Dangerous Ground; or, The Rival Detectives
by Lawrence L. Lynch · English · Gutenberg #36366 · 656,595 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Dangerous Ground; or, The Rival Detectives
Author: Lawrence L. Lynch
Release date: June 10, 2011 [eBook #36366]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
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| TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES |
| |
| * The original work contains some text in italics and in bold- |
| face. These are represented here as _text_ and =text=, respec- |
| tively. Small capitals in the original work have been changed |
| to capitals for this e-text. |
| * The oe-ligature from the original work has been transcribed as |
| [oe], as in man[oe]uvre. |
| * Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have only been |
| corrected where one variant was clearly used more often than |
| the other (aint was changed to ain't, etc.). 'Warburton place' |
| has been changed to 'Warburton Place.' Note that both 'Joe |
| Blakesly' and 'Joe Blakesley' occur in the text. |
| * Minor typographical errors have been corrected silently. More |
| important changes made to the text: |
| - page 90: 'Mrs. Follinsbee' changed to 'Mrs. Follingsbee'; |
| - page 173: 'Lerchen' changed to 'Leschen'; |
| - page 194: 'And won't do' changed to 'And it won't do'; |
| - page 220: CHAPTER XX changed to CHAPTER XXX; CHAPTER LXVI |
| and CHAPTER LXVIII changed to CHAPTER XLVI and XLVIII, |
| respectively; |
| - page 449: Beal changed to Beale. |
| * Some pages had poorly printed parts; here a 'best guess' has |
| been used to complete the text (page 159, some parts of the |
| advertisements at the end of the book). |
| |
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[Illustration: "Not just yet; I ain't quite ready!"--page 410.]
THE GREAT DETECTIVE SERIES.
DANGEROUS GROUND;
OR,
THE RIVAL DETECTIVES.
BY
LAWRENCE L. LYNCH,
(OF THE SECRET SERVICE.)
Author of "Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter;" "Out
of a Labyrinth;" "Shadowed by Three;" "The
Diamond Coterie," etc., etc.
CHICAGO:
ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., PUBLISHERS.
1886.
COPYRIGHT, 1885,
BY ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., CHICAGO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Dangerous Ground.
[Illustration: "Mamma brings the candle very near to the closed eyes,
waving it to and fro, rapidly."--page 309.]
DANGEROUS GROUND.
PROLOGUE.
TIME: The month of May. The year, 1859; when the West was new, and the
life of the Pioneer difficult and dangerous.
SCENE: A tiny belt of timber, not far from the spot where not long
before, the Marais des Cygnes massacre awoke the people of south-eastern
Kansas, and kindled among them the flames of civil war.
I.
It is a night of storm and darkness. Huge trees are bending their might,
and branches, strong or slender, are swaying and snapping under a fierce
blast from the northward.
Night has closed in, but the ghostly light of a reluctant camp fire
reveals a small group of men gathered about its blaze; and back of them,
more in the shelter of the timber, a few wagons,--prairie schooners of
the staunchest type--from which, now and then, the anxious countenance
of a woman, or the eager, curious face of a child, peers out.
There has been rain, and fierce lightning, and loud-rolling thunder; but
the clouds are breaking away, the rain has ceased: only the strong gusts
of wind remain to make more restless the wakeful travellers, and rob the
weary, nervous ones of their much needed sleep.
"Where's Pearson?" queries a tall, strong man, who speaks as one having
authority. "I have not seen him since the storm began."
"Pearson?" says another, who is crouching over the flickering fire in
the effort to light a stubby pipe. "By ginger! I haven't thought of the
fellow; why, he took his blanket and went up yonder," indicating the
direction by a jerk of the short pipe over a brawny shoulder--"before
the storm, you know; said he was going to take a doze up there; he took
a fancy to the place when we crossed here before."
"But he has been down since?"
"Hain't seen him. Good Lord, you don't suppose the fellow's been
sleepin' through all this?"
Parks, the captain of the party, stirs uneasily, and turns his face
towards the wagons.
"There's been some fearful lightnin', sir," breaks in another of the
group. "'Tain't likely a man would sleep through all this, but--"
He stops to stare after Parks, who, with a swift impulsive movement of
the right hand, has turned upon his heel, and is moving toward the
wagons.
"Mrs. Krutzer," he calls, halting beside the one most remote from the
camp fire.
"What is wanted?" answers a shrill, feminine voice.
"Is the little one with you?"
"Yes." This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice.
"Have you seen Pearson since the storm?"
"My gracious! No."
"How is Krutzer?"
"No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?"
"Not if he can't walk."
"Well he can't; not a step."
"Then good-night, Mrs. Krutzer." And Parks returns to the men at the
fire.
"There's something wrong," he says, with quiet gravity.
"Pearson has not been near the child since the storm. Get your lanterns,
boys; we will go up the hill."
It is only a slight elevation, with a pyramid of rocks, one or two
wide-spreading trees; and a fringe of lesser growth at the summit.
A moment the lanterns flash about, while the men converse in low tones.
Then one of them exclaims:
"Here he is! Pearson; Heavens, man, wake up!"
But the still form outstretched upon the water-soaked blanket, and
doubly sheltered by the great rocks and bending branches, moves not in
response to his call.
They crowd about him, and Walter Parks bends closer and lets the full
light of the lantern he carries, fall upon the still face.
"Good God!"
He sinks upon one knee beside the prostrate form; he touches the face,
the hands; looks closer yet, and says in a husky voice, as he puts the
lantern down:
"He's _dead_, boys!"
They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by one they touch
it; curiously, reverently, tenderly or timidly, according as their
various natures are.
Then a chorus of exclamations, low, fierce, excited.
"How was it?"
"Was he killed?"
"The storm--"
"More likely, Injuns."
"No, Bob, it wasn't Indians," says Parks mournfully, "for here's his
scalp."
And he tenderly lays a brown hand upon the abundant locks of his dead
comrade, sweeping them back from the forehead with a caressing movement.
Then suddenly, with a sharp exclamation that is almost a shriek, the
hand drops to his side; he recoils, he bounds to his feet; then, turning
his face to the rocks, he lets the darkness hide the look of unutterable
horror that for a moment overspread it, changing at length to an
expression of sternness and fixed resolve.
Meantime the others press closer about the dead man, and one of them,
taking the place Parks has just vacated, bends down to peer into the
still, set face.
"Boys, look!" he cries eagerly; "look here!" and he points to a tiny
seared spot just above the left temple. "That's a burn, and here, just
above it, the hair is singed away. It's lightning, boys."
Again they peer into the dead face, and utter fresh exclamations of
horror. Then Walter Parks, whose emotion they have scarcely noticed,
turns toward them and looks closely at the seared spot upon the temple.
"Boys," he asks, in slow, set tones, "did you, any of you, ever _see_ a
man killed by lightning?"
They all stare up at him, and no one answers.
[Illustration: "They cluster about that silent, central figure. One by
one they touch it; curiously, reverently."--page 12.]
"Because," he proceeds, after a moment's silence, "I never saw the
effects of a lightning stroke, and don't feel qualified to judge."
"It's lightnin'," says the man called Bob, in a positive voice; "I've
never seen a case, but I've read of 'em. It's lightnin', sure."
"Of course it is," breaks in another. "What else can it be? There ain't
an Injun about and besides--"
A sharp flash of lightning, instantly followed by a loud peal of
thunder, interrupts this speech, and, when they can hear his voice,
Parks says, quietly:
"I suppose you are right, Menard. Now, let's take him down to the
wagons; quick, the rain is coming again."
Slowly they move down the hill with their burden, Walter Parks
supporting the head and shoulders of the dead. And as they go, one of
them says:
"Shall I run ahead and tell the Krutzers?"
"No," replies Parks, sternly; "we will take him to my wagon. I will
inform Mrs. Krutzer."
So they lay him in the wagon belonging to their leader, and before they
leave him there Parks does a strange thing. He takes off the oil-skin
cap from his own head and pulls it tight upon the head of the dead man.
Then he strides over to the wagon occupied by the Krutzers.
II.
A flickering, sputtering candle, lights up the interior of a large
canvas-covered wagon. On a narrow pallet across one side of the vehicle,
a man tosses and groans, now and then turning his haggard face, and
staring, blood-shot eyes, upon a woman who crouches near him, holding
upon her knees a child of two summers, who slumbers peacefully through
the storm, with its fair baby face upturned to the flickering candle. In
the corner, opposite the woman, lies a boy of perhaps ten years, ragged,
unkempt, and fast asleep.
A blaze of lightning and a rush of wind cause the man to cry out
nervously, and then to exclaim, peevishly:
"Oh, I wish the morning would come; this is horrible!"
"Hush, Krutzer," says the woman, in a low, hissing whisper; "you act
like a fool."
She bends forward and lays the sleeping child beside the dirty boy in
the corner. Then she lifts her head and listens.
"Hush!" she whispers again; "they are astir outside; I hear them
talking. Ah! some one is coming."
"Mrs. Krutzer."
It is the voice of Walter Parks, and this time the woman parts the tent
flap and looks out.
"Is that you, Mr. Parks? I thought I heard voices out there. Is the
storm doing any damage?"
"Not at present. Is Krutzer awake?"
She glances toward the form upon the pallet; it is shivering as with an
ague. Then she says, unhesitatingly:
"Krutzer has been in such misery since this storm came up, that I've
just given him morphine. He ain't exactly asleep, but he's stupid and
flighty; get into the wagon, Mr. Parks, and see how he is for yourself.
Poor man; this is the fifth day of his rheumatism, and he has not stood
on his feet once in that time."
The visitor hesitates for a moment, then drawing nearer and lowering his
tone somewhat, he says:
"If Krutzer is in a bad state now, he had better not know what I have
come to tell. Can he hear me as I speak?"
"No; not if you don't raise your voice."
"Pearson is dead, Mrs. Krutzer."
She starts, gasps, and then, with her head protruding from the canvas,
asks, huskily:
"How? when? who?--"
"We found him up by the rocks, lying on his blanket--"
"Killed?"
"Killed; yes."
"How--how?" she almost gasps.
"There is a burn upon his head. Menard says it was a stroke of
lightning."
"Oh," she sighs, and sinks back in the wagon, turning her head to look
at the form upon the pallet.
"Mrs. Krutzer."
She leans toward him again and listens mutely.
"We--Menard, Joe Blakesly, and myself--will watch to-night with the
body. We know very little about Pearson, and the little one; what can
you tell us?"
"Not much;" clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. "It was like
this: Pearson joined our train just before we crossed Bear Creek--beyond
the reserve, you know. That was three weeks before we left the others,
to join your train. The child was ailing at the time, and so Pearson put
it in my charge, most of the other women having more children than I to
take care of. I liked the little thing, and it did not seem a trouble to
me; so after a while Pearson offered to pay me, if I would look after
it until we struck God's country. But I would not let him pay me, for
the baby seems like my own."
"And _now_, Mrs. Krutzer?"
"I am coming to that. Pearson told us, at the first, that the little
girl was not his; that its father was a miner back among the mountains.
Its mother was dead, and the father, who was an old friend of Pearson's,
had put it in his care, to be taken to New York, where its relatives
live. Pearson was obliged to quit mining, you know, on account of his
health."
"Yes; do you know the address of the child's friends?"
"Yes; it's an aunt, her father's sister. About two weeks ago--I think
Pearson must have had a presentiment or something of the kind--he came
to me, and gave me a letter and a package, saying that if anything
happened to him during the trip, he wanted me to see the little girl
safely in the hands of her relatives. The letter was from the baby's
father, and the packet contained the address of the New York people, and
enough money to pay my expenses after I leave the wagon train. I
promised Pearson that I would take care of the child and put her safe in
her aunt's hands, and so I will--but, Oh, dear! I never expected to be
obliged to do it."
A hollow groan breaks upon her speech; the man upon the pallet is
writhing as if in intensest agony. The woman makes a signal of
dismissal, and drops the canvas curtain.
Walter Parks hesitates a moment, and then, as a second groan greets his
ear, turns and strides away.
III.
The clouds hang overhead like a murky canopy. The wind is sighing itself
to sleep. The rain has ceased, but large drops drip dismally from the
great branches that lately sheltered Arthur Pearson's death-bed.
Beside the rocks, three men are standing. It is three o'clock in the
morning. Two of the three men bend down to examine something which the
third, lighted by a lantern, has just taken from the wet ground at his
feet.
It is a small thing to excite so much earnest scrutiny; only the half
burned fragment of a lucifer match.
"Boys," says Walter Parks, solemnly, swinging the lantern upon his arm
and carefully wrapping the bit of match in a paper as he speaks, "poor
Pearson was never killed by lightning. That sear upon his forehead was
made by the simple application of a burning match. _I've_ seen men
killed by lightning."
"But you said--"
"No matter what I said _then_, Joe; what I _now_ say to you and Menard
is _the truth_. You have promised to keep what I am about to tell you a
secret, and to act according to my advice. Menard, Blakesly, _Arthur
Pearson has been foully murdered_!"
"No!"
"Parks, you are mad!"
"You will believe the evidence of your own senses, boys. I am going to
prove what I assert."
"But who? how?--"
"Who?--ah, that's the question! There are ten men of us; if the guilty
party belongs to our train, we will ferret him out if possible. If we
were to gather all our party here, and show them how poor Pearson met
his death, the assassin, if he is among us, would be warned, and perhaps
escape."
"True."
"Boys, I believe that the assassin _is_ among us; but I have not the
faintest suspicion as to his identity. We are ten men brought together
by circumstances. We three have known each other back there in the
mining camps. The others are acquaintances of the road; good fellows so
far as we know them: but nine of us ten are innocent men; _one is a
murderer_! Come, now, and let me prove what I am saying."
As men who feel themselves dreaming; silently, slowly, with anxious
faces, they follow their leader to the wagon where the dead man lies
alone.
"Get into the wagon, boys; here, at this end, and move softly."
It is done and the three men crouch close together about the body of the
dead.
"Hold the lantern, Joe. There, Menard lift his head."
Silently, wonderingly, they obey him.
Then Walter Parks removes the cap from the lifeless head, and
shudderingly parts away the thick hair from about the crown.
"Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look, both of you; do you see _that_?"
They bend closer; the lantern's ray strikes upon something tiny and
bright.
"My God!" cries Joe Blakesly, letting the lantern fall and turning away
his face.
"Parks, what--_what_ is it?"
"A _nail_! Touch it, boys; see the hellish cleverness of the crime;
think what the criminal must be, to drive that nail home with one blow
while poor Pearson lay sleeping, and then to rearrange the thick hair so
skillfully. That was before the storm, I feel sure. If we had found him
sooner, there might have been no mark upon his forehead. Then we, in our
ignorance, would have called it heart disease, and poor Pearson would
have had no avenger. After the storm, the cunning villain crept back,
struck a match, and applied it to his victim's temple. And but for an
accident, we would all have agreed that he was killed by a
lightning-stroke."
Menard lays the head gently back upon the damp hay and asks,
shudderingly:
"How did you discover it, Parks?"
"In examining the sear, you may remember, I brushed the hair away from
the temple. As I ran my fingers through it, I touched--that."
They look from one to the other silently for a moment, and then Joe
Blakesly says:
"Has he been robbed?"
"Let us see;" Menard says, "he wore a money-belt, I know. Look for it,
Parks."
Parks examines the body, and shakes his head.
"It's gone; has been cut away. The belt was worn next the flesh; the
print of it is here plainly visible. The belt has been taken, and the
clothing replaced!"
"What coolness! what cunning! Shall we ever run the fellow down, Parks?"
"_Yes!_ Boys, you know why I am leaving the mountains. I am going home
to England, to be near my father who must die soon. I am not a poor
man; I shall some day be richer still. If _we_ fail to find this
murderer, I shall put the matter in the hands of the detectives, _and I
will never give it up_. Arthur Pearson met his death while traveling for
safety with a party which calls me its leader, and _I will be his
avenger_! It may be in one year, or two, or twenty; it may take a
fortune, and a lifetime; _but Arthur Pearson shall be avenged_!"
[Illustration: "Hold the lantern closer, Joe. Look both of you; do you
see _that_?"--page 19.]
CHAPTER I.
"STARS OF THE FORCE."
"Yes, sir," said Policeman No. 46, with an air of condescending
courtesy, "this _is_ the office."
It is characteristic of the metropolitan policeman; he is not a man to
occupy middle ground. If he is not gruffly discourteous, he is pretty
certain to be found patronizingly polite.
Number 46 had just breakfasted heartily, and had swallowed a large
schooner of beer at the expense of the bar keeper, so he beamed benignly
upon the tall, brown-faced, grey-bearded stranger who had just asked,
"Is this the office of the City Detective Agency?"
"This _is_ the office, sir; up two flights and turn to your left."
[Illustration: "Is this the office of the City Detective Agency?"--page
22.]
The stranger shifted his position slightly, glanced up and down the
street, drew a step nearer the policeman, and asked:
"Is it a large force?"
"Well, I should say!"
"I suppose you know some of them pretty well?"
"Yes, _sir_; I know some of the best men of the lot."
The stranger jingled some loose coin in his pocket, and seemed to have
forgotten his interest in the detective force.
"Officer, where does a man go to get a good brandy cocktail?"
Policemen are not over bashful, and No. 46 smiled anew as he replied.
"Just wait a few minutes, and I'll show you. I must stop that con--"
The last syllable was lost to the stranger as 46 dashed off to wave his
club before the eyes of an express-man, who was occupying too much space
on the wrong side of the street. In a moment he was back again, and, as
he approached, the stranger said:
"I'm a new-comer in the city, and want to see things. I take a sort of
interest in the doings of the police, and in detectives especially. I'd
like to have you point me out some of these chaps, officer. Oh, about
that brandy cock-tail; you'll join me, I hope?"
No. 46 consulted his watch.
"I'll join you, sir. Yes sir; in ten minutes, if you'll wait. There's a
capital place right here handy. And if you want to see _detectives_,
just you stand here with me a while. Vernet and Stanhope went down to
breakfast half an hour ago."
"Vernet and Stanhope?"
"The Stars of the force, sir; a perfect matched team. Splendid fellows,
too. They always spend their mornings at the office, when not 'on the
lay.' They've been back in the city four or five days; hard workers,
those boys."
"Young men, I suppose?"
"Well, yes, they're young, but you can't fool them much. A little under
thirty, I should call Vernet; Stanhope is the younger of the two."
"Americans?"
"Stanhope is, an out-and-outer. Vernet's got some French in him."
"Um, yes; well, I'd like to take a look at them, after we refresh
ourselves."
"They won't be back for a good half hour; there's no fear of missing
them."
Half an hour, and a brandy cock-tail, makes some men firm friends. When
that period of time had elapsed, No. 46, more affable than ever, and the
tall stranger, looking quite at his ease, stood again near the entrance
to the office of the City Detective Agency.
Two men were coming down the street, walking and talking with the air of
men on good terms with themselves and each other.
Both were young, well dressed, well-looking; but a more marked contrast
never was seen.
One, the taller of the two, was dark and decidedly handsome, with black
waving hair, dusky eyes, that were by turns solemn, tender, severe, and
pathetic; "faultily faultless" features, that wore an habitual look of
gravity and meditation; an erect, graceful carriage, and a demeanor
dignified and somewhat reserved. Slow of speech and punctillious in the
use of words, he was a man of tact and discretion; a man fitted to lead,
and capable of ruling in stormy times. At first sight, people pronounced
him "a handsome fellow;" after long acquaintance, they named him "a
perfect gentleman."
His companion was not quite so tall, of medium height, in fact, but
muscular and well built. He walked with a springy, careless stride,
carrying his head erect, and keeping his observant, twinkling, laughing
brown eyes constantly employed noting everything around and about him,
but noting all with an expression of careless unconcern that seemed to
say, "all this is nothing to me, why should it be?" His hair, brown,
soft, and silky, was cropped close to his head, displaying thus a well
developed crown, and brow broad, high and full. The nose was too
prominent for beauty, but the mouth and chin were magnificent features,
of which a physiognomist would say: Here are courage and tenderness,
firmness and loyalty. He was easy of manner--"off-hand," would better
express it; careless, and sometimes brusque in speech. At first sight
one would call him decidedly plain; after a time spent in his society
you voted him "a good looking fellow," and "a queer fish." And those who
had thoroughly tested the quality of his friendship, vowed him a man to
trust and to "tie to."
"Here they come," whispered No. 46; "those two fellows in grey."
"Which is which?"
"To be sure. The taller is Van Vernet; the other Dick Stanhope."
[Illustration: "Here they come," whispered No. 46; "those two fellows in
grey."--page 26.]
As they approached, Van Vernet touched his hat with a glance of
courteous recognition. But Richard Stanhope merely nodded, with a
careless, "how are you, Charlie?" And neither noted the eager,
scrutinizing glance bent upon them, as they passed the grey-bearded
stranger and ran lightly up the stairs. "You're wanted in the Chief's
office, Mr. Vernet," said the office boy as they entered; "And you too,
I think, Mr. Stanhope."
"Not both at once, stupid?"
"Um, ah; of course not. Now look here, Mr. Dick--"
And Stanhope and the office boy promptly fell into pugilistic attitudes,
the former saying, with a gay laugh:
"You first, Van, if the old man won't let us 'hunt in couples.'"
With the shadow of a smile upon his face, Van Vernet turned his back
upon the two belligerents and entered the inner office.
"Ah, Vernet, good morning," said his affable chieftain. "Are you ready
for a bit of business?"
"Certainly, sir."
"I don't think it will be anything very deep, but the young fellow
insisted upon having one of my best men; one who could be courteous,
discreet, and a gentleman."
Van Vernet, who had remained standing, hat in hand, before his chief,
bowed deferentially, and continued silent.
