gotta job f'r yuh."

"Thanks awf'ly, y'know, and all that sort of thing."

Tierney began to feel a pounding in his head. Reilley loomed in the

background, grinning fiendishly as he watched his chief suffer.

"D'yuh know a society girl named Ione Phillips?" he asked when he

felt that he could proceed without loss of reason.

"Ione Phillips?" repeated "Boston Willie." "I've heard the name.

Ah, yes! She was at the Pawmer cotillon last New Year's eve, I

believe."

"The Pawmer cotillon?" asked Tierney.

The young man nodded.

"The Pawmers, y'know," he explained.

"How do you spell them?"

"P-a-l-m-e-r-s."

"Oh, I gotcha, Steve," cried Tierney. "Yuh must excuse me, Mr.

Winthrop. I don't talk Boston very well."

Reilley left the room to avoid an explosion of mirth.

"What about the--ah, young lady?" Boston Willie asked.

"She's trying to get the family chauffeur to elope," explained

Tierney getting down to business. "She's the only daughter and her

paw wants her to marry a duke, or anyhow, nuthin' cheaper than a

count. He's got the price and if there was any kings in the discard

he'd spend a few millions and pick one up."

"Jove," exclaimed Willie, "I remember them now. She's the daughter

of Old Man Phillips."

"K'rect," said Tierney, "on her father's side and of Old Lady

Phillips on her mother's side."

The smile about Willie's lips broke into a series of wide-spreading

ripples and his eyes sparkled. "Ha!"

That one "ha" alone escaped his lips. It represented laughter.

Mirth had stirred him profoundly.

When he recovered from this outburst Willie placed a gloved hand to

his side as if it ached.

"My word, Mr. Tierney," he said, "you are droll."

Tierney looked at him suspiciously.

He made a mental note of that word "droll." He would look it up.

His stenographer had a dictionary.

"Anyhow, Mr. Winthrop," he said, "yuh gotta see that she don't elope

with the chauffeur. The gir-rl's paw writes me that he is a very

handsome chauffeur, but he is a wop."

"A wop," repeated Tierney. "Some people would call him a Guinea,

others might call him a Joe and I guess he calls himself an

Eyetalian."

"Oh!"

"My talk is the rough stuff, Mr. Winthrop, but I'm telling you what

yuh gotta do," went on Tierney, seriously now. "Don't let Ione marry

the wop. Marry her yourself if it is absolutely necessary--but use

that only as the last resort. You know you ain't no duke or even a

count. Her old man's got all the money that Rockefeller didn't have

time to pick up. Go out and hire the finest gazump that ever burned

benzine. Buy all the fine clothes and little hats that you want.

Blow yourself to more neckties and walking sticks. Do just as you

please. If I sent Ione's paw an expense bill under a thousand a week

he'd think I was loafing on the job and only a piker. Just see that

she don't marry the family chauffeur."

"Why don't Mr. Phillips fire the chauffeur?" asked Willie.

"Why?" repeated Tierney. "Because just as soon as he fired him she'd

run away and nothing could prevent her marrying the guy except sudden

death. She'd give up home and candy and everything else and start

life all over again in a hall bedroom with one gas jet and a frying

pan. She'd take in washing until her husband got another job.

That's the way they all do when the handsome chauffeur is fired."