"There are no instructions," continued the Chief. "You are to go to this
address--it's a very aristocratic locality--and act under the
gentleman's orders. He wants to deal with you direct; the case is more
delicate than difficult, I fancy. I am only interested in the success or
failure of your work."
Taking the card from his outstretched hand, Vernet read the address.
"A. WARBURTON.
No. 31 B---- Place."
"When shall I wait upon Mr. Warburton?"
"At once. Your entire time is at his disposal until the case is
finished; then report to me."
Vernet bowed again, turned to go, hesitated, turned back, and said:
"And the Raid?"
"Oh, that--I shall give Stanhope charge of that affair. Of course he
would like your assistance, but he knows the ground, and I think will
make the haul. However, if you are not occupied to-morrow night, you
might join them here."
"Thank you. I will do so if possible," turning again to go.
"Send Stanhope in, Vernet. I must settle this business about the Raid."
Opening the door softly, and closing it gently after him, Vernet
approached his comrade, and laid a light hand upon his arm.
"Richard, you are wanted."
"All right; are you off, Van?"
"Yes;" putting his hat upon his head.
"On a lay?"
"Yes."
"Wish you good luck, old man; tra la."
And Dick Stanhope bounced into the presence of his Chief with
considerable noise and scant ceremony.
Number 46, who, with the stranger beside him, was slowly pacing his
beat, lifted his eyes as Vernet emerged from the stairway.
"There comes Vernet, and alone. I'll bet something he's off on a case,"
he said.
"Looks like it."
"He looks more serious than usual; wonder if he's got to work it without
Stanhope."
"Do they always pull together?"
"Not always; but they've done their biggest work together. When there's
a very knotty case, it's given to Vernet _and_ Stanhope; and they seldom
fail."
"Which acts as leader and is the best man of the two?"
"Well, sir, that's a conundrum that no man can guess, not even the
Chief. And I don't believe any body ever will know, unless they fall
out, and set up an opposition to each other. As for who leads, they both
pull together; there's no leader. I tell you what I don't want to see
two such splendid fellows fall out; they've worked in double harness a
good while. But if the Chief up there wants to see what detectives _can_
do, let him put those two fellows on opposite sides of a case; then he'd
see a war of wits that would beat horse-racing."
"Um!" said the stranger, consulting an English repeater, "it's time for
me to move on. Is this your regular beat, my friend? Ah! then we may
meet again. Good morning, sir."
"That's a queer jockey," muttered No. 46. "When he first came up, I made
sure he was looking for the Agency--looking just for curiosity, I
reckon."
And the stranger, as he strolled down the street, communed thus with
himself:
"So these two star detectives have never been rivals yet. The Chief has
never been anxious to see what detectives _can_ do, I suppose. This
looks like _my_ opportunity. Messrs. Vernet and Stanhope, _you shall
have a chance to try your skill against each other_, and upon a
desperate case: and the wit that wins need never work another."
CHAPTER II.
ODDLY EMPLOYED.
While the stranger was thus communing with himself, and while Van Vernet
was striding toward that fashionable quarter of the city which contained
the splendid Warburton mansion, Richard Stanhope, perched upon one
corner of a baize covered table, his hands clasped about one knee, his
hat pushed far back upon his head, his whole air that of a man in the
presence of a familiar spirit, and perfectly at his ease, was saying to
his Chief:
"So you want me to put this business through _alone_? I don't half like
it."
"You are equal to it, Dick."
"I know that," with a proud curve of the firm lips, "but I'm sure Van
expected to be in this thing, and--"
"Vernet has another case in hand. I have given him all his time until it
is finished, with the privilege of joining you here and assisting in the
Raid to-morrow night, if he can do so without interfering with his
other duties. You seem to fear to offend Vernet, Dick?"
"I _fear_ no one, sir. But Van and I have pulled well together, and
divided the honors equally. This Raid, if it succeeds, will be a big
thing for the man, or men, engineering it. I know that Van has counted
upon at least a share of the glory. I hate to see him lose the chance
for it."
"You are a generous friend, Dick, and Van may rejoice that you _are_ his
friend instead of his rival. Now, leaving friendship to take care of
itself, do you feel that the _success_ of the Raid depends upon Vernet's
assistance?"
"Perdition! _No._"
"You know the ground?"
"Every inch of it!"
"And Van does not."
"One pilot is enough."
"You know the people?"
"Well, rather!"
"Do you doubt the success of the undertaking?"
"No, sir. I see only one chance for failure."
"And that?"
"I have made this Raid a study. If anything occurs to prevent my leading
the expedition, and you put another man at the head, it will fail."
"Even if it be Vernet?"
"Even Vernet. Satan himself would fail in those alleys, unless he knew
the ground."
"And yet you would share your honors with Vernet for friendship's sake?
Dick, you are a queer fish! But why do you suggest a possibility of your
absence?"
"Because," sliding off the table and pulling his hat low over his eyes,
"The Raid is thirty-six hours distant, and one never knows what may
happen in thirty-six hours. Is there any thing else, sir?"
"Yes; I've a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves
dens in _this_; it's for to-morrow evening, too."
Stanhope resumed his former position upon the corner of the table,
pushed back his hat, and turned an attentive face to his Chief.
"Your Raid will not move until a little after midnight; this other
business is for ten o'clock. You can be at liberty by eleven. You know
Follingsbee, the lawyer?"
"By reputation; yes. Is _he_ in the mystery?"
"He's negotiating for a client; a lady."
"A lady!" with a stare of dismay. "Why didn't you turn her over to Van;
you know he is just the man to deal with women, and I--"
"You are afraid of a petticoat! I know; and I might have chosen Vernet,
if the choice had been given me. But the lawyer asked for _you_."
Stanhope groaned dismally.
"Besides, it's best for you; you are better than Vernet at a feminine
make up."
"A feminine make up!"
"Yes. Here is the business: Mr. Follingsbee desires your services for a
lady client; he took care to impress upon me that she _was_ a lady in
every sense of the word. This lady had desired the services of a
detective, and he had recommended you."
"Why I?"
"Never mind why; you are sufficiently vain at present, You have nothing
on hand after the Raid, so I promised you to Follingsbee; he is an old
friend of mine. To-morrow evening, at ten o'clock, you are to drive to
Mr. Follingsbee's residence in masquerade costume."
"Good Lord!"
"In a feminine disguise of some sort. Mr. Follingsbee, also in costume,
will join you, and together you will attend an up-town masquerade, you
personating Mrs. Follingsbee, who will remain at home."
"Phew! I'm getting interested."
"At the masquerade you will meet your client, who will be introduced by
Follingsbee. Now about your disguise: he wants to know your costume
beforehand, in order to avoid any mistakes."
"Let me think," said Stanhope, musingly. "What's Mrs. Follingsbee's
style?"
"A little above the medium. Follingsbee thinks, that, with considerable
drapery, you can make up to look sufficiently like her."
"Considerable drapery; then I have it. Last season, when Van and I were
abroad, we attended a masquerade in Vienna, and I wore the costume of
the Goddess of Liberty, in order to furnish a partner for Van. In hiring
the costume, I, of course, deposited the price of it, and the next day
we left the city so hurriedly that I had no opportunity to return it, so
I brought it home with me. It's a bang-up dress, and no one has seen it
on this side of the water, except Van. How will it do?"
"Capitally; then I will tell Follingsbee to look for the Goddess of
Liberty."
"All right, sir. You are sure I won't be detained later than eleven?"
"You have only to meet the lady, receive her instructions, and come
away."
"I hope I shall live through the ordeal," rising once more and shaking
himself like a water-spaniel, "but I'd rather face all the hosts of Rag
Alley."
And Richard Stanhope left the Agency to "overhaul" the innocent
masquerade costume that held, in its white and crimson folds, the fate
of its owner.
[Illustration: "Yes; I've a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind
alleys and thieves' dens in _this_"--page 33.]
* * * * *
Leaving him thus employed, let us follow the footsteps of Van Vernet,
and enter with him the stately portals of the home of the Warburtons.
Crossing a hall that is a marvel of antique richness, with its walls of
russet, old gold, and Venetian red tints; its big claw-footed tables;
its massive, open-faced clock, with huge weights a-swing below; its
statuettes and its bass-reliefs, we pass under a rich _portierie_, and
hear the liveried footman say, evidently having been instructed:
"This is Mr. Warburton's study, sir; I will take up your name."
Van Vernet gazes about him, marking the gorgeous richness of the room. A
study! There are massive book-cases filled with choicest lore; cabinets
containing all that is curious, antique, rare, beautiful, and costly;
there are plaques and bronzes; there is a mantle laden with costly
bric-a-brac; a grand old-fashioned fire-place and fender; there are
divans and easy chairs; rich draperies on wall and at windows, and all
in the rarest tints of olive, crimson, and bronze.
Van Vernet looks about him and says to himself:
"This is a room after my own heart. Mr. Warburton, of Warburton Place,
must be a sybarite, and should be a happy man. Ah, he is coming."
But it is not Mr. Warburton who enters. It is a colored valet, sleek,
smiling, obsequious, who bears in his hand a gilded salver, with a
letter upon it, and upon his arm a parcel wrapped in black silk.
"You are Mr. Vernet?" queries this personage, as if in doubt.
"Yes."
"Then this letter is for you."
And the valet bows low, and extends the salver, adding softly:
"I am Mr. Warburton's body servant."
Looking somewhat surprised, as well as annoyed, Van Vernet takes up the
letter, breaks the seal and reads:
SIR:
My business with you is of so delicate a nature that it is best,
for all concerned, to keep our identity a secret, for a time at
least. Your investigation involves the fair fame of a lady and
the honor of a stainless name.
Come to this house to-morrow night, in the costume which I shall
send for your use. The enclosed card will admit you. My valet
will show you the domino by which you will recognize me. This
will enable me to instruct you fully, and to point out to you the
persons in whom you are to take an interest. This letter you will
please destroy in the presence of my valet. A. W.
After reading this strange note, Van Vernet stands so long, silently
pondering, that the servant makes a restless movement. Then the
detective says, with a touch of imperiousness.
"Give me a match."
It is proffered him in silence, and in silence he turns to the grate,
applies the match to the letter, and lets it fall from his fingers to
the fire-place, where it lies a charred fragment that crumbles to ashes
at a touch.
The dark servant watches the proceeding in grave silence until Vernet
turns to him, saying:
"Now, the domino."
Then he rapidly takes from the sable wrapper a domino of black and
scarlet, and exhibits it to the detective, who examines it critically
for a moment and then says brusquely:
"That will do; tell your master that I will follow his instructions--_to
the letter_."
As the stately door swings shut after his exit, Van Vernet turns and
glances up at the name upon the door-plate, and, as he sets his foot
upon the pavement, he mutters:
"A. Warburton is my employer; A. Warburton is the name upon the door: I
see! My services are wanted by the master of this mansion: he asks to
deal with a _gentleman_, and--leaves him to negotiate with a colored
servant! There's a lady in the case, and 'an honorable name at stake;'
Ah! Mr. A. Warburton, the day may come when you will wear no domino in
my presence; when you will send no servant to negotiate with Van
Vernet!"
CHAPTER III.
THE EFFECT OF AN ADVERTISEMENT.
A rickety two-story frame building, in one of the worst quarters of the
city.
[Illustration: "He applies the match to the letter, and lets it fall
from his fingers to the fire-place."--page 38.]
It is black with age, and guiltless of paint, but a careful observer
would note that the door is newer than the dwelling, and that it is
remarkably solid, considering the tumble-down aspect of the structure it
guards. The windows of the lower story are also new and substantial,
such of them as serve for windows; but one would note that the two
immediately facing the street are boarded up, and so tightly that not
one ray of light can penetrate from without, nor shine from within.
The upper portion of the dwelling, however, has nothing of newness about
it. The windows are almost without glass, but they bristle with rags and
straw, while the dilapidated appearance of the roof indicates that this
floor is given over to the rats and the rain.
Entering at the stout front door, we find a large room, bare and
comfortless. There is a small stove, the most battered and rusty of its
kind; two rickety chairs, and a high wooden stool; a shelf that supports
a tin cup, a black bottle, and a tallow candle; a sturdy legged deal
table, and a scrap of rag carpet, carefully outspread in the middle of
the floor.
An open door, in one corner, discloses the way to the rat-haunted second
floor. There are some dirty bundles and a pile of rags just behind the
door; some pieces of rusty old iron are lying near a rear entrance, and
a dismal-looking old man is seated on a pallet in one corner.
This is what would be noted by the casual observer, and this is all. But
the old man and his dwelling are worthy of closer inspection.
He is small and lean, with narrow, stooping shoulders; a sallow, pinched
face, upon which rests, by turns, a fawning leer, which is intended,
doubtless, for the blandest of smiles, a look of craftiness and greed, a
scowl, or a sneer. His hair, which has been in past years of a decided
carrot color, is now plentifully streaked with gray, and evidently there
is little affinity between the stubby locks and a comb. He is dirty,
ragged, unshaven; and his age may be any where between fifty and
seventy.
At the sound of a knock upon the outer door, he sits erect upon his
pallet, a look of wild terror in his face: then, recovering himself, he
rises slowly and creeps softly toward the door. Wearing now his look of
cunning, he removes from a side panel a small pin, that is nicely fitted
and comes out noiselessly, and peeps through the aperture thus made.
Then, with an exclamation of annoyance, he replaces the pin and
hurriedly opens the door.
The woman who enters is a fitting mate for him, save that in height and
breadth, she is his superior; old and ugly, unkempt and dirty, with a
face expressive of quite as much of cunning and greed, and more of
boldness and resolution, than his possesses.
"It's you, is it?" says the man, testily. "What has brought you back?
and empty-handed I'll be bound."
The old woman crossed the floor, seated herself in the most reliable
chair, and turning her face toward her companion said, sharply:
"You're an old fool!"
Not at all discomposed by this familiar announcement, the man closed and
barred the door, and then approached the woman, who was taking from her
pocket a crumpled newspaper.
"What have you got there?"
"You wait," significantly, "and don't tell _me_ that I come
empty-handed."
"Ah! you don't mean--"
Again the look of terror crossed his face, and he left the sentence
unfinished.
"Old man, you _are_ a fool! Now, listen: Nance and I had got our bags
nearly filled, when I found this," striking the paper with her
forefinger. "It blew right under my feet, around a corner. It's the
morning paper."
"Well, well!"
"Oh, you'll hear it soon enough. It's the morning paper, and you know
_I_ always read the papers, when I can find 'em, although, since you
lost the few brains you was born with, you never look at one."
"Umph!"
"Well, I looked at this paper, and see what I found!"
She held the paper toward him, and pointed to a paragraph among the
advertisements.
WANTED. INFORMATION OF ANY SORT CONCERNING one Arthur Pearson,
who left the mining country with a child in his charge, twenty
years ago. Information concerning said child, Lea Ainsworth, or
any of her relatives. Compensation for any trouble or time.
Address,
O. E. MEARS, Atty,
Melbourne, Australia.
The paper fluttered from the man's nerveless fingers, but the woman
caught it as it fell.
"Oh, Lord!" he gasped, the drops of perspiration standing out upon his
brow, "oh, Lord! it has come at last."
"What has come, you old fool!"
"Everything; ruin! ruin!"
"We're a pretty looking pair to talk of _ruin_," giving a contemptuous
glance at her surroundings. "Stop looking so like a scared idiot, and
listen to me."
"Oh, I'm listening!" sinking down upon the pallet in a dismal huddle;
"go on."
[Illustration: "Oh, Lord!" he gasped; "oh, Lord, it has come at
last!"--page 42.]
The woman crossed over and sat down beside him.
"Now, look here; suppose the worst comes, how far away is it? How long
will it take to get a letter to Australia, and an answer or a journey
back?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Well, it'll take all the time _we_ want. But who is there to answer
that advertisement?"
"Oh, dear!"
"You miserable coward! _She_ wouldn't know what it meant if she saw it."
"No."
"Arthur Pearson--"
"Oh, _don't_!"
"Arthur Pearson has not been heard of in twenty years."
The old man shuddered, and drew a long sighing breath.
"Walter Parks, after all his big talk, never came back from England,"
she hurried on. "Menard is dead; and Joe Blakesley is in California. The
rest are dead, or scattered south and west. There are none of the train
to be found here, except--except the Krutzers; and who can identify
_them_ after twenty years?"
"I shall never feel safe again."
"Yes, you will. You always feel safe when the dollars jingle in your
pockets, although it's precious little good they bring you."
"But _her_ money is already gone."
"Her husband has a full purse."
"But how--"
"Oh, I see the way clear enough. It's only half the work of the other
job, and double the money."
"The money! Ah! how do you think to get it?"
"Honestly, this time; honestly, old man. It shall come to us _as a
reward_!"
Drawing nearer still to her hesitating partner, the woman began to
whisper rapidly, gesticulating fiercely now and then, while the old man
listened in amazement, admiration, doubt, and fear; asking eager
questions, and feeling his way cautiously toward conviction.
When the argument was ended, he said, slowly:
"I shall never feel safe until it's over, and we are away from this
place. When can you do--the job?"
"To-morrow night."
"To-morrow night!"
"Yes; it's the very time of times. To-morrow night it shall be."
"It's a big risk! We will have to bluff the detectives, old woman."
"A fig for the detectives! They will have a cold scent; besides--we have
dodged detectives before."
CHAPTER IV.
ENLISTED AGAINST EACH OTHER.
It is early in the evening of the day that has witnessed the events
recorded in the preceding chapters, and the Chief of the detectives is
sitting in his easiest office chair, listening attentively to the words
that fall from the lips of a tall, bronzed, gray-bearded man who sits
opposite him, talking fast and earnestly.
He has been thus talking, and the Chief thus listening, for more than an
hour, and the story is just reaching its conclusion when the stranger
says:
"There, sir, you have the entire case, so far as I know it. What I ask
is something unusual, but what I offer, in compensation, is something
unusual too."
"A queer case, I should say," returns the Chief, half to himself; "and a
difficult one. Twenty years ago a man was murdered--killed by a nail
driven into his skull. Detectives have hunted for the murderer, singly,
in twos and threes. English experts have crossed the ocean to unravel
the mystery and it remains a mystery still. And now, when the secret is
twenty years old, and the assassin dead and buried, perhaps, you come
and ask me for my two best men,--men who have worked together as
brothers--and ask me to set their skill _against each other_, in a
struggle, which, if it ends as you desire, will mean victory and fortune
for the one, defeat and loss of prestige for the other."
"There is no such thing as loss of prestige. A man may bow to a superior
and yet retain his own skill. Plainly, I have come to you as an
honorable man should. I wish to deal with these men through you, if
possible. But they are free agents. What you refuse to do for me, I must
do for myself; and I tell you plainly, that if money can purchase their
services, I will have Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope to work this
case."
"You are frank, sir! But I have observed that, in relating your story,
you have been careful to avoid giving either your own name or the name
of the murdered man."
"As I shall continue to do until I state the case to the two detectives,
_after_ they have enlisted in my service."
The Chief ponders for a time and then says:
"Now, hear my proposition: you are justified in believing that, if there
_is_ a bottom to this ancient mystery, Vernet and Stanhope, singly or
together, are the men to find it. That is my belief also. As for your
idea of putting them on their mettle, by offering so magnificent a
reward to the man who succeeds, _that_ is not bad--for you and the man
who wins. Vernet and Stanhope have, this very day, taken in hand two
cases,--working separately, understand. If you will wait in patience
until these cases are finished, you shall have the men from this
office,--if they will accept the case."
"Put my proposition before the two men at once. When I know that I shall
have their services, I can wait in patience until their duty of the
present is done."
"Then," said the Chief rising, "the question can soon be settled; Vernet
is in the outer office; Stanhope will soon be here. You will find the
evening papers upon that desk; try and entertain yourself while I put
your case before Vernet."
Ten minutes later, Van Vernet was standing before his Chief, listening
with bent head, compressed lip, and glowing cheek, to the story of the
man who was murdered twenty years before, and to the splendid proposal
of the tall stranger. When it was all told, and the Chief paused for a
reply, the young detective moved a pace nearer and said with decision:
"Tell him that I accept the proposition. A man can't afford to lose so
splendid a chance for friendship's sake. Besides," his eyes darkening
and his mouth twitching convulsively, "it's time for Dick and I to find
out _who is the better man_!"
Returning to the inner office, the Chief of the force found his strange
patron walking fiercely up and down the room, with a newspaper grasped
firmly in his hand, and on his countenance traces of agitation.
"Look!" he cried, approaching and forcing the paper upon the astonished
Chief; "see what a moment of waiting has brought me!"
And he pointed to a paragraph beginning:
WANTED. INFORMATION OF ANY SORT CONCERNING one Arthur Pearson,
etc. etc.
"An advertisement, I see;" said the Chief. "But I fail to understand why
it should thus excite you."
"A moment ago it was my intention to keep the identity of the murdered
man a secret. This," indicating the paper by a quick gesture, "changes
the face of affairs. After twenty years, some one inquires after Arthur
Pearson--"
"Then Arthur Pearson is--"
"The man who was murdered near the Marais des Cygnes!"
"And the child?"
"I never knew her name until now. No doubt it is the little girl that
was in Pearson's care."
"What became of the child?"
"I never knew."
"And how does this discovery affect your movements?"
"I will tell you; but, first, you saw Vernet?"
"Yes; and he accepts."
"Good! That notice was inserted either by some friend of Pearson's, or
by the child's father, John Ainsworth."
"What do you know of him?"
"Nothing; I never met him. But, as soon as you have seen Stanhope, and
I am sure that these two sharp fellows are prepared to hunt down poor
Pearson's assassins, I _will_ meet him, if the notice is his, for I am
going to Australia."
"Ah!"
"Yes; I can do no good here. To-morrow morning, business will take me
out of the city. When I return, in two days, let me have Stanhope's
answer."
When Richard Stanhope appeared at the office that night a little later
than usual, the story of Arthur Pearson and his mysterious death was
related for the third time that day, and the strange and munificent
offer of the stranger, for the second time rehearsed by the Chief.
"What do you think of it, my boy? Are you anxious to try for a fortune?"
"No, thank you."
It was said as coolly as if he were declining a bad cigar.
"Consider, Dick."
"There is no need. Van and I have pulled together too long to let a mere
matter of money come between us. _He_ would never accept such a
proposition."
The Chief bit his lip and remained silent.
"Or if he did," went on Stanhope, "he would not work against me. Tell
your patron that _with_ Van Vernet I will undertake the case. He may
make Van his chief, and I will gladly assist. _Without_ Van as my rival,
I will work it alone; but _against_ him, as his rival for honors and
lucre, _never_!"
The Chief slowly arose, and resting his hands upon the shoulders of the
younger man, looked in his face with fatherly pride.
"Dick, you're a splendid fellow, and a shrewd detective," he said, "but
you have a weakness. You study strangers, but you trust your friends
with absolute blindness. Van is ambitious."
"So am I."
"He loves money."
"A little too well, I admit."
"If he should accept this offer?"
"But he won't."
"If he _should_;" persisted the Chief.
"If such a thing were possible,--if, without a friendly consultation,
and a fair and square send off, he should take up the cudgel against me,
then--"
"Then, Dick?"
Richard Stanhope's eyes flashed, and his mouth set itself in firm lines.
"_Then_," he said, "I would measure my strength against his as a
detective; but always as a friend, and never to his injury!"
"And, Dick, if, in the thick of the strife, Van forgets his friendship
for you and becomes your enemy?"
"Then, as I am only human, I should be his enemy too. But that will not
happen."
"I hope not; I hope not, my boy. But--Van Vernet has already accepted
the stranger's proposition."
Stanhope leaped to his feet.
"What!" he cried, "has Van _agreed_ to work against me--without a word
to me--and so soon!"
His lips trembled now, and his eyes searched those of his Chief with the
eager, inquiring look of a grieved child.
"It is as I say, Stanhope."
[Illustration: "What, has Van _agreed_ to work against me--without a
word to me--and so soon!"--page 50.]
"Then," and he threw back his head and instantly resumed his usual
look of careless indifference, "tell your patron, whoever he may be,
that _I am his man_, for one year, or for twenty!"
CHAPTER V.
"STANHOPE'S FIRST TRICK."
Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had been brother detectives during the
entire term of their professional career.
Entering the Agency when mere striplings, they had at once formed a
friendship that had been strong and lasting. Their very differences of
disposition and habits made them the better fellow-workmen, and the
_role_ most difficult for one was sure to be found the easier part for
the other to play.
They had been a strong combination, and the Chief of the detectives
wasted some time in pondering the question: what would be the result,
when their skill and courage stood arrayed against each other?
Meantime, Richard Stanhope, wasting no thought upon the matter, hastened
from the presence of his Chief to his own quarters.
"It's my last night," he muttered, as he inserted his key in the lock,
"and I'll just take one more look at the slums. I don't want to lose one
bird from that flock."
Half an hour later, there sallied forth from the door where Stanhope had
entered, a roughly-dressed, swaggering, villainous-looking fellow, who
bore about with him the strongly defined odors of tobacco and bad
whiskey.
This individual, armed with a black liquor flask, two revolvers, a
blood-thirsty-looking dirk, a pair of brass knuckles, and a quantity of
plug tobacco, took his way through the streets, avoiding the more
popular and respectable thoroughfares, and gradually approaching that
portion of the city almost entirely given over to the worst of the
bad,--a network of short streets and narrow alleys, as intricate as the
maze, and as dangerous to the unwary as an African jungle.
But the man who now entered these dismal streets walked with the manner
of one familiar with their sights and sounds. Moving along with an air
of stolid indifference to what was before and about him, he arrived at a
rickety building, somewhat larger than those surrounding it, the
entrance to which was reached by going down, instead of up, a flight of
stone steps. This entrance was feebly illuminated by a lantern hung
against the doorway, and by a few stray gleams of light that shone out
from the rents in the ragged curtains.
Pushing open the door, our visitor found himself in a large room with
sanded floor, a counter or bar, and five or six tables, about which a
number of men were lounging,--some at cards, some drinking, and some
conversing in the queer jargon called thieves' slang, and which is as
Greek to the unenlightened.
The buzz of conversation almost ceased as the door opened, but was
immediately resumed when the new comer came forward toward the light.
"Is that you, Cull?" called the man behind the bar. "You've been keepin'
scarce of late."
The man addressed as "Cull" laughed discordantly.
"I've been visitin' in the country," he returned, with a knowing wink.
"It's good for my health this time o' year. How's business? You've got
the hull deck on hand, I should say."
"You better say! Things is boomin'; nearly all of the old uns are in."
"Well, spread out the drinks, Pap, I'm tolerably flush. Boys, come up,
and if I don't know any of ye we'll be interduced."
Almost instantly a dozen men were flocking about the bar, some eager to
grasp the hand of the liberal last arrival, and others paying their
undivided attention to the bar keeper's cheerful command:
"Nominate yer dose, gentlemen."
While the party, glasses in hand, were putting themselves _en rapport_,
the door again opened, and now the hush that fell upon the assembled
"gentlemen" was deeper and more lasting.
Evidently, the person who entered was a stranger to all in the Thieves'
Tavern, for such the building was.
He was a young man, with a countenance half fierce, half desperate,
wholly depraved. He was haggard, dirty, and ragged, having the look and
the gait of a man who has travelled far and is footsore and weary. As he
approached the group about the bar it was also evident that he was half
intoxicated.
"Good evenin', sirs," he said with surly indifference. Then to the man
behind the bar: "Mix us a cocktail, old Top, and strong."
While the bar keeper was deftly shaking up the desired drink, the men
before the counter drew further away from the stranger, and some of them
began a whispered conversation.
The last arrival eyed them with a sneer of contempt, and said to the bar
keeper, as he gulped down his drink: "Your coves act like scared kites.
Probably they ain't used to good society."
"See here, my friend," spoke a blustering fellow, advancing toward him,
"you made a little mistake. This 'ere ain't a tramps' lodgin' house."
"Ain't it?" queried the stranger; "then what the Moses are _you_ doin'
here?"
"You'll swallow _that_, my hearty!"
"When?"
The stranger threw himself into an attitude of defence and glared
defiance at his opponent.
"Wax him, Charley!"
"Let's fire him out!"
"Hold on gentlemen; fair play!"
"I'll give you one more chance," said the blusterer. "Ask my pardon and
then mizzle instantly, or I'll have ye cut up in sections as sure as my
name's Rummey Joe."
The half intoxicated man was no coward. Evidently he was ripe for a
quarrel.
"I intend to stop here!" he cried, bringing his fist down upon the
counter with a force that made it creak. "I'm goin' to stay right here
till the old Nick comes to fetch me. And I'm goin' ter send your teeth
down your big throat in three minutes."
There was a chorus of exclamations, a drawing of weapons, and a forward
rush. Then sudden silence.
The man who had lately ordered drinks for the crowd, was standing
between the combatants, one hand upon the breast of the last comer, the
other grasping a pistol levelled just under the nose of Rummey Joe.
"Drop yer fist, boy! Put up that knife, Joe! Let's understand each
other."
Then addressing the stranger, but keeping an eye upon Rummey Joe, he
said:
"See here, my hearty, you don't quite take in the siteration. This is a
sort of club house, not open to the general public. If you want to hang
out here, you must show your credentials."
The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, without so much as a glance
at his antagonist, said:
"_Your_ racket is fair enough. I know where I am, and ye've all got a
right to see my colors. I'll show ye my hand, and then"--with a baleful
glare at Rummey Joe--"I'll settle with _that_ blackguard."
Advancing to one of the tables, he deliberately lifted his foot and,
resting it upon the table top, rolled up the leg of his trousers, and
pulled down a dirty stocking over his low shoe.
"There's my passport, gentlemen."
They crowded about him and gazed upon the naked ankle, that bore the
imprint of a broad band, sure indication that the limb had recently been
decorated with a ball and chain.
"And now," said the ex-convict, turning fiercely, "I'll teach you the
kind of a tramp I am, Mr. Rummey Joe!"
Before a hand or voice could be raised to prevent it, the two men had
grappled, and were struggling fiercely for the mastery.
"Give them a show, boys!" some one said.
[Illustration: "There's my passport, gentlemen."--page 56.]
The crowd drew back and watched the combat; watched with unconcern until
they saw their comrade, Rummey Joe, weakening in the grasp of his
antagonist; until knives flashed in the hand of each, and fierce blows
were struck on both sides. Then, when Rummey Joe, uttering a shriek of
pain, went down underneath the knife of the victor, there was a roar and
a rush, and the man who had conquered their favorite was borne down by
half a dozen strong arms, menaced by as many sharp, glittering knives.
But again the scene shifted.
An agile form was bounding about among them; blows fell swift as rain;
there was a lull in the combat, and when the wildly struggling figures,
some scattered upon the floor, some thrown back upon each other,
recovered from their consternation, they saw that the convict had
struggled up upon one elbow, while, directly astride of his prostrate
body, stood the man who had asked for his credentials, fierce contempt
in his face, and, in either hand, a heavy six shooter.
"Don't pull, boys, I've got the drop on ye! Cowards, to tackle a single
man, six of ye!"
"By Heavens, he's killed Rummey!"
"No matter; it was a fair fight, and Rummey at the bottom of the blame."
"All the same he'll never kill a pal of ours, and live to tell it! Stand
off, Cully Devens!"
"_No, sir!_ I am going to take this wounded man out of this without
another scratch, if I have to send every mother's son of you to
perdition."
His voice rang out clear and commanding. In the might of his wrath, he
had forgotten the language of Cully Devens and spoken as a man to
cowards.
The effect was electrical.
From among the men standing at bay, one sprang forward, crying:
"Boys, here's a traitor amongst us! Who are ye, ye sneak, that has
played yerself fer Cully Devens?"
[Illustration: "Don't pull, boys, I've got the drop on ye!"--page 58.]
The lithe body bent slightly forward, a low laugh crossed the lips of
the bogus Cully, the brown eyes lighted up, and flashed in the eyes of
the men arrayed against him. Then came the answer, coolly, as if the
announcement were scarcely worth making:
"Richard Stanhope is my name, and I've got a trump here for every trick
you can show me. Step up, boys, don't be bashful!"
CHAPTER VI.
STANHOPE'S HUMANITY.
"Richard Stanhope is my name, and I've got a trump here for every trick
you can show me. Step up, boys, don't be bashful!"
Momentous silence followed this announcement, while the _habitues_ of
the Thieves' Tavern glanced into each others' faces in consternation.
An ordinary meddler, however much his courage and skill, would have met
with summary chastisement; but _Dick Stanhope_!
Not a man among them but knew the result of an attack upon him. Bullets
swift and sure, in the brains or hearts of some; certain vengeance,
sooner or later, upon all.
To avoid, on all possible occasions, an open encounter with an officer
of the law, is the natural instinct of the crook. Besides, Stanhope was
never off his guard; his presence, alone among them, was sure
indication that _they_ were in more danger than he.
So reasoned the astonished scoundrels, instantly, instinctively.
"Look here, boys," Stanhope's cool voice broke in upon their silence;
"I'm here on a little private business which need not concern you,
unless you make me trouble. This man," nodding down at the prostrate
ex-convict, "is my game. I'm going to take him out of this, and if you
raise a hand to prevent it, or take a step to follow me, you'll find
yourselves detained for a long stretch."
He threw back his head and gave a long, low whistle.
"Hear that, my good sirs. That's a note of preparation. One more such
will bring you into close quarters. If you are not back at those tables,
every man of you, inside of two minutes, I'll give the second call."
Some moved with agility, some reluctantly, some sullenly; but they all
obeyed him.
"Now, Pap, come out and help me lift this fellow. Are you badly hurt, my
man?"
The wounded man groaned and permitted them to lift him to his feet.
"He can walk, I think," went on Stanhope, in a brisk, business-like way.
"Lean on me, my lad." Then, turning to the bar keeper and thrusting some
money into his hand: "Give these fellows another round of drinks, Pap.
Boys, enjoy yourselves; ta-ta."
And without once glancing back at them he half led, half supported, the
wounded man out from the bar-room, up the dirty stone steps, and into
the dirtier street.
"Boys," said the bar keeper as he distributed the drinks at Stanhope's
expense, "you done a sensible thing when you let up on Dick Stanhope.
He's got the alley lined with peelers and don't you forget it."
For a little way Stanhope led his man in silence. Then the rescued
ex-convict made a sudden convulsive movement, gathered himself for a
mighty effort, broke from the supporting grasp of the detective, and
fled away down the dark street.
Down one block and half across the next he ran manfully. Then he reeled,
staggered wildly from side to side, threw up his arms, and fell heavily
upon his face.
"I knew you'd bring yourself down," said Stanhope, coming up behind him.
"You should not treat a man as an enemy, sir, until he's proven himself
such."
He lifted the prostrate man, turning him easily, and rested the fallen
head upon his knee.
"Can you swallow a little?" pressing a flask of brandy to the lips of
the ex-convict.
The man gasped and feebly swallowed a little of the liquor.
"There," laying down the flask, "are your wounds bleeding?"
The wounded man groaned, and then whispered feebly:
"I'm done for--I think--are you--an officer?"
"Yes."
"Af--after me?"
"No."
"Do--do you--know--"
"Do I know who you are? Not exactly, but I take you to be one of the
convicts who broke jail last week."
The man made a convulsive movement, and then, battling for breath as he
spoke, wailed out:
"Listen--you want to take me back to prison--there is a reward--of
course. If you only knew--when I was a boy--on the western
prairies--free, free. Then here in the city--driven to beg--to steal
to--. Oh! _don't_ take me back to die in prison! You don't know the
horror of it!"
A look of pitying tenderness lighted the face bent above the dying man.
"Poor fellow!" said Stanhope softly. "I am an officer of the law, but I
am also human. If you recover, I must do my duty: if you must die, you
shall not die in prison."
"I shall die," said the man, in a hoarse whisper; "I know I shall
die--die."
His head pressed more heavily against Stanhope's knee; he seemed a
heavier weight upon his arm. Bending still lower, the detective listened
for his breathing, passed his hand over the limp fingers and clammy
face. Then he gathered the form, that was more than his own weight, in
his muscular arms, and bore it away through the darkness, muttering, as
he went:
"That _was_ a splendid stand-off! What would those fellows say, if they
knew that Dick Stanhope, single-handed and alone, had walked their
alleys in safety, and bluffed their entire gang!"
CHAPTER VII.
HOW A MASQUERADE BEGAN.
A crush of carriages about a stately doorway; a flitting of gorgeous,
mysterious, grotesque and dainty figures through the broad, open portal;
a glow of lights; a gleaming of vivid color; a glory of rich blossoms; a
crash of music; a bubble of joyous voices; beauty, hilarity, luxury
everywhere.
It is the night of the great Warburton masquerade, the event of events
in the social world. Archibald Warburton, the invalid millionaire, has
opened his splendid doors, for the pleasure of his young and lovely
wife, to receive the friendly five hundred who adore her, and have
crowned her queen of society.
He will neither receive, nor mingle with his wife's guests; he is too
much an invalid, too confirmed a recluse for that. But his brother, Alan
Warburton, younger by ten years, handsomer by all that constitutes manly
beauty, will play the host in his stead--and do it royally, too, for
Alan is a man of the world, a man of society, a refined, talented,
aristocratic young man of leisure. Quite a Lion as well, for he has but
recently returned from an extended European tour and is the "newest man"
in town. And society dearly loves that which is new, especially when,
with the newness, there is combined manly beauty--and wealth.
With such a host as handsome Alan Warburton, such a hostess as his
brother's beautiful wife, and such an assistant as her sparkling,
piquant little companion, Winnifred French, who could predict for this
masquerade anything but the most joyous ending, the most pronounced
success? Ah! our social riddles are hard to read.
Into this scene of revelry, while it is yet early, before the music has
reached its wildest strains, and the dancing its giddiest whirl, comes a
smart servant girl, leading by the hand a child of four or five summers,
a dainty fair-haired creature. In her fairy costume of white satin with
its silvery frost work and gleaming pearls; with her gossamer wings and
glittering aureole of spun gold; her dainty wand and childish grace,
she is the loveliest sight in the midst of all that loveliness, for no
disfiguring mask hides the beautiful, eager face that gazes down the
long vista of decorated drawing rooms, library, music room, boudoir, in
wondering, half frightened expectation.
"They're beginning to dance down there," says the maid, drawing the
child toward a lofty archway, through which they can watch the swiftly
whirling figures of the dancers. "Why, _do_ come along, Miss Daisy; one
would think your Pa's house was full of bears and wild-cats, to see your
actions."
But the child draws back and grasps fearfully at the skirts of her
attendant.
"What makes 'em look so queer, Millie? Isn't you afraid?"
"Why no, Miss Daisy. There's nothing to be afraid of. See; all these
funny-looking people are your papa's friends, and your new mamma's, and
your uncle Alan's. Look, now,"--drawing the reluctant child
forward,--"just look at them! There goes a--a _Turk_, I guess, and--"
"What makes they all have black things on their faces, Millie?"
"Why, child, that's the fun of it all. If it wasn't for them masks
everybody would know everybody else, and there wouldn't be no
masquerade."
"No what?"
"No _masquerade_, child. Now look at that; there goes a pope, or a
cardinal; and there, oh my! that must be a Gipsy--or an Injun."
"A Gipsy or an Indian; well done, Millie, ha ha ha!"
At the sound of these words they turn swiftly. A tall masker, in a black
and scarlet domino, is standing just behind them, and little Daisy
utters one frightened cry and buries her face in Millie's drapery.
"Why, Daisy;" laughs the masker; "little Daisy, are you frightened?
Come, this will never do."
With a quick gesture he flings off the domino and removes the mask from
his face, thus revealing a picturesque sailor's costume, and a handsome
face that bears, upon one cheek, the representation of a tattooed
anchor.
While he is thus transforming himself, the outer door opens and admits a
figure clad in soft flowing robes of scarlet and blue and white, with a
mantle of stars about the stately shoulders, and the cap of Liberty upon
the well-poised head. The entrance of the Goddess of Liberty is
unnoticed by the group about the archway, and, after a swift glance at
them, that august lady glides behind a screen which stands invitingly
near the door, and, sinking upon a divan in the corner, seems intent
upon the classic arrangement of her white and crimson draperies.
"Now look," says Alan Warburton, flinging the discarded domino upon a
chair; "look, Daisy, darling. Why, pet, you were afraid of your own
uncle Alan."
The little one peers at him from behind Millie's skirts and then comes
slowly forward.
"Why, uncle Alan, how funny you look, and--your face is dirty!"
"Oh! Daisy," taking her up in his arms and smiling into her eyes; "you
are a sadly uncultivated young person. My face is tattooed, for 'I'm a
sailor bold.'"
[Illustration: "See all those funny-looking people are your papa's
friends."--page 65]
While uncle and niece are thus engaged in playful talk, and Millie is
intently watching the dancers, they are again approached; this time by
two ladies,--one in the flowing, glittering, gorgeous robes of Sunlight,
the other in a dainty Carmen costume of scarlet and black and gold. Both
ladies are masked, and, as they enter from an alcove in the rear of
the room, they, too, approach unperceived. Seeing the group about the
archway, one of them makes a signal of silence. They stop, and standing
close together, wait.
"It just occurs to me, Millie," says Alan Warburton, turning suddenly to
the maid; "it just occurs to me to inquire how you came in charge of
Miss Daisy here. Where is Miss Daisy's maid?"
The girl throws back her head, with a gesture that causes every ribbon
upon her cap to flutter, as she replies, with a look of defiance and an
indignant sniff:
"_Mrs._ Warburton put Miss Daisy in my care, sir, and I don't know
_where_ Miss Daisy's maid may be."
"Umph! well it seems to me that--" He stops and looks at the child.
"That I ain't the properest person to look after Miss Daisy, I 'spose
you mean--"
"Millie, you are growing impertinent."
"Because I'm a poor girl that the _mistress_ of this house took in out
of kindness--"
"Millie; _will_ you stop!" and he puts little Daisy down with a gesture
of impatience.
"I'm trying to do my duty," goes on the irate damsel; "and Mrs.
Warburton, _my_ mistress, has given me my orders, sir, _consequently_--"
"Oh! if Mrs. Warburton has issued such judicious orders," and he takes
up his mask and domino, "I retire from the field."
"It's time to stop them, Winnie," says the lady in the garments of
Sunlight, taking off her mask hastily. "Alan never could get on with a
raw servant. I see war in Millie's eyes."
Then she comes forward, mask in hand, and followed by the laughing
Carmen.
"Alan, you are in difficulty, I see," laughing, in spite of her attempt
at gravity. "Millie, I fear, is not quite up to your standard of silent
perfection."
"May I ask, Mrs. Warburton, if she is your ideal of a companion for this
child?"
The tone is faintly tinged with scorn and sternness, and Leslie
Warburton's eyes cease to smile as she replies, with dignity:
"She is my servant, Mr. Warburton. We will not discuss her merits in her
presence. I will relieve you of any further trouble on her account."
"Where, may I ask, is Daisy's own maid?"
"In her room, with a headache that unfits her for duty. Come here,
Daisy."
Up to this moment Alan Warburton has kept the hand of the child clasped
in his own. He now releases it with evident reluctance, and the little
fairy bounds toward her stepmother.
"Mamma, how lovely you look!" reaching up her arms to caress the head
that bends toward her. "Mamma, take me with you where the music is."
"Have you been to Papa's room, Daisy? You know we must not let him feel
lonely to-night."
"Exceeding thoughtfulness," mutters Alan Warburton to himself, as he
turns to resume his domino. Then aloud, to his sister-in-law, he says:
"I have just visited my brother's room, Mrs. Warburton; he wished to see
you for a moment, I believe. Daisy, will you come with me?"
He extends his hand to the child, who gives a willful toss of the head
as she replies, clinging closer to her stepmother the while:
"No; I going to stay with my new mamma."
As Alan Warburton turns away, with a shade of annoyance upon his face,
he meets the mirthful eyes of Carmen, and is greeted by a saucy sally.
"What a bear you can be, Alan, when you try your hand at domestic
discipline. Put on your domino and your dignity once more. You look like
a school boy who has just been whipped."
"Ah, Winnie," he says seriously, coming close to her side and seeking to
look into the blue, mocking eyes, "no need for me to see _your_ face,
your sweet voice and your saucy words both betray you."
"Just as your bad temper has betrayed you! It's a pity you can't
appreciate Millie, sir; but then your sense of the ridiculous is
shockingly deficient. There goes a waltz," starting forward hastily.
"It's my waltz; wait, Winnie."
But the laughing girl is half way down the long drawing-room, and he
hurries after, replacing his mask and pulling on his domino as he goes.
Then Leslie Warburton, with a sigh upon her lips, draws the child again
toward her and says:
"You may wait here, Millie; I will take care of Daisy for a short time.
And, Millie, remember in future when Mr. Warburton addresses you, that
you are to answer him respectfully. Come, darling."
She turns toward the entrance, the child's hand clasped tightly in her
own, and there, directly before her, stands a figure which she has
longed, yet dreaded, to meet--the Goddess of Liberty.
With a gasp of surprise, and a heart throbbing with agitation, Leslie
Warburton hurriedly replaces her mask and turns to Millie.
"Millie, on second thought, you may take Daisy to her papa's room, and
tell him I will be there soon. Daisy, darling, go with Millie."
"But, Mamma,--"
"There, there, dear, go to papa now; mamma will come."
With many a reluctant, backward glance, Daisy suffers herself to be led
away, and then the Goddess of Liberty advances and bows before the lady
of the mansion.
"I am not mistaken," whispers that lady, glancing about her as if
fearing an eavesdropper; "you are--"
"First," interrupts a mellow voice from behind the starry mask, "are
_you_ Mrs. Warburton?"
"Yes."
"Then I am Richard Stanhope."
CHAPTER VIII.
VERNET "CALLS A TURN."
Leslie Warburton had replaced her mask, but the face she concealed was
engraven upon the memory of her _vis-a-vis_.
A pure pale face, with a firm chin; a rare red mouth, proud yet
sensitive; a pair of brown tender eyes, with a touch of sadness in their
depths; and a broad low brow, over which clustered thick waves of sunny
auburn. She is slender and graceful, carrying her head proudly, and with
inherent self-poise in gait and manner.
She glances about her once more, and then says, drawing still nearer the
disguised detective:
"I have been looking for you, Mr. Stanhope, and we have met at a
fortunate moment. Nearly all the guests have arrived, and everybody is
dancing; we may hope for a few undisturbed moments now. You--you have no
reason for thinking yourself watched, or your identity suspected, I
hope?"
"None whatever, madam. Have _you_ any fears of that sort?"
"No; none that are well grounded; I dislike secrecy, and the necessity
for it; I suppose I am nervous. Mr. Stanhope," with sudden appeal in her
voice, "how much do you know concerning me, and my present business with
you?"
"Very little. During my drive hither with Mr. Follingsbee, he told me
something like this: He esteemed you very highly; he had known you for
years; you desired the services of a detective; he had named me as
available, and been authorized by you to secure my services. He said
that he knew very little concerning the nature of your business with me,
but believed that all that you did would be done wisely, discreetly, and
from the best of motives. He pointed you out to me when we entered the
house. That is all, madam."
"Thank you. Mr. Follingsbee is, or was, the tried friend, as well as
legal adviser, of my adopted father, Thomas Uliman, and I know him to be
trustworthy. When he spoke of you, Mr. Stanhope, he knew that I desired,
not only a skillful detective, but a true-hearted man; one who would
hold a promise sacred, who would go no further than is required in the
matter in hand, and who would respect an unhappy woman's secret--should
it become known to him."
Her voice died in her throat, and Stanhope rustled his garments
uneasily. Then she rallied and went on bravely:
"Mr. Follingsbee assured me that you were all I could desire."
"Mr. Follingsbee does me an honor which I appreciate."
"And so, Mr. Stanhope, I am about to trust you. Let us sit here, where
we shall be unobserved, and tolerably secure from interruption."
She turns toward the divan behind the screen and seats herself thereon,
brushing aside her glittering drapery to afford the disguised detective
a place beside her.
He hesitates a moment, then takes the proffered seat and says, almost
brusquely:
"Madam, give me my instructions as rapidly as possible; the very walls
have eyes sometimes, and--I must be away from here before midnight."
"My instructions will be brief. I will state my case, and then answer
any questions you find it necessary to ask."
"I shall ask no needless questions, madam."
"Then listen." She nerves herself for a brave effort, and hurries on,
her voice somewhat agitated in spite of herself. "For three months past
I have been conscious that I am watched, followed, spied upon. I have
been much annoyed by this _espionage_. I never drive or walk alone,
without feeling that my shadow is not far away. I begin to fear to trust
my servants, and to realize that I have an enemy. Mr. Stanhope, I want
you to find out who my enemy is."
Behind his starry mask, her listener smiled at this woman-like statement
of the case. Then he said, tersely:
"You say that you are being spied upon. How do you know this?"
"At first by intuition, I think; a certain vague, uneasy consciousness
of a strange, inharmonious presence near me. Being thus put on my guard
and roused to watchfulness, I have contrived to see, on various
occasions, the same figure dogging my steps."
"Um! Did you know this figure?"
"No; it was strange to me, but always the same."
"Then your spy is a blunderer. Let us try and sift this matter: A lady
may be shadowed for numerous reasons; do you know why you are watched?"
"N--no," hesitatingly.
"So," thought the detective, "she is not quite frank, with me." Then
aloud: "Do you suspect any one?"
"No."
"Madam, I must ask some personal questions. Please answer them frankly
and truly, or not at all, and be sure that every question is necessary,
every answer important."
The lady bows her head, and he proceeds:
"First, then, have you a secret?"
She starts, turns her head away, and is silent.
The detective notes the movement, smiles again, and goes on:
"Let us advance a step; you _have_ a secret."
"Why--do you--say that?"
"Because you have yourself told me as much. We never feel that uneasy
sense of _espionage_, so well described by you, madam, until we have
something to conceal--the man who carries no purse, fears no robber. You
have a secret. This has made you watchful, and, being watchful, you
discover that you have--what? An enemy, or only a tormentor?"
"Both, perhaps," she says sadly.
"My task, then, is to find this enemy. Mrs. Warburton, I shall not touch
your secret; at the same time I warn you in this search it is likely to
discover itself to me without my seeking. Rest assured that I shall
respect it. First, then, you have a secret. Second, you have an enemy.
Mrs. Warburton, I should ask fewer questions if I could see your face."
Springing up suddenly, she tears off her mask, and standing before him
says with proud fierceness:
"And why may you not see my face! There is no shame for my mask to
conceal! I _have_ a secret, true; but it is not of _my_ making. It has
been forced upon me. I am not an _intriguante_: I am a persecuted woman.
I am not seeking it to conceal wrong doing, but to protect myself from
those that wrong me."
The words that begin so proudly, end in a sob, and, covering her face
with her white, jeweled hands, Leslie Warburton turns and rests her head
against the screen beside her.
Then impulsive, unconventional Dick Stanhope springs up, and, as if he
were administering comfort to a sorrowing child, takes the two hands
away from the tear-wet face, and holding them fast in his own, looks
straight down into the brown eyes as he says:
"Dear lady, trust me! Even as I believe you, believe _me_, when I say
that your confidence shall not be violated. Your secret shall be safe;
shall remain yours. Your enemy shall become mine. If you cannot trust
me, I cannot help you."
"Oh! I do trust you, Mr. Stanhope; I _must_. Ask of me nothing, for I
can tell you no more. To send for you was unwise, perhaps, but I have
been so tormented by this spy upon my movements ... and I cannot fight
in the dark. It was imprudent to bring you here to-night, but I dared
not meet you elsewhere."
There is a lull in the music and a hum of approaching voices. She
hastily resumes her mask, and Stanhope says:
"We had better separate now, madam. Trust your case to me. I
cannot remain here much longer, otherwise I might find a clue
to-night,--important business calls me. After to-night my time is all
yours, and be sure I shall find out your enemy."
People are flocking in from the dancing-room. With a gesture of
farewell, "Sunlight" flits out through the door just beside the screen,
and a moment later, the Goddess of Liberty is sailing through the long
drawing-rooms on the arm of a personage in the guise of Uncle Sam.
"What success, my friend?"
"It's all right," replies the Goddess of Liberty; "I have seen the
lady."
A moment more and her satin skirts trail across the toes of a tall
fellow in the dress of a British officer, who is leaning against a
vine-wreathed pillar, intently watching the crowd through his yellow
mask. At sight of the Goddess of Liberty, he starts forward and a sharp
exclamation crosses his lips.
"Shades of Moses," he mutters to himself, "I can't be mistaken; that
_is_ Dick Stanhope's Vienna costume! Is that Dick inside it? It is! it
must be! What is he doing? On a lay, or on a lark? Dick Stanhope is not
given to this sort of frolic; I must find out what it means!"
And Van Vernet leaves his post of observation and follows slowly,
keeping the unconscious Goddess of Liberty always in sight.
[Illustration: "Dear lady, trust me! Your secret shall be safe; your
enemy shall become mine!"--page 75.]
Passing through a net-work of vines, the British officer comes upon two
people in earnest conversation. The one wears a scarlet and black
domino, the other a coquettish Carmen costume.
"That black and red domino is my patron," mutters the officer as he
glides by unnoticed. "He does not see me and I do not wish to see _him_
just at present." A few steps farther and the British officer comes to a
sudden halt.
"By Heavens!" he ejaculates, half aloud; "what a chance I see before me!
It would be worth something to know what brought Dick Stanhope here
to-night; it would be worth yet more to _keep_ him here _until after
midnight_. If I had an accomplice to detain _him_ while I, myself,
appear at the Agency in time, then the C---- street Raid would move
without him, the lead would be given to _me_. It's worth trying for. It
_shall_ be done, and my patron in black and red shall help me."
He turns, and only looks back to mutter:
"Go on, Dick Stanhope; this night shall begin the trial that, when
ended, shall decide which of the two is the better man!"
And the British officer hurries straight on until he stands beside the
black and scarlet domino.
CHAPTER IX.
"A FALSE MOVE IN THE GAME."
Pretty, piquant Winnifred French was the staunch friend of Leslie
Warburton.
When Winnie was the petted only daughter of "French, the rich merchant,"
she and Leslie Uliman had been firm friends. When Leslie Uliman, the
adopted daughter of the aristocratic Uliman's, gave her hand in marriage
to Archibald Warburton, a wealthy invalid and a widower with one child,
Winnie was her first bridesmaid.
Time had swept away the fortune of French, the merchant, and death had
robbed Leslie of her adopted parents, and then Winnifred French gladly
accepted the position of salaried companion to her dearest friend.
Not long after, Alan Warburton had returned from abroad, and then had
begun a queer complication.
For some reason known only to himself, Alan Warburton had chosen to
dislike his beautiful sister-in-law, and he had conceived a violent
admiration for Winnie,--an admiration which might have been returned,
perhaps, had Winnie been less loyal in her friendship for Leslie. But,
perceiving Alan's dislike for her dearest friend, Winnie lost no
opportunity for annoying him, and lavishing upon him her stinging
sarcasms.
On her part, Leslie Warburton loved her companion with a strong sisterly
affection. As for her feelings toward Alan Warburton, it would have been
impossible to guess, from her manner, whether he was to her an object of
love, hatred, or simple indifference.
When Winnie and Alan turned their backs upon the scene in the anteroom,
and entered the dancing hall, the girl was in a particularly perverse
mood.
"I shall not dance," she said petulantly. "It's too early and too warm,"
and she entered a flowery alcove, and seated herself upon a couch
overhung with vines.
"May I sit down, Winnie?"
"No."
"Just for a moment's chat." And he seated himself as calmly as if he had
received a gracious permission.
"You are angry with me again, Winnie. Is my sister-in-law always to come
between us?"
She turned and her blue eyes flashed upon him.
"Once and for all," she said sharply, "tell me why you hate Leslie so?"
"Tell _me_ why she has poisoned your mind against me?" he retorted.
"_She!_ Leslie Warburton! This goes beyond a joke, sir. Leslie Warburton
_is_ what Leslie Uliman was, a _lady_, in thought, word, and deed. Oh, I
can read you, sir! Her crime, in your eyes, is that she has married your
brother. Is she not a good and faithful wife; a tender, loving mother to
little Daisy? You have hinted that she does not love her husband--by
what right do you make the assertion? You believe that she has married
for money,--at least these are _fashionable_ sins! Humph! In all
probability I shall marry for money myself."
"Winnifred!"
"I _shall_; I am sure of it. It's an admirable feature of our best
society. If we are heiresses, we are surrounded with lovers who are
fascinated by our bank account. If we are poor, we are all in search of
a bank account; and many of us have to do some sharp angling."
"My sister-in-law angled very successfully."
"So she did, if you _will_ put it so. And she did not land her last
chance; she might have married as wealthy a man as Mr. Warburton, or as
handsome a man as his _brother_. But then," with a provoking little
gesture of disdain, "Leslie and I never did admire handsome men."
There was just a shade of annoyance in the voice that answered her:
"Pray go on, Miss French; doubtless yourself and Mrs. Warburton have
other tastes in common."
"So we have," retorted the girl, rising and standing directly before
him, "but I won't favor you with a list of them. You don't like Leslie,
and I do; but let me tell you, Mr. Alan Warburton, if the day ever comes
when you know Leslie Warburton _as I know her_, you will go down into
the dust, ashamed that you have so misjudged, so wronged, so slandered
one who is as high as the stars above you. And now I am going to join
the dancers; you can come--or stay."
The last words were flung at him over her shoulder, and before he could
rise to follow, she had vanished in the throng that was surging to and
fro without the alcove.
He starts forward as if about to pursue her, and then sinks back upon
the couch.
"I won't be a greater fool than nature made me," he mutters in scornful
self-contempt. "If I go, she'll flirt outrageously under my very nose;
if I stay--she'll flirt all the same, of course. Ah! if a man would have
a foretaste of purgatory let him live under the same roof with the woman
he loves and the woman he hates!"
A shadow comes between his vision and the gleam of light from without,
and, lifting his eyes, he encounters two steady orbs gazing out from
behind a yellow mask.
"Ah!" He half rises again, then sinks back and motions the mask to the
seat beside him.
"I recognize your costume," he says, as the British officer seats
himself. "How long since you came?"
"Only a few moments. I have been waiting for your interview with the
lady to end."
"Ah!" with an air of abstraction; then, recalling himself: "Do you know
the nature of the work required of you?"
Under his mask, Van Vernet's face flamed and he bit his lip with
vexation. This man in black and scarlet, this aristocrat, addressed him,
not as one man to another, but loftily as a king to a subject. But there
was no sign of annoyance in his voice as he replied:
"Um--I suppose so. Delicate bit of a shadowing, I was told; no
particulars given."
"There need be no particulars. I will point you out the person to be
shadowed. I want you to see her, and be yourself unseen. You are simply
to discover,--find out where she goes, who she sees, what she does.
Don't disturb yourself about motives; I only want the _facts_."
"Ah!" thought Van Vernet; "it's a _she_, then." Aloud, he said: "You
have not given the lady's name?"
"You would find it out, of course?"
"Of course; necessarily."
"The lady is my--is Mrs. Warburton, the mistress of the house."
"Ah!" thought the detective; "the old Turk wants me to shadow his wife!"
By a very natural blunder he had fancied himself in communication with
Archibald, instead of Alan, Warburton.
"Have you any suspicions? Can you give me any hint upon which to act?"
he asked.
"I might say this much," ventured Alan, after a moment's hesitation:
"The lady has made, I believe, a mercenary marriage and she is hiding
something from her husband and friends."
"I see," said Vernet. And then, laughing inwardly, he thought: "A case
of jealousy!"
In a few words Alan Warburton described to Vernet the "Sunlight,"
costume worn by Leslie, and then they separated, Vernet going, not in
search of "Sunlight," but of the Goddess of Liberty.
What he found was this:
In the almost deserted music room stood the Goddess of Liberty, gazing
down into the face of a woman in the robes of Sunlight, and both of them
engaged in earnest conversation.
He watched them until he saw the Goddess lift the hand of Sunlight with
a gesture of graceful reverence, bow over it, and turn away. Then he
went back to the place where he had left his patron. He found the object
of his quest still seated in the alcove, alone and absorbed in thought.
"I beg your pardon for intruding upon your solitude," began the
detective hastily, at the same time seating himself close beside Alan;
"but there is a _lady_ here whose conduct is, to say the least,
mysterious. As a detective, it becomes my duty to look after her a
little, to see that she does not leave this house _until I can follow
her_."
"Well?" with marked indifference in his tone.
"If she could be detained," went on Vernet, "by--say, by keeping some
one constantly beside her, so that she cannot leave the house without
being observed--"
Alan Warburton threw back his head.
"Pardon me," he said, "but I object to thus persecuting a lady, and a
guest."
"But if I tell you that this _lady_ is a man in silken petticoats?"
"What!"
"And that he seems on very free and friendly terms with _your wife_."
"With my wi--"
Alan Warburton stopped short and looked sharply at the eyes gazing out
from behind the yellow mask.
Did this detective think himself conversing with Archibald? If so--well,
what then? He shrank from anything like familiarity with this man before
him. Why not leave the mistake as it stood? There could be no harm in
it, and he, Alan, would thus be free from future annoyance.
"I will not remove my mask," thought Alan. "He is not likely to see
Archibald, and no harm can come of it. In fact it will be better so. It
would seem more natural for him to be investigating his wife's secrets
than for _me_."
So the mistake was not corrected--the mistake that was almost
providential for Alan Warburton, but that proved a very false move in
the game that Van Vernet was about to play.
There was but one flaw in the plan of the proposed incognito.
Alan's voice was a peculiarly mellow tenor, and Van Vernet never forgot
a voice once heard.
"Did you say that this disguised person knows--Mrs. Warburton?"
"I did."
"Who is the fellow, and what disguise does he wear?"
"I am unable to give his name. He is costumed as the Goddess of
Liberty."
"Oh!"
Van Vernet had his own reasons for withholding Richard Stanhope's name.
"So!" he thought, while he waited for Alan's next words. "I'll spoil
your plans for this night, Dick Stanhope! I wonder how our Chief will
like to hear that 'Stanhope the reliable,' neglects his duty to go
masquerading in petticoats, the better to make love to another man's
wife."
For Van Vernet, judging Stanhope as a man of the world judges men, had
leaped to the hasty, but natural, conclusion, that his masquerade in the
garb of the mother of his country, was in the character of a lover.
"Vernet," said Alan at last, "you are a clever fellow! Let me see; there
are half a dozen young men here who are ripe for novelty--set the
whisper afloat that behind that blue and white mask is concealed a
beautiful and mysterious intruder, and they will hang like leeches about
her, hoping to discover her identity, or see her unmask."
"It's a capital plan!" cried Vernet, "and it can't be put into execution
too soon."
CHAPTER X.
"I AM YOUR SHADOW."
It is not a pleasing task to Alan Warburton, but, spurred on by Vernet,
and acting according to his suggestions, it is undertaken and
accomplished. Within twenty minutes, two gay, fun-loving young fellows,
one habited in the garb of a Celestial, the other dressed as a
Troubador, are hastening from room to room in search of the mysterious
Goddess of Liberty.
"Who was the Mask that posted us about this mysterious lady?" queries
the Celestial, as he lifts a _portierie_ for his comrade to pass.
"If I am not mistaken, it was Warburton."
"Isn't that a queer move for His Dignity?"
"Well, I don't know. Presuming the fair Mystery to be an intruder, he
may think it the easiest way of putting her to rout. At any rate there's
a little spice in it."
And there is spice in it. Before the evening closes, the festive
Celestial is willing to vote this meeting with a veiled mystery an
occasion full of flavor, and worthy to be remembered.
Leaving the pair in full chase after the luckless, petticoat-encumbered
Stanhope, we follow Van Vernet, who, having set this trap for the feet
of his unconscious comrade, is about to play his next card.
Gliding among the maskers, he makes his way to a side entrance, and
passing the liveried servant on guard at the door with a careless jest,
he leaves the house, and hastens where, a few rods distant, a solitary
figure is standing.
"How long have you been here, Harvey?" he asks hurriedly, but with
noticeable affability.
"About half an hour."
"Good; now listen, for you are to begin your business. Throw on that
domino and follow me; the servants have seen me in conversation with the
master of the house and they will not require your credentials. Keep
near me, and follow me to the dressing-rooms; by-and-by we will exchange
costumes there, after which, you will personate me."
"But,--"
"There will be no trouble; just mingle with the throng, saying nothing
to anyone. No one will address you who could doubt your identity; I
will arrange all that. You comprehend?"
"I think so. You are wanted, or you want to be, in two places at once.
This being the least important, you place me here as figure-head, while
you fill the bill at the other place."
"You have grasped the situation, Harvey. Let us go in, and be sure you
do justice, in my stead, to the banquet--and the Warburton champagne."
Van Vernet had planned well. Knowing the importance of the Raid in hand
for that night, he had determined to be present and share with Stanhope
the honors of the occasion, while he seemed to be devoting all his
energies to the solution of the mystery that was evidently troubling his
wealthy patron, the master of Warburton Place.
Vernet was a man of many resources, and trying, indeed, must be the
situation which his fertile brain could not master.
Having successfully introduced his double into the house, he made his
way, once more, to the side of his patron, and, drawing him away from
the vicinity of possible listeners, said:
"Mr. Warburton, if you have anything further to say to me, please make
use of the present moment. After this it will be best for us to hold no
further conversation to-night."
Alan Warburton turned his eyes toward the detective with a cold,
scrutinizing stare.
"Why such caution?"
"Because it seems to me necessary; and, if I may be permitted to
suggest, you may make some slight discoveries by keeping an eye, more or
less, upon Mrs. Warburton."
With these words Van Vernet turns upon his heel, and strides away with
the air of a man who can do all that he essays.
"He is cool to the verge of impudence!" mutters Alan, as he gazes after
the receding figure in the British uniform. "But I will act upon his
advice; I _will_ watch Mrs. Warburton."
It is some moments before he catches sight of her glimmering robes, and
then he sees them receding, gliding swiftly, and, as he thinks, with a
nervous, hurried movement unusual to his stately sister-in-law.
She is going through the drawing-room, away from the dancers, and he
hastens after, wondering a little as to her destination.
From a flower-adorned recess, a fairy form springs out, interrupting the
lady in the glimmering robes.
"Mamma!" cries little Daisy, "oh Mamma, I have found Mother
Goose--_real, live_ Mother Goose!"
And she points with childish delight to a quaintly dressed personation
of that old woman of nursery fame, who sits within the alcove, leaning
upon her oaken staff, and peering out from beneath the broad frill of
her cap, her gaze eagerly following the movements of the animated child.
"Oh Mamma!" continues the little one, "can't I stay with Mother Goose?
Millie says I must go to bed."
At another time Leslie Warburton would have listened more attentively,
have answered more thoughtfully, and have noted more closely the manner
of guest that was thus absorbing the attention of the little one. Now
she only says hurriedly:
"Yes, yes, Daisy; you may stay a little longer,--only," with a hasty
glance toward the alcove, "you must not trouble the lady too much."
"The lady wants me, mamma."
"Then go, dear."
And Leslie gathers up her glimmering train and hastens on without once
glancing backward.
Pausing a few paces behind her, Alan Warburton has noted each word that
has passed between the lady and the child. And now, as the little one
bounds back to Mother Goose, who receives her with evident pleasure, he
moves on, still following Leslie.
She glides past the dancers, through the drawing rooms, across the music
room, and then, giving a hasty glance at the few who linger there, she
pulls aside a silken curtain, and looks into the library. The lights are
toned to the softness of moonlight; there is silence there, and
solitude.
With a long, weary sigh, Leslie enters the library and lets the curtain
fall behind her.
Alan Warburton pauses, hesitates for a moment, and then, seeing that the
little group of maskers near him seem wholly absorbed in their own
merriment, he moves boldly forward, parts the curtain a little way, and
peers within.
He sees a woman wearing the garments of Sunlight and the face of
despair. She has torn off her mask, and it lies on the floor at her
feet. In her hand is a crumpled scrap of paper, and, as she holds it
nearer the light and reads what is written thereon, a low moan escapes
her lips.
"Again!" she murmurs; "how can I obey them?--and yet I _must_ go." Then,
suddenly, a light of fierce resolve flames in her eyes. "I _will_ go,"
she says, speaking aloud in her self-forgetfulness; "I will go,--but it
shall be _for the last time_!"
She thrusts the crumpled bit of paper into her bosom, goes to the window
and looks out. Then she crosses to a door opposite the curtained
entrance, opens it softly, and glides away.
In another moment, Alan Warburton is in the library. Tearing off the
black and scarlet domino he flings it into a corner, and, glancing down
at his nautical costume mutters:
"Sailors of this description are not uncommon. Wherever she goes, I can
follow her--in this."
Ten minutes later, while Leslie Warburton's guests are dancing and
making merry, Leslie Warburton, with sombre garments replacing the robes
of Sunlight, glides stealthily out from her stately home, and creeps
like a hunted creature through the darkness and away!
But not alone. Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows
after; a man in the garments of a sailor, who pulls a glazed cap low
down across his eyes, and mutters as he goes:
"So, Madam Intrigue, Van Vernet advised me well. Glide on, plotter; from
this moment until I shall have unmasked you, _I am your shadow_!"
CHAPTER XI.
"DEAR MRS FOLLINGSBEE."
While the previously related scenes of this fateful night are
transpiring Richard Stanhope finds his silken-trained disguise a snare
in which his own feet become entangled, both literally and figuratively.
[Illustration: "Silently, with the tread of an Indian, a man follows
after; a man in the garments of a sailor."--page 90.]
Moving with slow and stately steps through the vista of splendid rooms,
taking note of all that he sees from behind his white and blue mask, he
suddenly becomes the object of too much attention. A dashing Troubador
presents himself, and will not be denied the pleasure of a waltz with
"the stately and graceful Miss Columbia."
The detective's feet are encased in satin shoes that, if not small, are
at least shapely. He has yet nearly an hour to spare to the masquerade,
and his actual business is done. Why not yield to the temptation? He
dances with the grace and abandon of the true music worshipper; he loves
brightness and gayety, laughter and all sweet sounds; above all, he
takes such delight in a jest as only healthy natures can.
"It would be a pity to disappoint such a pretty Troubador," muses
Richard while he seems to hesitate; "he may never have another
opportunity to dance with a lady like me."
And then, bowing a stately consent, he moves away on the arm of the
Troubador, who, chuckling at his success, mentally resolves to make a
good impression on this mysterious uninvited lady.
Van Vernet's plot works famously. The Troubador is enchanted with the
dancing of the mysterious Goddess, who looks at him with the handsomest,
most languid and melting of brown, brown eyes, letting these orbs speak
volumes, but saying never a word. And when his fellow-plotter claims the
next dance, he yields his place reluctantly, and sees the waist of the
Goddess encircled by the arm of the Celestial, with a sigh of regret.
Richard Stanhope, now fully given over to the spirit of mischief, leans
confidingly upon the arm of this second admirer, looking unutterable
things with his big brown eyes.
They hover about him after this second dance, and he dances again with
each. If the Troubador is overflowing with flattery, the Celestial is
more obsequious still. Stanhope finds the moments flying, and the
attention of the two gallants cease to amuse, and begin to annoy. In
vain he tries to shake them off. If one goes, the other remains.
After many futile efforts to free himself from his tormentors, he sees
Mr. Follingsbee approach, and beckons him forward with a sigh of relief.
The two maskers, recognizing Uncle Sam as a fitting companion for Miss
Columbia, reluctantly yield their ground and withdraw.
"Have those fellows been pestering you?" queries the lawyer, with a
laugh.
"Only as they bade fair to prove a hindrance," with an answering
chuckle. "They're such nice little lady killers: but I must get away
from this in a very few minutes. My disguise has been very successful."
"I should think so! Why, my boy, half the people here, at least those
who have recognized me through my costume, think you are--ha! ha!--my
wife!"
"So much the better."
"Why, little Winnie French--she found me out at once--has been looking
all through the card rooms for "Dear Mrs. Follingsbee."" And the jolly
lawyer laughs anew.
"Mr. Follingsbee,"--Stanhope has ceased to jest, and speaks with his
usual business brusqueness--"Mrs. Warburton, I don't know for what
reason, wished to be informed when I left the house. Will you tell her I
am about to go, and that I will let her hear from me further through
you? I will go up to the dressing room floor, and wait in the boudoir
until you have seen her."
The boudoir opening upon the ladies' dressing rooms, is untenanted. But
from the inner room, Stanhope catches the hum of feminine voices, and in
a moment a quartette of ladies come forth, adjusting their masks as
they move toward the stairway.
Suddenly there is a little exclamation of delight, and our detective,
standing near the open window, with his face turned from the group,
feels himself clasped by a pair of pretty dimpled arms, while a gay
voice says in his ear:
"Oh! you dear old thing! Have I found you at last? Follingsbee, you look
stunning in that costume. Oh!--" as Stanhope draws back with a
deprecating gesture--"you needn't deny your identity: isn't Mr.
Follingsbee here as Uncle Sam? I found him out at once, and didn't
Leslie and I see you enter together?"
Stanhope quakes inwardly, and the perspiration starts out under his
mask. It is very delightful, under most circumstances, to be embraced by
a pair of soft feminine arms, but just now it is very embarrassing
and--very ridiculous.
Divided between his desire to laugh and his wish to run away, the
detective stands hesitating, while Winnie French, for she it is, begins
a critical examination of his costume.
"Don't you think the dress muffles your figure a little too much,
Follingsbee? If it were snugger here,"--giving him a little poke
underneath his elbows,--"and not so straight from the shoulders. Why
didn't you shorten it in front, and wear pointed shoes?"
And she seizes the flowing drapery, and draws it back to illustrate her
suggestion.
Again Stanhope recoils with a gesture which the gay girl misinterprets,
and, quite ignoring the persistent silence of the supposed Mrs.
Follingsbee, she chatters on:
[Illustration: "Don't you think your dress muffles your figure a little
too much, Follingsbee?"--page 94.]
"I hope you don't resent _my_ criticisms, Follingsbee; you've picked
_me_ to pieces often enough. Or are you still vexed because I _won't_
fall in love with your favorite Alan? There, now,"--as Stanhope, grown
desperate, seems about to speak,--"I know just what you want to say, and
you need not say it. Follingsbee," lowering her voice to a more
confidential tone, "if I ever _had_ a scrap of a notion of that sort, I
have been cured of it since I came into this house to live. Oh! I know
he's your prime favorite, but you can't tell _me_ anything about Alan;
I've got him all catalogued on my ten fingers. Here he is pro and con;
pro's _your_ idea of him, you know. You say he is rich. Well, that's
something in these days! He's handsome. Bah! a man has no business with
beauty; it's woman's special prerogative. He came of a splendid
blue-blooded family. Fudge! American aristocracy is American _rubbish_.
He's talented. Well, that's only an accident for which _he_ deserves no
credit. He's thoroughly upright and honorable. Well, he's _too_ bolt
upright for me."
"So," murmurs Stanhope to his inner consciousness, "I am making a point
in personal history, but--it's a tight place for me!" And as Winnie's
arms give him a little hug, while she pauses to take breath, he feels
tempted to retort in kind.
"Now, then," resumes Winnie, absorbed in her topic; and releasing her
victim to check off her "cons" on the pretty right hand; "here's _my_
opinion of Mr. Warburton. He's _proud_, ridiculously proud. He worships
his _name_, if not himself. He is suspicious, uncharitable, unforgiving.
He's _hard-hearted_. If Leslie were not an angel she would hate him
utterly. He treats her with a lofty politeness, a polished indifference,
impossible to resent and horrible to endure,--and all because he chooses
to believe that she has tarnished the great Warburton name, by taking it
for love of the Warburton fortune instead of the race."
Up from the ball-room floats the first strains of a delicious waltz.
Winnie stops, starts, and turns toward the door.
"That's my favorite waltz, and I'm engaged to Charlie Furbish--he dances
like an angel. Follingsbee, bye, bye!"
She flits to the mirror, gives two or three dainty touches to her
coquettish costume, tosses a kiss from her finger tips, and is gone.
"Thank Heaven," mutters Stanhope. "I consider _that_ the narrowest
escape of my life! What a little witch it is, and pretty, I'll wager."
He draws from beneath his flowing robe a tiny watch such as ladies
carry, and consults its jewelled face.
"My time is up!" he ejaculates. "Twenty minutes delay, now, will ruin my
Raid. Ah! here's Follingsbee." And he moves forward at the sound of an
approaching step.
But it is not Follingsbee who appears upon the threshold. It is,
instead, Stanhope's too-obsequious, too-attentive admirer, the
Celestial, who has voted the prospect of a flirtation with a mysterious
mask, a thing of spice.
CHAPTER XII.
A "'MELLICAN LADY'S" LITTLE TRICK.
In such an emergency, when every moment has its value, to think is to
act with Richard Stanhope. And time just now is very precious to him.
This importunate fellow is determined to solve the mystery of his
identity, to see him unmask. Ten minutes spent in an attempt to evade
him will be moments of fate for the ambitious detective.
And, for the sake of his patroness, he cannot leave the house at the
risk of being followed. This difficulty must be overcome and at once.
These thoughts flash through his mind as if by electricity; and then, as
the Celestial approaches, he turns languidly toward the open window and
rests his head against the casement, as if in utter weariness.
"'Mellican lady slick?" queries the masker solicitously; "'Mellican lady
walm? Ching Ling flannee, flannee."
And raising his Japanese fan, he begins to ply it vigorously.
Mentally confiding "Ching Ling," to a region where fans are needed and
are not, Stanhope sways, as if about to faint, and motions toward a
reclining chair.
The mask propels it close to the window, and the detective sinks into
it, with a long drawn sigh.
Then, plying his fan with renewed vigor, the Celestial murmurs tenderly:
"'Mellican lady slick?"
"Confound you," thinks Stanhope; "I will try and be too _slick_ for
you." Then, for the first time, he utters a word for the Celestial's
hearing. Moving his head restlessly he articulates, feebly:
"The heat--I feel--faint!" Then, half rising from the chair, seeming to
make a last effort, he reels and murmuring: "Water--water," sinks back
presenting the appearance of utter lifelessness.
"Water!" The Celestial, utterly deceived, drops the fan and his dialect
at the same moment, and muttering: "She has fainted!" springs to the
door.
It is just what Stanhope had hoped for. When the Celestial returns with
the water, the fainting lady will have disappeared.
But Fate seems to have set her face against Stanhope. The Celestial does
not go. At the very door he encounters a servant, none other than the
girl, Millie, who, having for some time lost sight of little Daisy, is
now wandering from room to room in quest of the child.
"Girl," calls the masker authoritatively, "get some water quick; a lady
has fainted."
Uttering a startled: "Oh, my!" Millie skurries away, and the Celestial
returns to the side of the detective, who seems just now to be playing a
losing game.
But it is only seeming. The case, grown desperate, requires a desperate
remedy, and the Goddess of Liberty resolves to do what, probably, no
"'Mellican Lady" ever did before.
Through his drooping eyelids he notes the approach of the Celestial,
sees him fling aside his fan to bend above him, and realizes the fact
that he is about to be unmasked.
The Celestial bends nearer still. His hands touch the draped head,
searching for the secret that releases the tightly secured mask. It is a
sentimental picture, but suddenly the scene changes. Sentiment is put to
rout, and absurdity reigns.
With indescribable swiftness, the body of the Goddess darts forward, and
the head comes in sudden contact with the stomach of the too-devoted
Celestial, who goes down upon the floor in a state of collapse, while
Stanhope, bounding to his feet and gathering up his trailing draperies,
springs through the open window!
When Millie returns with water and other restoratives, she finds only a
disarranged masker sitting dolefully upon the floor, with one hand
pressed against his stomach and the other supporting his head; still too
much dazed and bewildered to know just how he came there.
When he has finally recovered sufficiently to be able to give a shrewd
guess as to the nature of the calamity that so suddenly overcame him, he
is wise enough to see that the victory sits perched on the banner of the
vanished Goddess, and to retire from the field permanently silent upon
the subject of "spicy flirtations" and mysterious ladies.
Meantime, Stanhope having alighted, with no particular damage to himself
or his drapery, upon a balcony which runs half the length of the house,
is creeping silently along that convenient causeway toward the
gentlemen's dressing-room, situated at its extreme end.
Foreseeing some possible difficulty in leaving the house unnoticed while
attired in so conspicuous a costume, the Goddess had come prepared with
a long black domino, which had been confided to Mr. Follingsbee, who, at
the proper moment, was to fetch it from the gentlemen's dressing-room,
array Stanhope in its sombre folds, and then see him from the house, and
safely established in the carriage which the detective had arranged to
have in waiting to convey him to the scene of the Raid.
Owing to his little encounter with the Celestial, Stanhope knows himself
cut off from communication with Mr. Follingsbee, and he now creeps
toward the dressing-room wholly intent upon securing the domino and
quitting the house in the quickest manner possible.
As he approaches the window, however, he realizes that there is another
lion in his path.
[Illustration: "Stanhope, bounding to his feet, springs through the open
window"--page 99.]
The room is already occupied; he hears two voices speaking in guarded
tones.
"Be quick, Harvey; some one may come in a moment."
"I have locked the door."
"But it must be opened at the first knock. There must be no appearance
of mystery, no room for suspicion, Harvey."
At the sound of a most familiar voice, Richard Stanhope starts, and
flushes with excitement underneath his mask. Then he presses close
against the window and peers in.
Two men are rapidly exchanging garments there; the one doffing a uniform
such as is worn by an officer of Her Majesty's troops, the other passing
over, in exchange for said uniform, the suit of a common policeman.
With astonished eyes and bated breath, Stanhope recognizes the two. Van
Vernet, his friend, and Harvey, a member of the police force, who is
Vernet's staunch admirer and chosen assistant when such assistance can
be of use.
How came Vernet at this masquerade, of all others? And what are they
about to do?
He is soon enlightened, for Van Vernet, flushed with his success,
present and prospective, utters a low triumphant laugh as he dons the
policeman's coat, and turns to readjust his mask.
"Ah! Harvey," he says gayly; "if you ever live to execute as fine a bit
of strategy as I did to-night, you may yet be Captain of police. Ha! ha!
this most recent battle between America and England has turned out badly
for America--all because she _will_ wear petticoats!"
America! England! petticoats! Stanhope can scarcely suppress an
exclamation as suddenly light flashes upon his mental horizon.
"I've done a good thing to-night, Harvey," continues Vernet with
unusual animation, "and I've got the lead on a sharp man. If I can hold
my own to-night, you'll never again hear of Van Vernet as only '_one_ of
our best detectives.' Is your mask adjusted? All right, then. Now,
Harvey, time presses; there's a big night's work before me. You are sure
you understand everything?"
"Oh, perfectly; _my_ work's easy enough."
"And mine begins to be difficult. Unlock the door, Harvey, I must be
off." Then turning sharply he adds, as if it were an after-thought: "By
the way, if you happen to set your eye on a Goddess of Liberty, just
note her movements; I would give something to know when she contrives to
leave the house and," with a dry laugh, "and _how_."
In another moment the dressing-room is deserted.
And then Richard Stanhope steps lightly through the window. With rapid
movements he singles out his own dark domino, gathers his colored
draperies close about him, and flings it over them, drawing the hood
down about his head, and the long folds around his person. Then he goes
out from the dressing-rooms, hurries down the great stairway, and
passing boldly out by the main entrance, glances up and down the street.
Only a few paces away, a dark form is hurrying toward a group of
carriages standing opposite the mansion, and Stanhope, in an instant, is
gliding in the same direction. As the man places a foot upon the step of
a carriage that has evidently awaited his coming, Stanhope glides so
near that he distinctly hears the order, given in Vernet's low voice:
"To the X--street police station. Drive fast."
A trifle farther away another carriage, its driver very alert and
expectant, stands waiting.
Having heard Vernet's order, Stanhope hurries to this carriage, springs
within, and whispers to the driver:
"The old place, Jim; and your quickest time!"
Then, as the wheels rattle over the pavement, the horses speeding away
from this fashionable quarter of the city, a strange transformation
scene goes on within the carriage, which, evidently, has been prepared
for this purpose. The Goddess of Liberty is casting her robes, and long
before the carriage has reached its destination, she has disappeared,
there remaining, in her stead, a personage of fantastic appearance. He
is literally clothed in rags, and plentifully smeared with dirt; his
tattered garments are decorated with bits of tinsel, and scraps of
bright color flutter from his ragged hat, and flaunt upon his breast;
there is a monstrous patch over his left eye and a mass of disfiguring
blotches covers his left cheek; a shock of unkempt tow-colored hair
bristles upon his head, and his forehead and eyes are half hidden by
thick dangling elf-locks.
If this absurd apparition bears not the slightest resemblance to the
Goddess of Liberty, it resembles still less our friend, Richard
Stanhope.
Suddenly, and in an obscure street, the carriage comes to a halt, and as
its fantastically-attired occupant descends to the ground, the first
stroke of midnight sounds out upon the air.
CHAPTER XIII.
A CRY IN THE DARK.
One more scene in this night's fateful masquerade remains to be
described, and then the seemingly separate threads of our plot unite,
and twine about our central figures a chain of Fate.
While Van Vernet is setting snares for the feet of his rival, and while
that young man of many resources is actively engaged in disentangling
himself therefrom,--while Leslie Warburton, tortured by a secret which
she cannot reveal, and dominated by a power she dare not disobey, steals
away from her stately home--and while Alan Warburton, soured by
suspicion, made unjust by his own false pride, follows like a shadow
behind her--a cloud is descending upon the house of Warburton.
Sitting apart from the mirthful crowd, quite unobserved and seemingly
wholly engrossed in themselves, are little Daisy Warburton and the
quaintly-attired Mother Goose, before mentioned.
It is long past the child's latest bedtime, but her step-mamma has been
so entirely preoccupied, and Millie so carelessly absorbed in watching
the gayeties of the evening, that the little one has been overlooked,
and feels now quite like her own mistress.
"Ha! ha!" she laughs merrily, leaning, much at her ease, upon the knee
of Mother Goose; "ha! ha! what nice funny stories you tell; almost as
nice as my new mamma's stories. Only," looking up with exquisite
frankness, "your voice is not half so nice as my new mamma's."
"Because I'm an old woman, dearie," replies Mother Goose, a shade of
something like disapproval in her tone. "Do you really want to see
Mother Hubbard's dog, little girl?"
"Old Mother Hubbard--she went to the cupboard," sings Daisy gleefully.
"Of course I do, Mrs. Goose. Does Mother Hubbard look like you?"
"A little."
"And--you said Cinderella's coach was down near my papa's gate?"
"So it is, dearie." Then looking cautiously about her, and lowering her
voice to a whisper: "How would you like to ride to see Mother Hubbard in
Cinderella's coach, and come right back, you know, before it turns into
a pumpkin again?"
The fair child clasps two tiny hands, and utters a cry of delight.
"Oh! _could_ we?" she asks, breathlessly.
"Of course we can, if you are very quiet and do as I bid you, and if you
don't get afraid."
"I don't get afraid--not often," replies the child, drawing still closer
to Mother Goose, and speaking with hushed gravity. "When I used to be
afraid at night, my mamma, my new mamma, you know, taught me to say like
this."
Clasping her hands, she sinks upon her knees and lifts her face to that
which, behind its grotesque mask, is distorted by some unpleasant
emotion. And then the childish voice lisps reverently:
"Dear God, please take care of a little girl whose mamma has gone to
Heaven. Keep her from sin, and sickness, and danger. Make the dark as
safe as the day, and don't let her be afraid, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
Something like a smothered imprecation dies away in the throat of the
listener, and then she says, in honeyed accents:
"That's a very nice little prayer, and your new mamma is a very fine
lady. When you come back from your ride in Cinderella's carriage, you
can tell your new mamma all about it."
"Oh! how nice!"
"It will be charming. Come into the conservatory, dearie. I think we can
see Cinderella's lamps from there."
With the confidence born of childish innocence, the little one places
her hand in that of Mother Goose, and is led away.
The conservatory is all aglow with light and color and rich perfume, and
it is almost tenantless. The broad low windows are open, and a narrow
balcony, adorned with tall vases and hung with drooping vines, projects
from them scarce three feet from the ground.
Out upon this balcony, and close to the railing, the child follows the
old woman confidently. Then, as she peers out into the night, she draws
back.
"It's--very--dark," she whispers.
"It's the light inside that makes it seem so dark, dearie. Ah! I see a
glimmer of Cinderella's lamp now; look, child!"
Stooping quickly, she lifts the little one and seats her upon the
railing of the balcony. Then, as the child, shading her eyes with a tiny
hand, attempts to peer out into the darkness, something damp and
sickening is pressed to her face; there is an odor in the air not born
of the flowers within, and Daisy Warburton, limp and unconscious, lies
back in the arms of her enemy.
In another moment, the woman in the garb of Mother Goose has dropped
from the balcony to the ground beneath, and, bearing her still burden in
her arms, disappeared in the darkness.
And as her form vanishes from the balcony, a city clock, far away, tolls
out the hour: _midnight_.
* * * * *
At this same hour, with the same strokes sounding in their ears, a
party of men sally forth from the X--street Police station, and take
their way toward the river.
They are policemen, mostly dressed in plain clothes, and heavily armed,
every man. They move away silently like men obeying the will of one
master, and presently they separate, dropping off by twos and threes
into different by-ways and obscure streets, to meet again at a certain
rendezvous.
It is the Raiding Party on its way to the slums, and, contrary to the
hopes of the Chief of the detectives and the Captain of the police, it
is led, not by Dick Stanhope, but by Van Vernet.
Contrary to all precedent, and greatly to the surprise of all save
Vernet, Richard Stanhope has failed to appear at the time appointed; and
so, after many doubts, much hesitation, and some delay, Van Vernet is
made leader of the expedition.
"I shall send Stanhope as soon as he reports here," the Chief had said
as a last word to Vernet. "His absence to-night is most reprehensible,
but his assistance is too valuable to be dispensed with."
Mentally hoping that Stanhope's coming may be delayed indefinitely, Van
Vernet bites his lip and goes on his way, while the Chief sits down to
speculate as to Stanhope's absence, and to await his coming.
But he waits in vain. The long night passes, and day dawns, and Richard
Stanhope does not appear.
Meanwhile, Van Vernet and the two men who accompany him, arrive first of
the party at their rendezvous.
It is at the mouth or entrance to a dark, narrow street, the beginning
of that labyrinth of crooked by-ways, and blind alleys, from the maze of
which Richard Stanhope had rescued himself and the wounded convict, on
the night previous.
Halting here Van Vernet waits the arrival of his men, and meditates. He
is tolerably familiar with this labyrinth; knows it as well, perhaps, as
most men on such a mission would deem necessary, but he has not given
the locality and its denizens the close study and keen investigation
that Stanhope has considered essential to success. And now, as he peers
down the dark street, thinking of the maze beyond, and the desperate
character of the people who inhabit it, he involuntarily wishes for that
closer knowledge that only Stanhope possesses.
He knows that Stanhope, in various disguises, has passed days and nights
among these haunts of iniquity; that he can thread these intricate
alleys in the darkest night, and identify every rogue by name and
profession.
He thinks of these things, and then shrugs his shoulder with
characteristic inconsequence. He has, and with good reason, unbounded
confidence in himself. He has tact, skill, courage; what man may do,
_he_ can do.
What are these miserable outlaws that they should baffle Van Vernet the
skillful, the successful, the daring?
Some one is coming toward them from out the dark alley. They hear the
fragment of an idiotic street song, trolled out in a maudlin voice, and
then feet running, skipping, seeming now and then to prance and
pirouette absurdly.
"What the--"
The exclamation of the policeman is cut short by the sudden collision of
his stationary figure with a rapidly moving body. Then he grapples with
his unintentional assailant only to release him suddenly, as Van Vernet
throws up the slide of his dark lantern and turns its rays upon the
new-comer.
Involuntarily all three utter sharp exclamations as they gather around
the apparition.
What a figure! Ragged, unkempt, fantastic; the same which a short time
ago we saw descending from a carriage only a few rods distant from this
very spot.
It is the same figure; the same rags and tinsel and dirt; the same
disfigured face, with its black patch and its fringe of frowzy hair; the
same, yet worse to look upon; for now the under jaw is dropped, the
mouth drivels, the eye not concealed by the patch leers stupidly.
Unmistakably, it is the face of an idiot.
"How!" ejaculates this being, peering curiously at the three. "How do?
Where ye goin'?"
Van Vernet gazes curiously for a moment, then utters a sound expressive
of satisfaction. He has heard of a fool that inhabits these alleys;
Stanhope has mentioned him on one or two occasions. "A modernized
Barnaby Rudge," Stanhope had called him. Surely this must be him.
Turning to one of his men he says, in an undertone:
"If I'm not mistaken this fellow is a fool who grew up in these slums,
and knows them by heart. 'Silly Charlie,' I think, they call him. I
believe we can make him useful."
Then turning to the intruder he says suavely:
"How are you, my man? How are you?"
But a change has come over the mood of the seeming idiot. Striking his
breast majestically, and pointing to a huge tin star which decorates it,
he waves his hand toward them, and says with absurd dignity:
"G'way--_g'way!_ Charlie big p'liceman. Gittin' late; _g'way_."
[Illustration: "G'way--_g'way!_ Charlie big p'liceman. Gittin' late;
_g'way_!"--page 110.]
"We must humor him, boys," says Vernet aside. Then to Charlie--"So
you're a policeman? Well, so am I; look."
And turning back the lapel of his coat he displays, on the inner side,
the badge of an officer.
Silly Charlie comes close, peers eagerly at the badge, fingers it
curiously, then, grasping it firmly, gives a tug at the lapel, saying:
"Gimme it. Gimme it."
Van Vernet laughs good-naturedly.
"Don't pull so hard, Charlie, or you'll have off my entire uniform. Do
you want to do a little police duty to-night?"
Silly Charlie nods violently.
"And you want my star, or one like it?"
"_Um hum!_" with sudden emphasis.
Van Vernet lays a hand on the shoulder of the idiot, and then says:
"Listen, Charlie. I want you to help me to-night. Wait," for Charlie has
doubled himself up in a convulsion of laughter. "Now, if you'll stand
right by me, and tell me what I want to know, you and I will do some
splendid work, and both get promoted. You will get a new star, big and
bright, and a uniform all covered with bright buttons. Hold on," for
Charlie is dancing in an ecstasy of delight. "What do you say? Will you
come with me, and work for your star and uniform?"
Charlie's enthusiastic gestures testify to his delight at this
proposition.
"Um hum," he cries gleefully; "Charlie go; Charlie be big p'liceman."
And as if suddenly realizing the dignity of his new employment, he
ceases his antics and struts sedately up and down before Vernet and his
assistants. Then turning to the detective, with a doleful whine, he
extends his hand, saying;
"Gimme star _now_."
"Not now, Charlie; you must earn it first. I had to earn mine. Do you
know the way to Devil's alley?"
"Um hum!"
"Good: do you know where Black Nathan lives!"
"Um hum!"
"Can you take me to Nancy Kaiser's lushing ken?"
"Um hum; Charlie knows."
"Then, Charlie, you shall have that star soon."
And Vernet turns to his men. "I will take this fellow for guide, and
look up these places: they are most important," he says rapidly. "I
shall be less noticed in company with this fellow than if alone. Riley,
I leave you in command until I return. Remain here, and keep the fellows
all together; some of them are coming now."
Riley's quick ear detects the approach of stealthy feet, and as Vernet
shuts his lantern, and utters a low "Come, Charlie," the first
installment of the Raiders appears, a few paces away.
Seizing Vernet by the arm, Silly Charlie lowers his head and glides down
the alley, as stealthily as an Indian.
"Charlie," whispers Vernet, imperatively, "you must be very cautious. I
want you to take me first to where Black Nathan lives."
"Hoop la!" replies Charlie in subdued staccato; "I'm takin' ye;
commalong."
Cautiously they wend their way down the dark, narrow street, into a
filthy alley, and through it to an open space laid bare by some recent
fire.
Here they halt for a moment, Charlie peering curiously around him, and
stooping to search for something among the loose stones.
Suddenly a shriek pierces the silence about them--a woman's shriek,
thrice repeated, its tones fraught with agony and terror!
Silly Charlie lifts himself suddenly erect, and turns his face toward a
dark building just across the open space. Then, as the third cry sounds
upon the air, both men, as by one humane instinct, bound across the
waste regardless of stones and bruises, Silly Charlie flying on before,
as if acquainted with every inch of the ground, straight toward the dark
and isolated building.
CHAPTER XIV.
A PRETTY PLOT.
In order to comprehend the cause of the alarm which stimulated to sudden
action both the wise man and the fool, Van Vernet and Silly Charlie, let
us turn back a little and enter the dark house at the foot of the alley.
It is an hour before midnight. The place is dark and silent; no light
gleams through the tightly boarded windows, there is no sign of life
about the dwelling. But within, as on a previous occasion, there is
light, life, and a measure of activity. The light is furnished by a
solitary tallow candle, and the life supplied by the same little old man
who, on a former occasion, was thrown into a state of unreasonable
terror at sight of a certain newspaper advertisement.
It is the same room, its appointments unchanged; the same squalor and
dirt, the same bottle upon the same shelf, the same heap of rags in the
corner, the same fragments of iron and copper on the floor. The same
deal table and scrap of carpet are there, but not arranged as on a
former occasion, for now the table is pushed back against the wall, the
piece of carpet is flung in a wrinkled heap away from the place which it
covered, exposing to view a dark gap in the floor, with a dangling
trap-door opening downward. Beside this opening squats the little old
man, his eyes as ferret-like and restless as usual, but his features
more complacent and less apprehensive than when last we saw him.
By his side is the sputtering tallow candle, and in his hand a long
hooked stick, with which he is lowering sundry bags and bundles down the
trap, lifting the candle from time to time to peer into the opening,
then resuming his work and muttering meanwhile.
"What's _this_?" he soliloquizes, lifting a huge bundle and scrutinizing
it carefully. "Ah-h! a gentleman's fine overcoat; _that_ must have a
nice, safe corner. Ah-h! there you go," lowering the bundle down the
aperture and poking it into position with his stick. "It's amazin' what
valuables my people finds about the streets," he chuckles facetiously.
"'Ere's a--a little silver tea-pot; some rich woman must a-throwed that
out. I will put it on the shelf."
Evidently the shelf mentioned is in the cellar below, for this parcel,
like the first, is lowered and carefully placed by means of the stick.
Other bundles of various sizes follow, and then the old man rests from
his labor.
"What a nice little hole that is," he mutters. "Full of rags--nothin'
else. Suppose a cop comes in here and looks down, what 'ud he see? Just
rags. S'pose he went down, ha! ha! he'd go waist-deep in a bed of old
rags, and he wouldn't like the smell overmuch; such a _nice_ smell--for
cops. He couldn't _see_ anything, couldn't _feel_ anything but rags,
just rags."
A low tap at the street-door causes the old man to drop his stick and
his soliloquy at once. He starts nervously, listens intently for a
moment, and then rises cautiously. A long, low whistle evidently
reassures him, for with suddenly acquired self-possession he begins to
move about.
Swiftly and noiselessly he closes the trap, spreads down the bit of
carpet, and replaces the table. Then he shuffles toward the entrance,
pulls out the pin from the hole in the door, and peeps out. Nothing is
visible but the darkness, and this, somehow; seems to reassure him, for
with a snort of impatience he calls out:
"Who knocks?"
"It's Siebel," replies a voice from without. "Open up, old Top."
Instantly the door is unbarred and swung open, admitting a burly
ruffian, who fairly staggers under the weight of a monstrous sack which
he carries upon his shoulders.
At sight of this bulky burden the old man smiles and rubs his palms
together.
"Ah! Josef," he says, reaching out to relieve the new-comer, "a nice
load that; a very nice load!"
But the man addressed as Josef retains his hold upon his burden, and,
resting himself against it, looks distrustfully at his host.
"It's been a fine evening, Josef," insinuates the old man, his eyes
still fixed upon the bag.
"Fair enough," replies Josef gruffly, as he unties the bag and pushes
it toward the old man. "Take a look at the stuff, Papa Francoise, and
make a bid. I'm dead thirsty."
Eagerly seizing the bag, Papa Francoise drags it toward the table,
closely followed by Josef, and begins a hasty examination of its
contents, saying:
"Rags is rags, you know, Josef Siebel. It's not much use to look into
'em; there's nothing here but rags, of course."
"No, course not," with a satirical laugh.
"That's right, Josef; I won't buy nothing but rags,--_never_. I don't
want no ill-gotten gains brought to me."
Josef Siebel utters another short, derisive laugh, and discreetly turns
his gaze toward the smoky ceiling while Papa begins his investigations.
From out the capacious bag he draws a rich shawl, hurriedly examines it,
and thrusts it back again.
"The rag-picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef,"
continues this virtuous old gentleman, drawing forth a silver soup-ladle
and thrusting it back. "These are very good rags, Josef," and he draws
out a switch of blonde hair, and gazes upon it admiringly. Then he
brings out a handful of rags, examines them ostentatiously by the light
of the candle, smells them, and ties up the bag, seeing which Josef
withdraws his eyes from the cobwebs overhead and fixes them on the black
bottle upon the shelf.
Noting the direction of his gaze, Papa Francoise rests the bag against
the table-leg, trots to the shelf, pours a scanty measure from the black
bottle into a tin cup, and presents it to Josef with what is meant for
an air of gracious hospitality.
"You spoke of thirst, Josef; drink, my friend."
"Umph," mutters the fellow, draining off the liquor at a draught. Then
setting the cup hastily down; "Now, old Top, wot's your bid?"
"Well," replies Papa Francoise, trying to look as if he had not already
settled that question with his own mind; "well, Josef I'll give
you--I'll give you a dollar and a half."
"The dickens you will!"
Josef makes a stride toward the bag, and lifts it upon his shoulder.
"Stop, Josef!" cries Papa, laying eager hands upon the treasure. "What
do you want? That's a good price for rags."
"Bah!" snarls the burly ruffian, turning toward the door, "wot d'ye take
me for, ye blasted old fence?"
But Papa has a firm clutch upon the bag.
"Stop, Josef!" he cries eagerly; "let me see," pulling it down from his
shoulder and lifting it carefully. "Why, it's _heavier_ than I thought.
Josef, I'll give you two dollars and a half,--_no more_."
The "no more" is sharply uttered, and evidently Siebel comprehends the
meaning behind the words, for he reseats himself sullenly, muttering:
"It ain't enough, ye cursed cantin' old skinflint, but fork it out; I've
got to have money."
At this instant there comes a short, sharp, single knock upon the
street-door, and Papa hastens to open it, admitting a squalid,
blear-eyed girl, or woman, who enters with reluctant step, and sullen
demeanor.
"Oh, it's _you_, Nance," says Papa, going back to the table and
beginning to count out some money, eyeing the girl keenly meanwhile.
"One dollar,--sit down, Nance,--two dollars, fifty; there! Now, Nance,"
turning sharply toward the girl, "what have you got, eh?"
[Illustration: "The rag picker can be an honest man as well as another,
Josef."--page 117.]
"Nothin'," replies Nance sullenly; "nothin' that will suit you. I ain't
had no luck."
"Nobody left nothin' lyin' round loose, I s'pose," says Siebel with a
coarse laugh, as he pockets the price of his day's labor. "Wal, ye've
come ter a poor place for sympathy, gal." And he rises slowly and
shuffles toward the door.
But Papa makes a gesture to stay him.
"Hold on, Josef!" he cries; "wait Nance!"
He seizes the bag, hurries it away into an inner room, and returns
panting for breath. Drawing a stool toward the table, he perches himself
thereon and leers across at the two sneak thieves.
"So ye ain't had any luck, girl?" he says, in a wheedling tone, "and
Josef, here, wants money. Do ye want more than ye've got Josef?"
"Ha ha! _Do_ I?" And Josef slaps his pockets suggestively.
"Now listen, both of you. Suppose, I could help you two to earn some
money easy and honest, what then?"
"Easy and _honest_!" repeats Siebel, with a snort of derision; "Oh,
Lord!"
But the girl leans forward with hungry eyes, saying eagerly: "How? tell
us how."
"I'll tell you. Suppose, just suppose, a certain rich lady--_very_ rich,
mind--being a little in my debt, should come here to-night to see me.
And suppose she is very anxious not to be seen by any body--on account
of her high position, you know--"
"Oh, lip it livelier!" cries Siebel impatiently. "Stow yer swash."
"Well; suppose you and Nance, here, was to come in sudden and see the
lady face to face, why, for fear she might be called on by--say by
Nance, she might pay a little, don't you see--"
But Siebel breaks in impatiently:
"Oh, skip the rubbish! Is there any body to bleed?"
"Is it a safe lay?" queries Nance.
"Yes, yes; it's safe, of course," cries Papa, thus compelled to come
down to plain facts.
"Then let's get down to business. Do you expect an angel's visit here
to-night?"
"Yes."
"Well, what's yer plan? Out with it: Nance and I are with ye, if ye
divvy fair."
Beckoning them to come closer, Papa Francoise leans across the table,
and sinking his voice to a harsh whisper, unfolds the plan by which,
without danger to themselves, they are to become richer.
It is a pretty plan but--"_Man sows; a whirlwind reaps._"
CHAPTER XV.
A COUNTERPLOT.
It is a half hour later. The light in the room is increased by a
sputtering additional candle, and Papa Francoise, sitting by the deal
table, is gazing toward the door, an eager expectant look upon his face.
"If that old woman were here!" he mutters, and then starts forward at
the sound of a low hesitating tap.
Hurrying to the door he unbars it with eager haste, and a smile of
blandest delight overspreads his yellow face as the new-comer enters.
It is a woman, slender and graceful; a _lady_, who holds up her trailing
black garments daintily as she steps across the threshold, repulsing the
proffered hand-clasp with a haughty gesture, and gliding away from him
while she says in a tone of distressful remonstrance:
"Man, _why_ have you sent for me? Don't you know that there is such a
thing as a last straw?"
"A last straw!" His voice is a doleful whine, his manner obsequious to
servility. "Ah, my child, I wanted to see you so much; your poor mother
wanted to see you so much!"
The woman throws back her veil with a gesture of fierce defiance,
disclosing the face of Leslie Warburton pale and woe-stricken, but quite
as lovely as when it shone upon Stanhope, surrounded by the halo of
"Sunlight."
"You hypocrite!" she exclaims scornfully. "Parents do not persecute
their children as you and the woman you call my mother have persecuted
me. You gave me to the Ulimans when I was but an infant,--that I
know,--but the papers signed by you do not speak of me as _your child_.
Besides, does human instinct go for nothing? If you were my father would
I loathe these meetings? Would I shudder at your touch? Would my whole
soul rise in rebellion against your persecutions?"
Her eyes flash upon him and the red blood mounts to her cheeks. In the
excitement of the moment she has forgotten her fear. Her voice rises
clear and ringing; and Papa Francoise, thinking of two possible
listeners concealed not far away, utters a low "sh-h-h-h!"
"Not so loud, my child," he says in an undertone; "not so loud. Ah! you
ungrateful girl, we wanted to see you rich and happy, and this is how
you thank us," affecting profound grief. "These rich people have taught
you to loathe your poor old father!"
He sinks upon the stool as if in utter dejection, wipes away an
imaginary tear, and then resumes, in the same guarded tone:
"My dear child, when we gave you to the Ulimans we were very poor, and
they were very rich,--a great deal richer than when they died, leaving
you only a few thousands."
"Which _you_ have already extorted from me! I have given you every
dollar I possess and yet you live like beggars."
"And we _are_ beggars, my child. Some unfortunate speculations have
swept away all our little gains, and now--"
"And now you want more money,--the old story. Listen: you have called me
to-night from my husband's home, forced me to steal away from my guests
like the veriest criminal, threatening to appear among them if I failed
to come. At this moment you, who call yourself my father, stand there
gloating and triumphant because of the power you hold over me. I knew
you were capable of keeping your word, and rather than have my husband's
home desecrated by such presence as yours, I am here. But I have come
for the last time--"
"No, my child, oh!--"
But she pays no heed to his expostulations.
"I have come _for the last time_!" she says with fierce decision. "I
have come to tell you that from this moment I defy you!"
"Softly, my dear; sh-h-h!"
His face, in spite of his efforts to retain its benign expression, is
growing vindictive and cruel. He comes toward her with slow cat-like
movements.
But she glides backward as he advances, and, putting the table between
herself and him, she hurries on, never heeding that she has, by this
movement, increased the distance from the outer door--and safety.
"You have carried your game too far!" she says. "When you first appeared
before me, so soon after the loss of my adopted parents that it would
seem you were waiting for that event--"
"So we were, my child," he interrupts, "for we had promised not to come
near you during their lifetime."
"You had promised _never_ to approach me, _never_ to claim me, as the
documents I found among my mother's--among Mrs. Uliman's papers prove.
Oh," she cries, wringing her hands and lifting her fair face heavenward;
"oh, my mother! my dear, sweet, gentle mother! Oh, my father! the
truest, the tenderest a wretched orphan ever had on earth! that Death
should take _you_, and Life bring me such creatures to fill your places!
But they cannot, they never shall!"
"Oh, good Lord!" mutters Papa under his breath, "those fools upstairs
will hear too much!"
But Leslie's indignation has swallowed up all thought of caution, and
her words pour out torrent-like.
"Oh, if I had but denounced you at the first!" she cries; "or forced you
to prove your claim! Oh, if you had shown yourselves _then_ in all your
greed and heartlessness! But while I was Leslie Uliman, with only a
moderate fortune, you were content to take what I could give, and not
press what you are pleased to term your _claim_ upon my affections.
Affections! The word is mockery from your lips! In consideration of the
large sums I paid you, you promised never to approach me in the future,
and I, fool that I was, believing myself free from you, married David
Warburton, only to find myself again your victim, to know you at last in
all your baseness."
Papa Francoise, unable to stem the tide of her eloquence, shows signs of
anger, but she never heeds him.
"Since I became the wife of a rich man, you have been my constant
torment and terror. Threatening and wheedling by turns, black-mailing
constantly, you have drained my purse, you have made my life a burden.
And I came here to-night to say, I will have no more of your
persecution! All of _my_ money has been paid into your hands, but not
one dollar of my _husband's_ wealth shall ever come to you from me. I
swear it!"
The old man again moves nearer.
"Ah, ungrateful girl!" he cries, feigning the utmost grief; "ah, unkind
girl!"
And his affectation of sorrow causes two unseen observers to grin with
delight, and brings to Leslie's countenance an expression of intense
disgust.
Moving back as he approaches, she throws up her head with an impatient
gesture, and the veil which has covered it falls to her shoulders,
revealing even by that dim light, the glisten of jewels in her
ears--great, gleaming diamonds, which she, in her haste and agitation,
has forgotten to remove before setting out upon this unsafe errand.
It is a most unfortunate movement, for two pair of eyes are peering down
from directly above her, and two pair of avaricious hands itch to clutch
the shining treasures.
Obeying Papa's instructions, Josef Siebel and the girl Nance, had
mounted the rickety stairway which they reached through a closet-like
ante-room opening from the large one occupied by Papa and Leslie. And
having stationed themselves near the top of the stairs they awaited
there the coming of the lady who, surprised by their presence, was to
proffer them hush-money with a liberal hand; but--
"The best-laid plans of men and mice gang aft agleg."
And Papa Francoise has not anticipated the spirited outbreak with which
Leslie has astonished him. Startled by this, and fearful that; by a
false move, he should entirely lose his power over her, he has made
feeble efforts to stay the flow of her speech and neglected to give the
signal for which the concealed sneak thieves have waited, until it was
too late.
Crouched on the floor near the stairway, the two thieves have heard the
entrance of Leslie, heard the hum of conversation, low and indistinct at
first, until the voice of Leslie, rising high and clear, startled Siebel
into a listening attitude. Touching Nance on the arm, he begins slowly
to drag himself along the floor to where a faint ray of light tells him
there is a place of observation.
The floor is exceedingly dilapidated, and the ceiling below warped and
sieve-like; and, having reached the chink in the floor, Siebel finds
himself able to look directly down upon Leslie as she stands near the
table.
In another moment Nance is beside him, and then the two faces are glued
to the floor, their eyes taking in the scene below, their ears listening
greedily.
At first they listen with simple curiosity; then with astonished
interest; then with intense satisfaction at Papa's evident discomfiture,
for they hate him as the slave ever hates his tyrant.
When the veil falls from Leslie's head, Siebel's quick eye is the first
to catch the shine of the diamonds in her ears. He stifles an
exclamation, looks again, and then grasps the arm of his confederate:
"Nance," he whispers eagerly, "Nance, look--in her ears."
The girl peers down, and fairly gasps.
"Shiners!" she whispers; "ah, they make my eyes water!"
"They make my fingers itch," he returns; "d'ye twig, gal?"
"Eh?"
Drawing her away from the aperture, he says, in a hoarse whisper:
"Gal, I've got a plan that'll lay over old Beelzebub's down there, if we
kin only git the chance ter play it. See here, Nance, are ye willin' to
make a bold stroke fer them shiners?"
"How?"
"By surprisin' 'em. If I'll floor the old man, can't you tackle the
gal?"
Nance takes a moment for consideration; they exchange a few more
whispered words and then begin to creep stealthily toward the stairway.
CHAPTER XVI.
A DETECTIVE TRAPPED.
While the thieves are gazing upon her from above, Leslie Warburton,
unconscious of this new danger that threatens her, replaces her veil and
continues to address the old man.
"Once more, and for the last time," she pleads, "I ask you to tell me
the truth. Give up this claim of kinship. If you were my father,
something in my heart would tell me so; God has not created me lower
than the brutes. What do you know of my parentage? You must possess some
knowledge. Man, I would go upon my knees to you to learn the truth!"
Papa is silent a moment, then he begins to cough violently. It is the
signal for the two thieves to enter, but they do not respond as promptly
as Papa could wish.
"My child," he begins feebly, but leaves the sentence unfinished at the
sound of a double knock upon the door.
"Ah-h-h!" he cries with evident relief, "here comes your mother; she can
tell you how wrong you are."
And he hastens to admit an old woman, literally lost in an ample
old-fashioned cloak, and bearing in her arms a long and apparently heavy
bundle.
"Ah," says the old hypocrite, "here you are at last, after being at the
toil of the poor. Come in, old woman, here is our proud girl come to see
us." Then as his eyes rest upon the bundle, he grasps her wrist and
hisses in her ear: "You old fool! to bring _that_ here."
"I had to do it," she retorts in a whisper; "there are cops in the
alleys."
With a fierce gesture toward the rear door, Papa seizes the bundle,
saying:
"Why, it is very heavy; old iron, I suppose; and how horrid those old
rags smell. We must take them away, old woman."
And with a jerk of the head which, evidently, she understands, he turns
toward the aforementioned door, and they bear the big bundle out between
them.
Perhaps it is the flickering light, perhaps it is her disordered fancy,
but as they bear their burden through the doorway, Leslie Warburton
half believes that she sees it move. A moment later she starts forward,
her face blanched, her eyes distended.
"Oh, am I losing my senses?" she cries, "or _did_ I hear a child's
voice, a voice like my little Daisy's, calling 'mamma?'"
A moment she listens, but no child's voice breaks the stillness; even
Papa and Mamma Francoise are silent in the room without.
A sudden feeling of terror possesses Leslie.
"Oh, these wicked people are driving me mad!" she murmurs brokenly.
"_Anything_ is better than this. I will go home and confess all to my
husband. I will brave the worst, rather than be so tortured!"
Drawing her cloak about her, she makes a step toward the door.
Only a single step, for strong hands seize her from behind, and,
uttering a shriek of terror, she sees a ferocious face close to her own,
feels a clutch upon her throat, and is struggling between two fierce
assailants.
"Get on to the shiners, gal," commands Siebel, as he pinions her arms
with his powerful hands.
Again Leslie utters a cry for help, and what follows is the work of a
moment.
The outer door, left unbarred after the entrance of Mamma Francoise, is
dashed open and a man attired as a sailor bounds into the room. At the
same moment Papa and Mamma Francoise rush upon the scene.
"Stop, Josef, you demon, stop!" cries Papa wildly, and scarce noticing
the stranger in their midst; while the sailor, without uttering a word,
hurls himself upon Leslie's assailants.
Then follows a moment of confusion, a wild struggle for the mastery,
which ends soon in a horrible tableau.
Near the door stands Papa Francoise, his face livid, his teeth
chattering, his foot poised for instant flight. In the corner, borne
down by the force and fury of Mamma Francoise, the girl, Nance, lies
prostrate, her throat still in the clutch of the virago, whose face
bears bloody evidence that Nance has not succumbed without a struggle.
In the center of the room stands Alan Warburton, one arm supporting the
half fainting form of Leslie, the other hanging limp by his side; and at
his feet, ghastly and horrible, lies the form of Josef Siebel, his skull
crushed out of all semblance to humanity, and a bar of rusty iron lying
close beside him.
There is a moment of awful stillness in the room.
Then Leslie Warburton's strong nature asserts itself. Withdrawing from
Alan's supporting arm, she fixes her eyes upon his face.
"Oh, Alan," she says, "you followed--"
"I followed you? Yes," he answers sternly. "Hush!" as she is about to
speak, "this is no time for words."
There is a shout from the street, and the sound of approaching
footsteps. Papa Francoise seems galvanized into new life.
"The police!" he cries, springing through the door by which he has
lately entered. Mamma Francoise, releasing her hold upon the girl,
Nance, bounds up in affright, and hurries after her partner in iniquity;
while Nance, who evidently fears her less than she dreads the police,
loses no time in following the pair, leaving Alan and Leslie alone, with
the dead man at their feet.
[Illustration: "There is a moment of awful stillness in the room."--page
130.]
The approaching footsteps come nearer, and Alan, seizing Leslie by the
arm, drags her toward the door by which the others have escaped.
"Go!" he says fiercely, "the police are coming; go, for the sake of the
name you bear, for your husband's sake, go! _go!_ GO!"
As he forces her resisting form across the threshold she turns upon him
a face of piteous appeal.
"Alan! And you--"
His lip curls scornfully.
"I am not a _woman_," he says impatiently; "_go, or_--"
Some one is entering at the outer doorway. He pushes her fiercely out
into the rear room, from which he knows there is a means of exit, closes
the door, and turns swiftly to face the intruders.
Silly Charlie has crossed the threshold just in time to see Leslie as
she disappears through the opposite door. He has one swift glimpse of
the fair vanishing face, and then turns suddenly, and with a sound
indicative of extreme terror, brings himself into violent contact with
Van Vernet who is close behind.
Before he has so much as obtained a glimpse of the scene, Vernet finds
his legs flying from under him, and in another moment is rolling upon
the floor, closely locked in the embrace of Silly Charlie, who, in his
terror, seems to mistake him for an enemy.
When he has finally released himself from the grasp of the seeming
idiot, and is able to look about him, Van Vernet sees only a dead man
upon the floor, and a living one standing at bay, with his back against
a closed door, a deal table before him serving as barricade, and, in his
hand, a bar of rusty iron. There is no trace of the Francoises, and
nothing to indicate the recent presence of Leslie Warburton.
Struggling away from the embrace of Silly Charlie, and bringing himself
slowly to his feet, Vernet says angrily:
"You confounded idiot, what do you mean?"
But the "idiot" only sits upon the floor and stares stupidly, and Vernet
turns from him to glance about the room. At sight of the dead man he
starts eagerly forward.
"What's this?" he queries sharply, glancing down at the body and drawing
a pistol with a quick movement. "A murder!" And he levels the weapon at
Alan, dropping upon one knee, at the same instant, and with the
unoccupied hand touching the face of the dead man. "A murder! yes; and
just committed. Don't you stir, my man," as Alan makes a slight
movement, "I'm a dead shot. This is your work, and it seems that we
heard this poor fellow's death-cry. Skull crushed in. Done by that bar
of iron in your hand, of course. Well, you won't crack any more skulls
with _that_."
While Vernet delivers himself thus, Alan Warburton is thinking
vigorously, his eyes, meanwhile, roving about the room in search of some
avenue of escape other than the door over which he stands guard, and
through which, he is resolved, the detective shall not pass, at least
until Leslie has made good her escape from the vicinity. He is unarmed,
save for the bar of iron, but he is no coward, and he resolves to make a
fight for Leslie's honor and his own liberty.
Gazing thus about him he sees the seeming idiot rise from his crouching
posture and creep behind Vernet, beginning, over that officer's
shoulder, a series of strange gestures.
Shaking his fist defiantly behind Vernet's left ear, in token, Alan
conjectures, of his opposition to that gentleman, he makes a
conciliatory gesture towards Alan. And then, placing his fingers upon
his lips, he shakes his head, and points again to Vernet, who now rises
from his examination of the body, and calls over his shoulder:
"Charlie, come here."
Leering and laughing, Charlie comes promptly forward.
"Ugh!" he says, making a detour around the body of Siebel, "Charlie was
scared. Charlie don't like dead folks." And he plants himself squarely
before Vernet, grinning and staring at Alan the while.
"Out of my range, fool!" cries Vernet angrily. And then, as Charlie
springs aside with absurd alacrity, he says to Alan: "Fellow, throw down
that iron."
But Alan Warburton gives no sign that he hears the command. He has not
recognized the voice of Vernet, and is not aware of the man's identity,
but he has an instinctive notion that his address will not be in keeping
with his nautical costume, and he is not an adept at dissimulation.
"You won't eh?" pursues Vernet mockingly. "You are very mum? and no
wonder."
"Mum, mum," chants Silly Charlie, approaching Alan with gingerly steps,
and peering curiously into his face.
Then bending suddenly forward he whispers quickly: "_Keep mum!_" and
bursting into an idiotic laugh, _pirouettes_ back to the side of Vernet.
"Charlie," says Vernet suddenly, and without once removing his eyes from
Alan's face, "put your hand in my side pocket--no, no! the other one,"
as Charlie makes a sudden dive into the pocket nearest him. "That's
right; now pull out the handcuffs, and take out the rope."
Charlie obeys eagerly, and examines the handcuffs with evident delight.
"Charlie" says Vernet, "you and I have got to make this man a prisoner.
If we do, you will get your star and uniform."
"Hooray!" cries Charlie, fairly dancing with delight. "Gimme, gum--gimme
knife!"
"Why, the blood-thirsty fool!" exclaims Vernet. "No, no, Charlie; we
must put on these handcuffs, and rope his feet."
"Hoop la!" cries Charlie; "gimme rope."
Seizing the rope from Vernet's hand, he advances toward Alan,
gesticulating savagely. Suddenly Alan raises the iron bar and menaces
him. Charlie stops a moment, then flinging aside the rope he makes a
swift spring, hurling himself upon Alan with such sudden force that the
latter loses his guard for a moment, and then Van Vernet is upon him. He
makes such resistance as a brave man may, when he has a single hand for
defence and two against him, but he is borne down, handcuffed, and
bound.
As he lies fettered and helpless, in close proximity to the murdered
sneak thief, Alan Warburton's eyes rest wonderingly upon Silly Charlie,
for during the struggle that strange genius has contrived to whisper in
his ear these words:
"_Don't resist--keep silence--we are gaining time for her!_"
"Charlie," says Vernet, "that's a good bit of work, and I'm proud of
you. Now, let's make our prisoner more comfortable."
Together they lift Alan, and place him in a chair near the centre of the
room. Then, finding it impossible to make him open his lips, Van Vernet
begins a survey of the premises.
"We must get one or two of my men here," he says, after a few moments of
silent investigation. "Charlie, can I trust you to go back to the place
where we left them?"
Charlie nods confidently, and makes a prompt movement toward the door.
Then suddenly he stops and points upward with a half terrified air.
"Some one's up there," he whispers.
"What's that, Charlie?"
"Somebody's there. Charlie heard 'em."
Van Vernet hesitates a moment, looks first at the prisoner, then at
Charlie, and slowly draws forth his dark lantern.
"I'll go up and see," he says half reluctantly, and making his pistol
ready for use. "Watch the prisoner, Charlie."
But Silly Charlie follows Vernet's movements with his eyes until he has
passed through the low door leading to the stairway. Then, gliding
stealthily to the door, he assures himself that Vernet is already
half-way up the stairs. The next moment he is standing beside the
prisoner.
"Hist, Mr. Warburton!"
"Ah! who--," Alan Warburton checks himself suddenly.
"Hush!" says this strangest of all simpletons, in a low whisper, at the
same moment beginning to work rapidly at the rope which binds Alan's
feet. "Be silent and act as I bid you; I intend to help you out of this.
There," rising and searching about his person, "the ropes are loosened,
you can shake them off in a moment. Now, the darbies."
He produces a key which unlocks the handcuffs.
"Now, you are free, but remain as you are till I give you the
signal,--ah!"
The tiny key has slipped through his fingers and fallen to the floor. It
is just upon the edge of the scrap of dirty carpet; as he stoops to take
it up, it catches in a fringe, and in extricating it the carpet becomes
a trifle displaced.
Something underneath it strikes the eye of the seeming idiot. He bends
closer, and then drags the carpet quite away, seizes the candle, and
springs the trap which he has just discovered. Holding the candle above
the opening, he looks down, and then, with a low chuckle, spreads the
carpet smoothly over it, rises to his feet, and listens.
He hears footsteps crossing the rickety floor above. Van Vernet, having
failed to find what he sought for aloft, is about to descend.
Stepping quickly to Alan's side, Silly Charlie whispers:
"Fortune favors us. We have got Vernet trapped."
"_Vernet!_" Alan Warburton starts and the perspiration comes out on his
forehead.
Is this man who is his captor, Van Vernet? Heavens! what a complication,
what a misfortune! And this other,--this wisest of all idiots, who calls
him by name; who knows the reason for his presence, then, perhaps, knows
Leslie herself; who, without any motive apparent, is acting so strange a
part, who is _he_?
Mentally thanking the inspiration which led him to retain his incognito
while negotiating with Van Vernet, Alan's eyes still follow the
movements of Silly Charlie.
As he gazes, Vernet enters the room, a look of disappointment and
disgust upon his face.
"Charlie, you were scared at the rats," he says; "there's nothing else
there."
The trap is directly between him and the prisoner, and as he walks
toward it, Silly Charlie fairly laughs with delight.
"What are you--"
The sentence is never finished. Vernet's foot has pressed the yielding
carpet; he clutches the air wildly, and disappears like a clown in a
pantomine.
"Now," whispers Silly Charlie, "off with your fetters, Warburton, and I
will guide you out of this place. You are not entirely safe yet."
Up from the trap comes a yell loud enough to waken the seven sleepers,
and suddenly, from without, comes an answering cry.
"It's Vernet's men," says Silly Charlie. "Now, Warburton, your safety
depends upon your wind and speed. Come!"
CHAPTER XVII.
A PROMISE TO THE DEAD.
Guided by Silly Charlie, Alan Warburton finds himself hurrying through
crooked streets and dismal alleys, for what seems to him an interminable
distance. Now they run forward swiftly; now halt suddenly, while Charlie
creeps ahead to reconnoiter the ground over which they must go. At last
they have passed the Rubicon, and halting at the corner of a wider
street than any they have as yet traversed, Alan's strange guide says,
"You are tolerably safe now, Mr. Warburton; at least you are not likely
to be overtaken by Vernet or his men. You are still a long distance from
home, however, and possibly the way is unfamiliar. I would pilot you
further, but must hurry back to see how Vernet is coming out."
[Illustration: "Vernet's foot has pressed the yielding carpet; he
clutches the air wildly, and disappears."--page 137.]
For the first time Alan Warburton, the self-possessed, polished man of
society, is at a loss for words. Society has given him no training,
taught him no lessons applicable to such emergencies as this.
"Of one thing you must be warned," continues the guide. "Van Vernet is a
sleuth-hound on a criminal secret, and he considers you a criminal. He
has seen you standing above that dead man with a bar of iron in your
hand--did you know that bar of iron was smeared with blood, and that
wisps of human hair clung to its surface? Never mind; _I_ do not accuse
you. I do not ask you to explain your presence there. You have escaped
from Van Vernet, and he will never forgive you for it. He will hunt you
down, if possible. You know the man?"
"I never saw his face until to-night."
"What! and yet, two hours ago, he was at your brother's house, a guest!"
"True. My dear sir, I am deeply indebted to you, but just now my
gratitude is swallowed up in amazement. In Heaven's name, who are you,
that you know so much?"
"'Silly Charlie' is what they call me in these alleys, and I pass for an
idiot."
"But you are anything but what you 'pass for.' You have puzzled me, and
outwitted Van Vernet. Tell me who you are. Tell me how I can reward your
services."
"In serving you to-night, Mr. Warburton, I have also served myself. As
to who I am, it cannot matter to you."
"That must be as you will,"--Alan is beginning to recover his
conventional courtesy--"but at least tell me how I may discharge my
obligations to you. _That_ does concern me."
Alan's companion ponders a moment, and then says:
"Perhaps we had better be frank, Mr. Warburton. You are a gentleman,
and, I trust, so am I. If you owe me anything, you can discharge your
debt by answering a single question."
"Ask it."
"Van Vernet was a guest at your masquerade--why was he there?"
The question startles Alan Warburton, but he answers after a moment's
reflection:
"He came at my invitation, and on a matter of business."
"And yet you say that you never saw his face before?"
"True; our business was arranged through third parties, and by
correspondence. He came into my presence, for the first time, masked.
Until I saw his face in that hovel yonder, I had never seen it."
"And you?"
"A kind fortune has favored me. This dress I wore as a masquerade
costume; over it I threw a black and scarlet domino. Van Vernet saw me
in that domino, and with a mask before my face."
"You may thank your stars for that, and for your silence at the hovel.
If you had opened your lips then, your voice might have betrayed you."
"It would have betrayed the fact that I was no seaman, at the least, and
that is why I had resolved upon silence as the safest course."
"You have come out of this night's business most fortunately. But you
still have reason to fear Vernet. Your very silence may cause him to
suspect you of playing a part. Your features are photographed upon his
memory; alter the cut of your whiskers or, better still, give your face
a clean shave; crop your hair, and above all leave the city until this
affair blows over."
"Thank you," Alan replies; "I feel that your advice is good." Then,
after a struggle with his pride, he adds:
"I could easily clear myself of so monstrous a charge as that which
Vernet would prefer against me, but, for certain reasons, I would prefer
not to make a statement of the case."
"I comprehend."
Again Alan is startled out of his dignity. "You were the first to arrive
in response to that cry for help to-night?" he begins.
"The first, after you."
"You saw those who fled?"
"I saw only one fugitive. Mr. Warburton, I know what you would ask. I
saw and recognized your brother's wife. I understood your actions; you
were guarding her retreat at the risk of your own life or honor. You are
a brave man!"
Alan's tone is a trifle haughty as he answers:
"In knowing Mrs. Warburton and myself, you have us at a disadvantage. In
having seen us as you saw us to-night, we are absolutely in your power,
should you choose to be unscrupulous. Under these circumstances, I have
a right to demand the name of a man who knows _me_ so intimately. I have
a right to know why you followed us, or me, to that house to-night?"
His companion laughs good-naturedly.
"In spite of your airs, Mr. Warburton," he says candidly, "you would be
a fine fellow if you were not--such a prig. So you demand an
explanation. Well, here it is, at least as much as you will need to
enlighten you. Who am I? I am a friend to all honest men. Why did I
follow you? Neither Vernet nor myself followed you or the lady. Vernet
was there as the leader of an organized Raid. I was there--ahem! as a
pilot for Vernet. _You_ were there as a spy upon the lady. Mrs.
Warburton's presence remains to be accounted for. And now, Mr.
Warburton, adieu. You are out of present danger; if I find that Mrs.
Warburton has not fared so well, you will hear from me again. If
otherwise, you look your last upon Silly Charlie."
With a mocking laugh he turns, and pausing at the corner to wave his
hand in farewell, he darts away in the direction whence he came.
Puzzled, chagrined, his brain teeming with strange thoughts, Alan
Warburton turns homeward.
What is it that has come upon him this night? Less than two hours ago,
an aristocrat, proud to a fault, with an unblemished name, and with
nothing to fear or to conceal. Now, stealing through the dark streets
like an outcast, his pride humbled to the dust, his breast burdened with
a double secret, accused of murder, creeping from the police, a hunted
man! To-morrow the town will be flooded with descriptions of this
escaped sailor. To-morrow he must change his appearance, must flee the
city.
And all because of his zeal for the family honor; all because of his
brother's wife, and her horrible secret! To-night charity hath no place
in Alan Warburton's heart.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Van Vernet, covered with rags and dust, sickened by the foul
smell of the vault into which he has been precipitated, and boiling over
with wrath, is being rescued from his absurd and uncomfortable position
by three policemen, who, being sent forward to ascertain if possible the
cause of their leader's prolonged absence, have stumbled upon him in
the very nick of time.
As he emerges from the trap, by the aid of the same rope with which not
long before he had secured Alan Warburton's feet, he presents a most
ludicrous appearance. His hat has been lost in the darkness of the
cellar, and his head is plentifully decorated with rags and feathers,
which have adhered tenaciously to his disarranged locks. He is smeared
with dirt, pallid from the stench, nauseated, chagrined, wrathful.
Instinctively he comprehends the situation. The simpleton has played him
false, the prisoner has escaped.
On the floor lie the handcuffs which Alan Warburton has shaken off as he
fled. He picks them up and examines them eagerly. Then an imprecation
breaks from his lips. They have been _unlocked_! And by whom? Not by the
man who wore them; that was impossible.
Suddenly, flinging down the handcuffs, he turns to the policemen.
"Two men have escaped from this house, after throwing me into that
cellar," he says rapidly. "They must be overtaken--a sailor and a
pretended simpleton tricked out in rags and tinsel. After them, boys;
out by that door. They can't be far away. Capture them _alive or dead_!"
The door by which Alan and his rescuer made their exit stands invitingly
open, and the three officers, promptly obeying their leader, set off in
pursuit of the sailor and the simpleton.
Left alone, Van Vernet plucks the extempore adornments from his head and
person, and meditates ruefully, almost forgetting the original Raid in
the chagrin of his present failure.
He goes to the side of the murdered man, who still lies as he had
fallen, and looks down upon him.
"Ah, my fine fellow," he mutters, "you give me a chance to redeem
myself. If I have been outwitted to-night by a sailor and a fool, you
and I will have fine revenge. A sailor! Ah, it was no common sailor, if
I may trust my eyes and my senses. The hands were too white and soft;
the feet too small and daintily clad; the face, in spite of the
low-drawn cap and the tattooing, was too aristocratic and too _clean_.
And the fool! Ah, it is no common fool who carries keys that unlock our
new patent handcuffs, and who managed this rescue so cleverly. For once,
Van Vernet has found his match! But the scales shall turn. The man who
killed _you_, my lad, and the man who outwitted _me_, shall be found and
punished, or Van Vernet will have lost his skill!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
VERNET DISCOMFITED.
While the discomfited Vernet kept watch alone with the dead, his men
were running up and down the alleys, listening, peering, searching in
by-places, in the hope of finding the hiding-place, or to overtake the
flight, of the fugitive sailor and his idiot guide.
More than an hour they consumed in this search, and then they returned
to their superior officer to report their utter failure.
"It is what I expected," said Vernet, with severe philosophy. "Those
fellows are no common rascals. They have spoiled our Raid; before this,
every rogue in the vicinity has been warned. I would not give a copper
for all we can capture now."
And Vernet was right, the Raid was a failure. Mustering his men, he made
the tour of the streets and alleys, but everywhere an unnatural silence
reigned. The Thieves' Tavern was fast shut and quite silent; the
drinking dens, the streets and cellars, where riot and infamy reigned,
were under the influence of a silent spell.
It was only the yelp of a dog, heard here and there as Silly Charlie and
Alan Warburton sped through the streets and lanes, but its effect was
magical. It told the rioters, the crooks and outlaws in hiding, that
there was danger abroad,--that the police were among them. And their
orgies were hushed, their haunts became silent and tenantless; while
every man who had anything to fear from the hands of justice--and what
man among them had not?--slunk away to his secret hiding-place, and laid
a fierce clutch upon revolver or knife.
The Raid was an utter failure; and Van Vernet, as he led his men
ruefully homeward, little dreamed of the cause of the failure.
This night's work, which had been pre-supposed a sure success, had been
spoiled by a fool. A most unusual fool,--of that Vernet was fully aware;
only a fool as he played his part. But he had played it successfully.
Vernet had been duped by this seeming idiot, and foiled by the
sailor-assassin. Of this he savagely assured himself, in the depths of
his chagrin.
But, shrewd man as he was, he never once imagined that under the rags
and tinsel, the dirt and disfigurement of the fool, the strong will and
active brain of _Richard Stanhope_ were arrayed against him; nor dreamed
that "Warburton, the aristocrat," the man who had wounded his pride and
looked down upon him as an inferior, had escaped from his clutches in
the garb of a common sailor.
Arrived at head-quarters, Vernet laid before his Chief a full report of
the night's misadventures, and concluded his narrative thus:
"It has never before been my misfortune to report so complete a failure.
But the affair shall not end here. I have my theory; I intend to run
down these two men, and I believe they will be worth the trouble I shall
take on their account. They were both shams, I am sure. The sailor never
saw a masthead; he could not even act his part. The other--well, he
played the fool to perfection, and--he outwitted _me_."
One thing troubled Vernet not a little. Richard Stanhope did not make a
late appearance at the Agency. He did not come at all that night, or
rather that morning. And Vernet speculated much as to the possible cause
of this long delay.
It was late in the day when Stanhope finally presented himself, and then
he entered the outer office alert, careless, _debonnaire_ as usual;
looking like a man with an untroubled conscience, who has passed the
long night in peaceful repose.
Vernet, who had arrived at the office but a moment before, lifted his
face from the newspaper he held and cast upon his _confrere_ an
inquiring glance.
But Dick Stanhope was blind to its meaning. With his usual easy morning
salutation to all in the room, he passed them, and applied for
admittance at the door of his Chief's private office. It was promptly
opened to him, and he walked into the presence of his superior as
jauntily as if he had not, by his unaccountable absence, spoiled the
most important Raid of the season.
It was a long interview, and as toward its close the sounds of
uproarious laughter penetrated to the ears of the loungers in the outer
room, Van Vernet bit his lip with vexation. Evidently the Chief was not
visiting his displeasure too severely upon his dilatory favorite.
Vernet's cheeks burned as he realized how utterly he had failed. Not
only had he heaped confusion upon himself, but he had not succeeded in
lessening Stanhope's claim to favoritism by bringing upon him the
displeasure of the Agency.
While he sat, still tormented by this bitter thought, Stanhope
re-entered the room, and walking straight up to Vernet brought his hand
down upon the shoulder of that gentleman with emphatic heartiness, while
he said, his eyes fairly dancing with mischief, and every other feature
preternaturally solemn:
"I say, Van, old fellow, how do you like conducting a Raid?"
It was a moment of humiliation for Van Vernet. But he, like Stanhope,
was a skilled actor, and he lifted his eyes to the face of his
inquisitor and answered with a careless jest, while he realized that in
this game against Richard Stanhope he had played his first hand, and had
lost.
"It shall not remain thus," he assured himself fiercely; "I'll play as
many trumps as Dick Stanhope, before our little game ends!"
* * * * *
When Walter Parks returned from his two days' absence, and called at the
office to receive the decisions of the two detectives, the Chief said:
"You may consider yourself sure of both men, after a little. Dick
Stanhope, whose case promised to be a very short one, has asked for
more time. And Van Vernet is in hot chase after two sly fellows, and
won't give up until they are trapped. You may be sure of them both,
however. And in order that they may start fair, after their present work
is done, I have arranged that you meet them here to-night, and let them
listen together to your statement."
"I like the idea," said Walter Parks earnestly, "and I will be here at
the appointed time."
That evening, Vernet and Stanhope,--the former grave, courteous, and
attentive; the latter cool, careless, and inconsequent as usual,--sat
listening to the story of Arthur Pearson's mysterious death, told with
all its details.
As the tale progressed, Van Vernet became more attentive, more eager,
his eyes, flashing with excitement, following every gesture, noting
every look that crossed the face of the narrator. But Dick Stanhope sat
in the most careless of lounging attitudes; his eyes half closed or
wandering idly about the room; his whole manner that of an individual
rather more bored than interested.
"It's a difficult case," said Van Vernet, when the story was done. "It
will be long and tedious. But as soon as I have found the man or men I
am looking for, I will undertake it. And if the murderer is above
ground, I do not anticipate failure."
But Stanhope only said:
"I don't know when I shall be at your disposal. The affair I have in
hand is not progressing. Your case looks to me like a dubious one,--the
chances are ninety to one against you. But when I am at liberty, if Van
here has not already solved the mystery, I'll do my level best for
you."
CHAPTER XIX.
CALLED TO ACCOUNT.
It was a long road for a woman to travel at that unconventional hour,
but Leslie Warburton was fleet-footed, and fear and excitement lent her
strength.
Necessity had taught her how to enter and escape from the dangerous maze
where the people who claimed a right in her existence dwelt. And on
being forced to flee by her haughty brother-in-law, she bowed her head
and wrapping herself in her dark cloak sped away through the night.
She had little fear of being missed by her guests,--a masquerade affords
latitude impossible to any other gathering, and contrary to the usual
custom, the maskers were to continue their _incognito_ until the
cotillion began. If her guests missed her, she would be supposed to be
in some other apartment. If she were missed by Winnie, that little lady
would say: "She is with Archibald, of course."
Nevertheless, it was an unsafe journey. But she accomplished it, and
arrived, panting, weary, and filled with a terrible dread at the thought
of the exposure that must follow her encounter with Alan.
They were dancing still, her light-hearted guests, and Leslie resumed
her Sunlight robes, and going back to her place among them forced
herself to smile and seem to be gay, while her heart grew every moment
heavier with its burden of fear and dire foreboding.
Anxiously she watched the throng, hoping, yet dreading, to see the
sailor costume of Alan, fearing lest, in spite of his high courage,
disaster had overtaken him.
It was in the grey of morning, and her guests were dispersing, when Alan
Warburton reappeared. He was muffled as at first, in the black and
scarlet domino, and he moved with the slow languor of one utterly
exhausted or worn with pain.
At length it was over; the last guest had departed, the house was
silent, and Leslie and Alan stood face to face under the soft light of
the library chandelier.
During the ceremonies of departure, he had remained constantly near her.
And when they were left, at last, with only Winnie French beside them,
Leslie, seeing that the interview was inevitable, had asked Winnie to
look in upon little Daisy, adding, as the girl, with a gay jest, turned
to go:
"I will join you there soon, Winnie, dear; just now Alan and I have a
little to say about some things that have occurred to-night."
Tossing a kiss to Leslie, and bestowing a grimace upon Alan as he held
open the door for her exit, Winnie had _pirouetted_ out of the room, and
sped up the broad stairway as fleetly as if her little feet were not
weary with five hours' dancing.
Then Leslie, with a stately gesture, had led the way to the library.
Silently, and as if by one accord, they paused under the chandelier, and
each gazed into the face of the other.
His eyes met hers, stern, accusing, and darkened with pain; while
she--her bearing was proud as his, her face mournful, her eyes resolute,
her lips set in firm lines. She looked neither criminal nor penitent;
she was a woman driven to bay, and she would fight rather than flee.
Looking him full in the face, she made no effort to break the silence.
Seeing which, Alan Warburton said:
"Madam, you play your part well. You are not now the nocturnal wanderer
menaced by a danger--"
"From which you rescued me," she interrupts, her face softening. "Alan,
it was a brave deed, and I thank you a thousand times!"
"I do not desire your gratitude, Madam. I could have done no less, and
would do yet more to save from disgrace the name we bear in common. Was
your absence noted? Did you return safely and secretly?"
"I have not been missed, and I returned as safely and as secretly as I
went."
Her voice was calm, her countenance had hardened as at first.
"Madam, let us understand each other. One year ago the name of Warburton
had never known a stain; now--"
He let the wrath in his eyes, the scorn in his face, finish what his
lips left unsaid.
But the eyes of his beautiful opponent flashed him back scorn for scorn.
"Now," she said, with calm contempt in her voice, "now, the proudest man
of the Warburton race has stepped down from his pedestal to play the
spy, and upon a woman! I thank you for rescuing me, Alan Warburton, but
I have no thanks to offer for _that_!"
"A spy!" He winced as his lips framed the word. "We are calling hard
names, Mrs. Warburton. If I was a spy in that house, _what_ were you! I
_have_ been a spy upon your actions, and I have seen that which has
caused me to blush for my brother's wife, and tremble for my brother's
honor. More than once I have seen you leave this house, and return to
it, clandestinely. It was one of these secret expeditions, which I
discovered by the merest chance, that aroused my watchfulness. More than
once have letters passed to and fro through some disreputable-looking
messenger. To-night, for the first time, I discovered _where_ you paid
your visits, but not to _whom_. To-night I traced you to the vilest den
in all the city. Madam, this mystery must be cleared up. What wretched
secret have you brought into my brother's house? What sin or shame are
you hiding under his name? What is this disgrace that is likely to burst
upon us at any moment?"
Slowly she moved toward him, looking straight into his angry, scornful
face. Slowly she answered:
"Alan Warburton, you have appointed yourself my accuser; you shall not
be my judge. I am answerable to you for nothing. From this moment I owe
you neither courtesy nor gratitude. I _have_ a secret, but it shall be
told to my husband, not to you. If I have done wrong, I have wronged
him, not you. You have insulted me under my own roof to-night, for the
last time. I will tell my story to Archibald now; he shall judge between
us."
She turned away, but he laid a detaining hand upon her arm.
"Stop!" he said, "you must not go to Archibald with this; you shall
not!"
"Shall not!" she exclaimed scornfully; "and who will prevent it?"
"I will prevent it. Woman, have you neither heart nor conscience? Would
you add murder to your list of transgressions?"
"Let me go, Alan Warburton," she answered impatiently; "I have done with
you."
"But I have not done with you! Oh, you know my brother well; he is
trusting, confiding, blind where you are concerned. He believes in your
truth, and he must continue so to believe. He must not hear of this
night's work."
"But he shall; every word of it."
"Every word! Take care, Mrs. Warburton. Will you tell him of the lover
who was here to-night, disguised as a woman, the better to hover about
you?"
"You wretch!" She threw off his restraining hand and turned upon him,
her eyes blazing. Then, after a moment, the fierce look of indignation
gave place to a smile of contempt.
"Yes," she said, turning again toward the door, "I shall tell him of
that too."
"Then you will give him his death-blow; understand that! Yesterday, when
his physician visited him, he told us the truth. Archibald's life is
short at best; any shock, any strong emotion or undue excitement, will
cause his death. Quiet and rest are indispensable. To-morrow--to-day,
you were to be told these things. By Archibald's wish they were withheld
from you until now, lest they should spoil your pleasure in the
masquerade."
The last words were mockingly uttered, but Leslie paid no heed to the
tone.
"Are you telling me the truth?" she demanded. "Must I play my part
still?"
"I am telling you the truth. You must continue to play your part, so far
as he is concerned. For his sake I ask you to trust me. You bear our
name, our honor is in your keeping. Whatever your faults, your misdeeds,
have been, they must be kept secrets still. I ask you to trust me,--not
that I may denounce you, but to enable me to protect us all from the
consequences of your follies."
If the words were conciliatory, the tone was hard and stern. Alan
Warburton could ill play the role he had undertaken.
The look she now turned upon him was one of mingled wonder and scorn.
"You are incomprehensible," she said. "I am gratified to know that it
was not my life nor my honor, but your own name, that you saved
to-night,--it lessens my obligation. Being a woman, I am nothing; being
a Warburton, disgrace must not touch me! So be it. If I may not confide
in my husband, I will keep my own counsel still. And if I cannot master
my trouble alone, then, perhaps, as a last resort, and for the sake of
the Warburton honor, I will call upon you for aid."
There was no time for a reply. While the last words were yet on her
lips, the heavy curtains were thrust hastily aside and Winnie French,
pallid and trembling, stood in the doorway.
"Leslie! Alan!" she cried, coming toward them with a sob in her throat,
"we have lost little Daisy!"
"Lost her!"
Alan Warburton uttered the two words as one who does not comprehend
their meaning. But Leslie stood transfixed, like one stunned, yet not
startled, by an anticipated blow.
"We have hunted everywhere," Winnie continued wildly. "She is not in the
house, she is not--"
She catches her breath at the cry that breaks from Leslie's lips, and
for a moment those three, their festive garments in startling contrast
with their woe-stricken faces, regard each other silently.
Then Leslie, overcome at last by the accumulating horrors of this
terrible night, sways, gasps, and falls forward, pallid and senseless,
at Alan Warburton's feet.
CHAPTER XX.
BETRAYED BY A PICTURE.
Little Daisy Warburton was missing. The blow that had prostrated Leslie
at its first announcement, struck Archibald Warburton with still heavier
force. It was impossible to keep the truth from him, and when it became
known, his feeble frame would not support the shock. At day-dawn, he lay
in a death-like lethargy. At night, he was raving with delirium. And on
the second day, the physicians said:
"There is no hope. His life is only a thing of days."
Leslie and Alan were faithful at his bedside,--she, the tenderest of
nurses; he, the most sleepless of watchers. But they avoided an
interchange of word or glance. To all appearance, they had lost sight of
themselves in the presence of these new calamities--Archibald's hopeless
condition, and the loss of little Daisy.
No time had been wasted in prosecuting the search for the missing child.
When all had been done that could be done,--when monstrous rewards had
been offered, when the police were scouring the city, and private
detectives were making careful investigations,--Leslie and Alan took
their places at the bedside of the stricken father, and waited, the
heart of each heavy with a burden of unspoken fear and a new, terrible
suspicion.
[Illustration: "Leslie! Alan!" she cried, coming toward them with a sob
in her throat, "we have lost little Daisy!"--page 155.]
So two long, dreary days passed away, with no tidings from the lost and
no hope for the dying.
During these two days, Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope were not idle.
The struggle between them had commenced on the night of the masquerade,
and now there would be no turning back until the one became victor, the
other vanquished.
Having fully convinced himself that Vernet had deliberately ignored all
their past friendship, and taken up the cudgel against him, for reward
and honor, Stanhope resolved at least to vindicate himself; while
Vernet, dominated by his ambition, had for his watchword, "success!
success!"
Fully convinced that behind that which was visible at the Francoise
hovel, lay a mystery, Vernet resolved upon fathoming that mystery, and
he set to work with rare vigor.
Having first aroused the interest of the authorities in the case, Vernet
caused three rewards to be offered. One for the a
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